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5	None	On the right of the farm-house called Hardscrabble, as it faced the water, there was a kitchen garden, the fence of which was quite five feet high, and scattered about within this were standing, now almost shrivelled up from age, many clusters of peas and beans pending lazily and languidly from their poles. To force his way across this fence, and then diagonally through the garden in order to gain the opposite corner and cross into the road beyond, was now the sole object of the young officer; but before putting it in practice, he called out in a loud and distinct voice to Von Voltenberg to know what had become of his wife, and whether she too was a prisoner. But there was no answer. The Doctor had evidently been enjoined not to reply, for, immediately after he had put his question, Ronayne saw an Indian hold up his tomahawk menacingly to the prisoner, and heard him utter some words as if to enjoin silence. Seemingly desirous, however, at all risk to satisfy his friend, Von Voltenberg suddenly raised his hand, and seemed to point significantly over his shoulder in an oblique direction to the rear. This convinced Ronayne that he had been correct in his conjecture, for the direction was the road he intended taking. Gathering himself up in his saddle, he slowly walked his horse about twenty paces towards the edge of the forest. This was done both for the purpose of preventing any suspicion of an attempt at flight, and of giving sufficient run for his leap. Then suddenly wheeling round, he put the animal to his speed, and, amid the loud shouts of the Indians, who rushed forward from every point to overtake him, accomplished the desperate leap, the tips of his horse's hoofs just grazing as he passed. Encumbered with their arms as they were, it took each Indian, however active, at least a second to clear the fence, and this gave the young officer considerable advantage of distance; but what surprised him was that not a shot was fired. It seemed as though his pursuers thought it beneath their dignity to fire at a single fleeing man, whom they were certain of taking, and matter of rivalry with all to be the first to reach and secure. Onward they pressed now without uttering a sound; but the rattling of their war ornaments, with the crackling of the decayed vegetation beneath their feet, told Ronayne that they were too near for him to hope for escape, unless his horse should clear the opposite corner of the field, and of this he almost despaired, jaded as the animal was by previous exertion through the heavy ground he was now traversing. Fortunately he found that there was a perceptible declivity as he approached the water, and not merely that, but that one of the rails of the zigzag fence had been detached. Desperate as his position was, this gave him renewed confidence, and he even ventured to turn and examine the number and position of his enemies. They were some twenty in number, all painted perfectly black, and dispersed at long intervals throughout the field. In front of all was a very young warrior, who seemed the most emulous of the party to secure the honor of the capture, for the leaps he took were prodigious, and it was evident that nothing but the clearing of the fence could save the closely-pursued officer from capture. Again his horse took the leap, and this time easily enough; and even while in the very act, he thought, he fancied, he heard a voice behind him softly pronounce his name. In the confusion of his mind, however, he could not judge distinctly of anything. It might have been the sighing of the wind among the dried leaves and tendrils that floated from the bean-poles at his side, and he regarded it not. His mind was too much intent on, too much absorbed on weightier matters to heed the occurrence. The air from the water revived, reinvigorated both himself and his horse. Again at full speed, he dashed on along its margin until suddenly, after having gone over nearly a mile of ground, the conviction arose to him that he must have been wrong in his comprehension of Von Voltenberg's sign, and that the beloved of his soul--she for the uncertainty of whose fate his heart suffered an anguish the most horrible, was not before him, but a prisoner with her companion. That thought, growing rapidly into assurance, was sufficient to destroy all energy. He checked his horse, and brought him to a full stand. As a soldier, whose services belonged to his country, he felt that he had no right to throw himself into a position that would render those services useless, but at least he would take no unnecessary trouble to avoid it. He turned to listen to the sounds of his pursuers, now fully resolved to make no further attempt at escape. He heard nothing but the rustling of the leaves and the gurgling of the water over the shallow and pebbly portions of its bed. He retraced his way at a walk. That was his direct course to the fort, and he was determined leisurely to pursue it, taking the chapter of accidents as it might be opened to him. Soon he came to the point where he had first leaped the garden fence. He looked within. There was not an Indian to be seen. That they were lurking somewhere around him, he felt perfectly assured, and at each moment he expected to see them start up and seize his horse by the bridle. But although he now rode slowly, carelessly, his eye was everywhere. The pathway he followed led along a strip some twenty feet in width, between the garden fence and the river, to the bottom of the clearing or lawn that ran to the edge of the latter. Keenly he glanced towards the skirt of the forest on his left where he had first beheld the savages with their prisoner, but not a sign of one of them was to be seen. All this was certainly most extraordinary and unaccountable, but Ronayne knew the character of Indian stratagem too well not to feel assured that the very next moment succeeding that of this serpent-like quietude, might be replete with excitement, and he was prepared for its occurrence. He dreaded to advance. He almost feared that he should not be seen. Every step forward in safety increased the distance which separated him from the idol of his soul, and the purest air of heaven had no sweetness for him that was not breathed with her. His head drooped upon his breast--he could hear the beating of his own heart. He prayed inwardly, secretly, fervently to God to restore to him his wife as by a miracle, and save him from the madness of despair. When he again raised his head, he was startled but not surprised to see his further progress interrupted by a dozen Indians, springing up as it were from the very bowels of the earth, and standing in the same careless and unexcited attitude in which he had beheld them at the outset. Mechanically wheeling his horse to escape by the lane, he beheld a similar display. He was evidently hemmed in. His further advance or retreat was completely intercepted. Truly has it been said, we are the creatures of circumstance. A moment before, and while there was no enemy visible, Ronayne had felt the utmost indifference in regard to a fate the bitterness of which would, at least, have been sweetened by the fact of his being near to solace and sustain his wife. He could not believe that it was the purpose of the warriors to do them bodily harm; for, had that been their intention, they would, without doubt, have fired at him, when they found themselves foiled in their recent pursuit; and such was the devotedness of love of the man, that forgetting under the circumstances the sterner duty of the officer, he would have preferred the tent and bonds of the savage _for ever_ with her to the comforts and freedom of his own home, when the presence of the loved and familiar being in whom alone he lived should no longer give life and interest to the latter. But now a sudden change in his plans was resolved upon, for the same glance which had fallen on the warriors in his front, had enabled him to see, in the distance, that Von Voltenberg, profiting probably by the carelessness of those left in charge, was moving stealthily and alone between the cornfield and the building, behind which he soon disappeared. The quickening sound of hoofs immediately succeeding attested that he was in full flight, and then a rapid association of ideas brought to the strongly imaginative mind of the young officer the conviction that his wife had escaped too, for he felt assured that Von Voltenberg would not abandon her. What the object was in endeavoring to secure himself he could not tell. The Indians had evidently some more than ordinary motive in his capture, or wherefore their great anxiety to take him unhurt, and their seeming indifference in regard to the other prisoners, who had been left almost unguarded. There might be two reasons for this. Firstly, they might be on their war-path, and therefore might not find it either convenient or desirable to incumber themselves, on a march, with a woman; and, secondly, having discovered the Doctor to be a "medicine man"--a fact of which he would not have failed to apprise them--they might not feel themselves permitted by the Great Spirit to detain him, and therefore, without absolutely releasing, gave him the opportunity for escape. Of course, all these reflections were the result of but a momentary action of the brain. Ronayne, with much warmth and impetuosity of character, was of quick and sound apprehension, and at once saw the advantages or disadvantages of an extreme position. To advance or retire, as has already been remarked, was impossible, for both in front and rear stood the warriors leaning carelessly on their guns, as if they expected at each moment that he would come up and surrender himself. But, whatever his previous musings, half nursed into the determination, such was now far from being the intention of the Virginian. Certain that he would be fired at, his main object was to prevent their closing with him so far as to impede his action. In order to prevent nearer advance upon him, therefore, he pulled his pocket handkerchief from the bosom of his hunting-shirt, and waved it over his head in token of submission. Guttural sounds of approbation broke from the warriors, amid which he thought he could hear the voice of his wife earnestly calling upon his name, in the distance. He looked, but saw nothing. The idea that she had been suffered to make her escape grew stronger. He felt assured, for the sounds of horses' hoofs had ceased, that she was lingering for him to join her; that she had seen him wave the handkerchief, and that, tearing he was about to deliver himself into the hands of his enemies, she had uttered that cry to indicate her position. Apparently in the certainty of their prisoner, the Indians both above and below had thrown themselves at the side of the lane under the fence, some even commencing to fill and smoke their pipe tomahawks. This again was the moment of action. To leap the fence at this time was out of all question, but the river was unusually deep immediately on his right. Rapidly he wheeled his horse, and, bearing him up with a strong arm, as he reached the bank, while he forced the rowels of his spurs into his flanks, caused him to bound over nearly one third of the narrow stream. Almost before the Indians had time to recover from their surprise and dash in after him, he was nearly across. As he ascended the opposite bank, and gained the road above, another cry from the same voice rang upon his ears. He looked and beheld at one of the windows of the farm--house a form evidently that of a woman, the outline and dress of which he could not, however, distinguish, reclining negligently, almost motionless, on the bosom of the youngest warrior, who had evinced such earnestness in his desire to capture him. Alternately, as Ronayne continued his course to the fort, along that bank of the Chicago, the youth pealed forth the peculiar war-whoop of his tribe, and waved, seemingly, the very pocket handkerchief which the unhappy officer had a few moments before thrown down as an earnest of his submission. Was this meant as a reproach or a threat? He could not tell; but certainly he felt that he deserved the former in their eyes, who had shown him so much mercy. In less than ten minutes he had passed over the intermediate ground, his ear achingly on the stretch to catch the sounds of horses' hoofs on the opposite' bank--that bank which, not two hours previously, he had traversed with a bright hope, if not with a heart wholly free from anxiety--but in vain. Furiously, wildly, he rode into the fort. He was haggard, pale, and dripping from the immersion he had so recently undergone. His first inquiry at the gate, on entering, was if Mrs. Ronayne had returned. Being answered in the negative, life itself seemed to be annihilated; and, overcome by the overwhelming agony he had endured for the last two hours, he gave a frightful shriek of despair, and, on gaining the centre of the parade, fell fainting from his horse to the ground, as we have already seen at the close of our opening chapter.	{ "id": "31745" }
6	None	"My particular grief is of so floodgate and overbearing nature, that it engluts and swallows other sorrows." --_Othello. _ Never did day close more cheerlessly on the hearts of men, than that which succeeded to the occurrences detailed in our last chapter. Yea, it was a terrible blow which had been inflicted upon all. The sun of the existence of each, from the commanding officer to the youngest drummer-boy, had been dimmed; and many a weather-beaten soldier, grown grey in the natural apathy of age, now found himself unable to restrain the rising tear. Not a woman, not a child arrived at the years of consciousness, but missed and mourned over the absence of her who had been, not merely the favorite, but the beloved of the whole garrison. The young Virginian himself was, for the moment, the only exception to this mental anguish. When taken up from the ground to which he had fallen, and borne to his room, he was in a high fever and delirious from excitement--unconscious of everything around. He did not manifest a sense of the nature and extent of his grief by exclamations of despair, or reference to the past, but lay like one stupified, his cheek highly flushed, his eyes fixed and upturned, his hands clasped across his chest, his breathing scarcely audible, and seemingly without the power of combination of thought, or the exercise of memory. When Von Voltenberg soon afterwards followed, he at once saw that congestion of the brain was rapidly forming, and immediately prepared to bleed him. The room, which, first filled with sorrowing soldiers and their wives, not only excluded the necessary air, but impeded action, was now urgently requested to be cleared, and none remained but Mrs. Headley, Mrs. Elmsley, Mr. Ronayne's servant Catherine, and Corporal Collins, who, having been relieved from his duty as orderly, had entreated the surgeon to permit him to render what service might be required during the young officer's illness. There was no fastidious or misplaced delicacy here. Mrs. Headley had ever felt as a mother towards the Virginian, Mrs. Elmsley as a sister, and, even had this not been the case, the strong affection they bore to his wife would have led them to attend the sick couch of the husband. One supported his shoulder as he was raised in his bed, the other took his extended hand, while Corporal Collins, looking much paler and more frightened than either of them, held the basin. If Von Voltenberg was not particularly given to fasting, or loved the punch made of the horrid whiskey distilled in those days in the west, he was, nevertheless, a skilful surgeon. With a steady hand he now divided the vein, when forth gushed a stream of blood so dark and discolored that the significant and triumphant shake of the head which he gave clearly indicated what would have been the result had the bleeding been delayed much longer. Greatly relieved by the removal of the oppressive weight, the unhappy ensign opened his eyes, and became sensible of objects, but it was only that consciousness might render him even more keenly alive to the horror of his position. Each article of furniture and dress around the room brought increased desolation to his heart. There was the harp Maria was wont to touch with such exquisite grace. There was the dress she had thrown off to assume her riding habit--for it will be recollected that the officers of that post had no gilded suites of apartments at their command, but barely a couple of barrack rooms for the married men, and one for the single. Now a shoe caught his eye, now a glove, a hat, a slipper, her dressing-case; even the tiny thimble with which she had worked the linen upon his back; each and all of these, endearing yet painful to the sight from the recollections they brought up, he glanced at alternately, until his feelings were so wrought upon that he was almost frantic. "Take those things away!" he cried, starting up and pointing to them; "I cannot endure the sight. They will kill me--ay, worse than kill--tear my heart-strings with slow agony. Ah! dear Mrs. Headley--Mrs. Elmsley--both of you, who loved Maria so well--can you not understand the pangs I suffer! Yesterday I could have defied the world in the vain pride of my happiness and strength; to-day I feel that I am more wretched than the slave that tugs at his chain--more feeble than a child. Would to heaven that I could die within this hour! Oh, God! oh, God! oh, God! how shall I endure this!" He turned on his side, buried his face in the pillow, and sobbed and wept, until every one around had caught the deep infection of his profound suffering. The lips of Corporal Collins, as he stood stiff in his military attitude, were closely compressed, and his brow was contracted. A sympathy, traceable on each quivering muscle, was evidently struggling for mastery, and he turned abruptly round. Had others taken time from their own sorrow to watch his next movement, they might have seen him raise his hand to his lips, and drain deeply from a flask he had taken from the bosom of his uniform. Mrs. Elmsley, with her face buried in her hands, leaned against one of the foot-posts of the bed; and Mrs. Headley--the majestic Mrs. Headley, with more complex feelings at her heart than actuated the others--knelt at the head of the bed, laid her hand upon the shoulder of the patient, and conjured him, in tones that marked her own deep sorrow, to bear the trial like a man, and not destroy himself by unavailing grief. Yet, even as she spoke, the tears fell copiously upon the bed. "Mrs. Headley," said Von Voltenberg, who afterwards admitted that, in the whole course of his practice, he had never been similarly touched, "do not check him. Let him give full vent to this emotion, for painful as it now is, both to himself and to us who witness it, this outburst once exhausted, the crisis once past, there will be less fear of a return. See, already the paroxysm is weaker--he is more calm--both mind and body are worn out, and if he can but sleep for a few hours, although he may perhaps awaken to more acute sorrow, no danger to his life need be apprehended." Notwithstanding this remark was made in little more than a whisper, it was distinctly heard by the sufferer. Suddenly starting up again in his bed, he turned quickly round to the surgeon, and said, in a tone of reproach-- "And is this all the consolation you have to offer me? What! tell me that I shall awaken to keener pain than that which now racks my being, and drag on a miserable life! Of what value that life to me? But stay, my mind is not yet itself, or how is it that I have not yet questioned you about my wife! Dear Von Voltenberg!" and he threw the hand of the recently-punctured arm upon the shoulder of the surgeon, "what news have you of Maria? Tell me of her safety say that you have rescued her and that I shall see her again, and I will for ever bless the voice that saves me from despair. Oh, Von Voltenberg! speak, speak! surely you could never have had the baseness to desert her. How were you taken? how have you escaped? and why alone?" "Poor Ronayne! would to God that I could give you consolation; but, alas! I cannot. She fell into the hands of the Indians before I did, and I saw her borne rapidly to the rear of the farm-house; me they took to the road where you saw me. From that moment I never once beheld her; but reassure yourself, all may yet be well. True, she is a prisoner, but I apprehend no violence, for the Indians offered none to myself, and I thought that they showed unaccountable moderation to you, never firing a shot when you had so completely baffled them in the chase. It was that which gave me confidence to attempt my own escape, when I saw them all pressing forward to secure you, leaving me altogether unguarded. But we will speak of this no more to-night. You must sleep, Ronayne, if you would have strength to enter upon action to-morrow. From the appearance of their encampment, not twenty paces in rear of the spot where you beheld me, I have reason to think that it has been established there many days, and that Mrs. Ronayne may yet be rescued, for the party of Indians does not exceed five-and-twenty men. What they want is, doubtless, ransom, a few blankets or guns." "Oh! say you so; bless you for that!" continued the Virginian, eagerly; "yes, I will be calm--seek rest to restore me for the morning; I will see Captain Headley, and entreat him to let me take out a detachment. Oh! he will not refuse me. Do you think he will, Mrs. Headley? Surely you will plead for me. I know twenty brave fellows who will cheerfully volunteer for the duty." "Alas!" said Mrs. Headley, with a deep despondency at her heart, "I fear I can give you no encouragement there, Ronayne; I am quite satisfied, indeed, that Headley will not suffer a man to leave the fort at this crisis." "Crisis! what crisis!" interrupted the youth vehemently. "Obdurate man, has the past not cured him of his martinetism? By heaven, let him refuse me, and I, alone and without permission, will go in search of my wife. Fool, fool that I was to return now without her; but I had hoped she was here;" and again he burst into another wild agony of grief. Corporal Collins touched his cap and advanced a pace forward. "The Captain said this afternoon that the next time your honor left the fort you should never return to it. I thought it was my duty, your honor, to tell you, for I couldn't make out what he meant." "Oh! he did, did he?" muttered Ronayne, with sudden calm. "Well, be it so!" "Corporal Collins," said Mrs. Headley sternly to him, as she arose from her kneeling posture, "you would have done better to have held your peace on a matter which you say you do not comprehend. Mr. Ronayne has annoyance sufficient without your misinterpreting to him an observation of his commanding officer, which, in all probability, was made in any other spirit than that which your words would convey." The corporal made a respectful obeisance and withdrew into the corridor, rebuked. "Ronayne," pursued Mrs. Headley, "I can make all allowance for your excited feelings. I will speak to Headley on the matter; and, although I cannot hold out to you any hope that he either will even acknowledge the necessity, much less take the action you desire, I feel perfectly assured that, when you have heard his reasons, you will agree with us both that it would neither be of avail nor politic to take a step of this kind for the recovery of her whom we all deplore--God knows, no one more bitterly than myself." "Mrs. Headley, you surprise me; I can scarcely believe that I understand you rightly. I had always thought your feelings towards Maria were those of a mother for her child?" "Even so, Ronayne. You judged them rightly. As a mother I have loved, and love her still; but we will talk of all this to-morrow morning, and I leave you now to the quiet, if rest is not to be hoped for, that you so much require; for Headley needs all his officers in important council to-morrow, prior to holding a second immediately after with our Indian allies. Nay," seeing that all present looked surprised, and a desire to know wherefore, "it were idle to enter upon the subject now; sufficient be it to know that it is one of the deepest importance, and that, even should you be carried there in a litter, Ronayne--but God forbid the necessity! --you must be present." "At what hour does that council assemble, Mrs. Headley?" asked the ensign. "At midday, I believe. Winnebeg has been desired to bring the chiefs to the glacis, between the flagstaff and the southern block-house, at two o'clock precisely." "What! Winnebeg returned?" exclaimed Ronayne, as he impetuously rose in his bed. "Ah, then there is hope. He will aid me in my enterprise. And what of Wau-nan-gee? Is he, too, here, Mrs. Headley? Yes, he must be. Oh, this is indeed providential! I shall rise with the dawn, and seek them both. Everything can be accomplished, if at all, before the hour of our own council arrives." Mrs. Headley cast a look of profound sadness on him, as, taking his hot hand in hers, she said-- "Wau-nan-gee did not come with Winnebeg, Ronayne; but there is reason to believe that he is not far from the camp of the Pottowatomies, for he was seen yesterday. Yet he will not aid you in your proposed enterprise." "Oh! Mrs. Headley, you do him wrong--indeed you do. Wau-nan-gee loves Maria too well not to risk his life for her. You little know the strength of his generous attachment, if you doubt his interest in her preservation." "I know, that his love for her is great--perhaps too much so," she replied, emphatically, after a moment's pause, while bending over to adjust his pillow, and in a voice so subdued as to be inaudible to all but himself.	{ "id": "31745" }
7	None	Ronayne's pale cheek became suddenly scarlet. He perceived from the tone and look that accompanied the words that suspicion of some kind, whence derived he knew not, had entered into the mind of Mrs. Headley, and that she saw in the regard of the young Indian for his wife, evidence of a prepossession which might prove dangerous to his peace. But this, to a mind generous and impetuous as that of the highly-gifted officer, brought no alarm. Conscious of the entire possession of the heart and confidence of his wife, it was a source of speculative pride, rather than of concern to him, that the warm-hearted and inartificial Indian, at once brave, boy-like, and handsome, should, with a cheek glowing, and an eye beaming with overweening softness, feel and betray all the power of her beauty when exposed to the influence of its presence. It was a compliment to himself--to his own taste and judgment, and, had this been possible, would have increased his love for her on whom nature, hand in hand with the graces, had lavished such adornments of disposition and person as to compel a homage which rarely came to woman from such a quarter. The love of Wau-nan-gee had been known to both, but it had always been regarded as the innocent and enthusiastic preference of the boy who had scarcely yet learned to comprehend the new and strange emotion struggling for development at his heart. It had often been the topic of their conversation; and many a smile, half crimsoning into a blush, had Ronayne called up to the brow of his young wife, while playfully adverting to the equal right to invest her with the marriage ring, which he had so eagerly manifested on the evening of their union. And, if he had shown a humor on that occasion which displeased or hurt the Indian it was not from any unworthy jealousy of the act he had sought to perform, but because he was ashamed of his own awkwardness, exhibited on such an occasion and in presence of his bride. Since that night Wau-nan-gee had disappeared, and both by the husband and wife had his absence been deeply regretted, for they both loved the youth, not only for the services he had rendered, but the interest his gentleness of deportment and retiring modesty had inspired. If, therefore, he changed color at the remark of Mrs. Headley, it was not because a guilty passion was hinted at as influencing the boy, or because, even if it did, that he much heeded it, but because he thought it was meant to suggest that the danger would come from the tenderness of her who had inspired it. For the moment he felt mortified at the possibility of such an idea being entertained, and, had Mrs. Headley made the remark she did, except In his own ear, Ronayne would have expressed himself accordingly. "He cannot love her too well," was his reply; "oh, no, that is my chief hope. Think you that I should be calm as I am, did I not, now that I know he is returned, feel assured that his strong yet pure attachment for her will cause him to head a strong band for her rescue? I am better now--I am determined to be better; for at the first dawn I will go forth and seek Wau-nan-gee. We shall not be five hours away; and, long before the council assembles, we shall again, I am confident, be re-united. Ah, what a long night until then! would that it were dawn!" "That were of no use," returned Mrs. Headley, gravely and aloud. "I know that the strictest orders were issued immediately after your return, to allow neither officer nor man to leave the fort, unless passed by Headley himself." "Or I shall never return, I suppose," muttered the Virginian bitterly; "well, we shall see;" and he ground his teeth together fiercely. "Ronayne," said Mrs. Headley, "spare your bitterness. You will know to-morrow what Headley meant by his remark; yet promise me one thing before I leave you, that before you seek to leave the fort, you will see me in the morning, in my apartments. If, then, I fail to satisfy you of the reasons which exist against your entertaining any hopes of success in the enterprise you meditate, I think I may venture to say that I shall obtain of not to oppose you. But, stay! on consideration, it will be better that what I have to urge should be said at once. This is no time or occasion for mere forms or ceremonies. There is too much at stake. I shall leave you now, and return, alone, in little more than an hour. You will dismiss Collins for the night, desiring him to close the door--not fasten it, so that I may make no noise--find no difficulty in entering. Better that you give vent to your feelings here, in the privacy of your own room, than reveal by your excitement to others that which should be known only to ourselves." "Good heaven! what can all this mean? what can it portend?" exclaimed the startled officer. "Prepare yourself for no pleasant communication, Ronayne," continued Mrs. Headley, sadly; "I must wound, yet I trust but to heal; one point I would have you question Von Voltenberg on before I go--the manner in which Maria fell into the hands of the Indians." During this short and low conversation, Mrs. Elmsley and Von Voltenberg had been talking aside on the same subject, the former continuing to weep quietly but bitterly for the loss of her friend. Ronayne now questioned the surgeon in regard to the cause of the suddenness of their departure from the point where he had dismounted to procure water. Von Voltenberg replied that he scarcely knew himself, but his own impression was that Mrs. Ronayne had started off her horse the moment the shots were fired--he supposed in the very exaggerated spirit of wantonness which had marked her actions ever since leaving the fort. He had mechanically followed in courtesy, and the result was as has been seen--her sudden captivity by the war party, who had hurried her off, almost unresistingly, he knew not whither, while he himself was taken in the direction in which Ronayne had seen him. "Did she scream--did she express alarm when taken?" asked Mrs. Headley. "No; I cannot say that she did," returned the Doctor, somewhat surprised, and not comprehending the motive for the question; "but you know Mrs. Ronayne is a woman of great nerve and presence of mind. Moreover, as the thing was done in a moment, she must have been too greatly astonished to understand her danger, for she came abruptly on the Indians on turning the sharp angle of the road leading up to the house." Mrs. Headley's eyes met those of Ronayne with grave meaning. He seemed to understand her, and when, with Mrs. Elmsley, she had departed, he threw himself back upon his pillow, and, closing his eyes, mused deeply. To the inquiry of Von Voltenberg, he replied that, feeling disposed to rest a little, he would not trouble him to sit up longer, but begged him to retire and to send Collins to his barrack-room, leaving his door on the latch, in case he should be summoned by the commanding officer for any purpose before morning. As Mrs. Headley separated for the night from Mrs. Elmsley, and approached her own door, a man in uniform came up, touched his cap respectfully, and presented a packet. "This parcel, Mrs. Headley, I received from Mrs. Ronayne on leaving the fort this afternoon, with the direction that I should hand it to you if she did not return by midnight. Alas! ma'am, we have every reason to fear the dear lady will never return; twelve o'clock has just struck, and I am come to fulfil my trust." "Thank you, Serjeant Nixon. As you say, I fear there is little hope of Mrs. Ronayne returning; but this package may possibly throw some light on the cause of her absence." "Oh! I hope so; yet how Should it, ma'am? she could not have known what was going to happen when she went out." "No--true, Nixon, you are right. I suppose it contains something that she has borrowed, or that I have asked her for. Ah! I recollect now--it is some embroidery she worked for me. Good night, serjeant; or do you wish to see Captain Headley?" "No, ma'am, I only came to deliver the package which Mrs. Ronayne seemed so anxious you should get to-night." "There was no such very great hurry about it," returned Mrs. Headley, carelessly, yet not without agitation; "I would to heaven she had been here to give it to me herself!" "Amen!" solemnly returned the serjeant; "I would willingly lose my left arm, could I see her sweet face in Fort Dearborn again." "Good night, Nixon," said Mrs. Headley, quickly and much affected; "you are a noble fellow!" and she took and warmly pressed his hand. "Oh! Mrs. Headley, that is the way Mrs. Ronayne pressed my hand after she had placed the packet in it, and obtained my assurance that her directions should be punctually obeyed. I shall ever feel that pressure--see the look of kindness that accompanied it. I prayed inwardly to God, as I stood gazing on her while she rode gracefully away, to shower all His choicest blessings on her." "Good Nixon, no more;" and Mrs. Headley was in the next minute at the side of her husband, who, with deep care on his brow, sat at a table buried in papers, and with the despatch of General Hull in his hand. "Well, my dear, have you seen him--and how does he bear his affliction?" "Oh! Headley, I pity him from my inmost soul--pity him for what he now suffers; and, oh! how much more for the greater agony he has yet to endure!" "You have not yet, then, told him?" "No! Mrs. Elmsley and Von Voltenberg were there; and even the former must not know the secret. Let all mourn her as one lost to us for, ever, but not through her own fault. Let them continue to believe that she has been violently torn from us, not that she has proved unfaithful to her husband, ungrateful to her friends." "Think you not, Ellen, that it would be better to continue Ronayne in the same belief? As you have not opened the subject to him, it is not too late to alter your first intention." "Dear Headley, Ronayne must know all. In no other way can the wound at his heart be healed. I comprehend his noble, generous character well. Such is his love for Maria, that he will never recover the shock of her loss while he believes her to have been unwillingly torn from him. He will pine until he sickens and dies, and, indeed, unless the whole truth be told to him, he will find some means of leaving the fort in search of her; indeed he has said he will--that nothing shall prevent him; and, alas, if he does, it will be with but little disposition to return without her. Now, I know that if his love be great, his pride and proper self-esteem are not less so, and feel assured that however acute his first agony, he, will dry up the fountain of his grief, from the moment that he learns that her love for himself has been transferred to another; that, carried away by a strange and seductive fascination, she has abandoned him for an uneducated boy. His pride, even if it do not make him forget her, will so balance with his now unrequited affection, as to enable him to bear himself up, until time shall have robbed the wound of all its bitterness, and nothing remain but the scar. You will, moreover, have an efficient officer preserved to you, and one whose services may be much required in the present crisis--whose voice in the council will not be without its weight, and whose arm and example will help to instil confidence in the men, with all of whom he is a marked favorite." "You are right, Ellen, if all that you suppose be true; better that the wound should be enlarged to insure its speedier cure, than that the laceration, though less acute, should be continued. But is it not necessary to be well assured of this? Should you not have stronger ground than what you witnessed yesterday to justify the belief that this excursion was planned to insure the result that has followed?" "Depend upon it, Headley, I will not do so, for you know I am not disposed to 'aught extenuate or aught set down in malice,' but I have already prepared Ronayne, indirectly, to expect some singular relation in which Maria is concerned. I wanted him to form some idea of the nature of the revelation I had to make, in order that the shock might not be so great, when I fully entered upon the subject, I had at first intended that he should come to me in the morning, but, on reflection, I thought it better that everything should be told to him to-night where he is, and therefore stated, on leaving, that I would return within an hour. Was I right, my love?" and she took and pressed his hand to her lips. "Always right, dear Ellen--always considerate and prudent. Yes, poor fellow, it were cruel to let him slumber in hope, however faint, only to wake to confirmed despair in the morning. Besides there may be, most probably will be, a wild outbreak of his passionate grief, and that, manifested here where the servants cannot fail to hear him, may induce suspicions of the true cause that must never be entertained. No, whatever we know, however we may deplore the weakness--the infatuation of that once noble girl, within our own hearts must remain her unfortunate secret." "Generously, nobly said, my husband. Were I not certain that it would destroy, wither up the very soul of Ronayne to keep him in uncertainty and ignorance, I would not rend the veil from before his eyes; but it must be so, even for his own future peace. Besides me, therefore, for he will not know that I have entrusted you with the fact, none in the garrison will be aware of the truth, and Ronayne will at least not have to feel the mortification--the bitterness arising from the conviction that his wife is mourned by his comrades, with aught of diminution of that respect they had ever borne to her." "How annoying is this occurrence at this particular moment," observed Captain Headley, musingly pressing his hand to his brow, "and how unfortunate. Had Winnebeg brought General Hull's despatch one day sooner, all this would not have happened, for they never could have obtained permission to leave the fort, much less to visit so dangerous a vicinity as Hardscrabble. Our march from this would have changed the whole current of events." "Even so," returned Mrs. Headley; "but here is a packet, left with Serjeant Nixon, which he has just handed to me, and which may throw some light on the subject. I will first glance over it myself." She broke the seal--hurriedly read it--and then passed it to her husband, whose utter dismay, as he exchanged looks of deep and painful intelligence with her, after perusing the letter, was scarcely inferior to her own. "This is evidence indeed!" he murmured. "Who could have expected it?"	{ "id": "31745" }
8	None	"Grief is proud, and makes its owner stout." --_King John_ It was nearly one o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Headley, wrapped in her husband's loose military cloak and forage cap, once more approached the apartment of Ronayne, situated at the inner extremity of the low range of buildings inhabited by herself. This disguise had been assumed, not because she felt ashamed of the errand on which she was bound, but because she did not wish to provoke curiosity or remark, in the event of her encountering, while going or returning, any of the reliefs or patrols, which she knew orders had been given, for the first time that night, to have changed every half hour. In the extreme darkness of the night, the difference of her height could scarcely be distinguished from that of her husband, and it was not likely that any one would address the supposed commanding officer, whom all would assume anxious in regard to the health of his subordinate, and on his way to ascertain the extent of his malady. The lights were burning dimly in the apartment. There was a window on each side of the door, and the farthest of these she fancied she saw shaded by a human form from without. She stopped suddenly, and kept her eyes riveted on the object, holding in her breath that she might not betray her presence. Presently the shadow was removed from the window, and lost altogether to her sight. A movement of the light now made within was reflected on the figure of Ronayne, who, with a candle in his hand, seemed to be approaching the door. He was still dressed as he had thrown himself on his bed, on entering, in the deerskin hunting-frock he had worn during the day, and his temples were bound with a blue-bordered scarlet bandanna handkerchief--for he had ever loathed the abomination of a nightcap as being symbolical of the gibbet. As he came nearer to the window, the light which he bore reflected distinctly without and upon an Indian standing in the doorway, similarly habited, even to the very turban. Mrs. Headley felt that she could not be mistaken in the figure, but if any doubt had existed, it would have been dissipated when involuntarily calling out, and in a tone meant to imitate the harsher voice of her husband, the name of Wau-nan-gee, the face was wildly turned in the broad light to penetrate the darkness which half enshrouded her from view, and the features of the boy distinctly revealed. Surprised, but armed with strong resolution, she made a rapid forward movement to seize and detain him, knowing well that Ronayne, at the sound of voices, would come forth at once to her assistance; but the Indian, without uttering a sound, stole rapidly away towards the picketing in the distance, and was seen no more. As Mrs. Headley now approached the door, it was opened by Ronayne, who apologised to her for not having sooner attended to her knock, but declared it to be so low that he had not distinctly heard it. "Nay," she replied, when she had entered and taken a seat, "I did not knock, nor had I intended to knock; I have disturbed another midnight visitor." "Another visitor! To whom do you allude, my dear Mrs. Headley? I must have deceived myself, or surely I heard, soon after I had risen from my couch, the name of Wau-nan-gee." "You did not deceive yourself," she returned, gravely; "I saw Wau-nan-gee at the threshold of your door as plainly as I see you, and habited in the same manner. I called to him, but he fled." "Impossible!" said the anxious officer; "wherefore should he flee after knocking for admission? What motive could he have in coming? and how could he obtain admission unperceived? I have no doubt that fatigue and excitement and the lateness of the hour have tended to call up this vision. Would that you could make it real." "Ronayne," repeated Mrs. Headley, gravely, "you well know that I am not given much to imagine that which is not. Even to the very handkerchief you have on your head, his dress was identical, was Wau-nan-gee's; and I well recollect the occasion when, at the distribution of the annual presents to the Indians, you appropriated that handkerchief to yourself, because, as you said, Wau-nan-gee had manifested so much good taste in choosing one like it." "But, my dear Mrs. Headley," returned the officer with gravity, while, after closing the shutters, he took a seat at her side, "you must pardon me if the very fact of the resemblance in dress only increases my conviction of the illusion. In all probability, it was my shadow that you saw reflected by the strong light upon the glass upper half of the door." "As you please, Ronayne; but, for my own part, I have not the slightest doubt on the subject. You ask how he could get here? Even, as you will remember, you once made an evasion from the fort--well intended, I grant, but still an evasion from the fort--over the picketing of the fort. But the matter would not be of so much consequence at any other time. At present, it is connected with much that I have to reveal; but how so connected, I cannot even fancy myself. Ronayne," she continued, taking his hand and pressing it in her own, "disabuse yourself of the idea that Wau-nan-gee, whatever he may have been, is now your friend." "Wau-nan-gee not my friend?" returned the officer, sadly. "Well, I was prepared in some degree to hear the assertion, Mrs. Headley, our conversation an hour since being well calculated to make me revolve the subject in my mind during your short absence, and I have done so. When you mentioned a moment ago that Wau-nan-gee had been at this door, seeking for admission, I felt confident that you had done him great wrong; but now, I confess, since you so positively assert his presence and sudden evasion, I am led to apprehend, I know not what. Speak; let me hear it all," he concluded, with bitterness. "Ronayne, my almost son," she said, leaning her arm affectionately on his shoulder, "it was with the view that suspicion should be excited in your mind by my language that I stated what I did. I did not wish the truth to burst upon you with annihilating suddenness, and therefore sought to prepare you for the blow I am destined to inflict." "And that is--" he said, with stern and furrowed brow, a pallid cheek, and compressed lip. "Nay, Ronayne, I like not that tone and manner." "Proceed, Mrs. Headley, pray proceed; I am ready to hear all. Whence this sorrow so much keener than that I now endure, and how is it connected with Wau-nan-gee!" "Has it never occurred to you to connect the one with the other?" she observed, in low and uncertain accents. "Ha! is it that?" he exclaimed, vehemently starting and hurriedly pacing the apartment. "It is then even as your words had led me to infer. Still, I would not approach the subject myself. I waited for something more direct from your lips. You have uttered it, and I am now prepared to hear all. But, Mrs. Headley, mark me, be well assured of all you say; let not mere appearances be the groundwork of your suspicions, or you destroy two generous hearts for ever; but," he resumed more calmly, yet with a look of fierce determination, as he once more seated himself at her side, "although the love I bear Maria is deeper far than man ever bore for woman, assure me that it is not returned, that this soft--eyed boy, with Indian guile, has stolen the love in which I lived, and then I tear her from my heart for ever. Think me no mere puling fawnster, craving a love that is not freely given. As the passion that I feel is fire, hot as the Virginian sun that nurtured me, so will it become ice the moment it ceases to be fed by that which first enkindled it. Yes," he continued, bitterly, "I could tear my heart out if in its weakness it could pine for one, however once endeared, who had ceased to respond to all its devotedness and worship. I might think of her, but only to sustain my wounded spirit. Contempt and scorn for her fickleness, not love--base and grovelling love--should ever be associated with her image, when undesiredly it arose to my repelling memory. But oh, God!" he exclaimed, bowing his head upon hand, and yielding to his deep emotion, "is it possible that this can be! Can it be that I should ever speak and think of Maria thus! Oh, whence this too great affliction! why this separation of soul from soul! this rending asunder of the mystic bond that once united us! But stop!" and he raised his head, the hot and inflaming tears still gathering in his eyes, "she cannot surely thus have acted, and yet--and yet--oh! Mrs. Headley, if you knew the desolation of my heart, you would pity me. It is crushed, crushed!" During this painful ebullition of contradictory feeling, in which pride and love combated fiercely for the ascendency, Mrs. Headley had been deeply affected; but feeling the necessity for going through the task she had imposed upon herself, she strove as much as possible to appear calm and collected, even severe. His last appeal brought tears from her own eyes. "Indeed, indeed, Ronayne," she exclaimed, pressing his hand fervently between her palms, "I do pity you, I do sympathize with you, even as a mother, in the desolation of your heavily-stricken heart. I had dreaded this emotion, and only my strong regard for yourself gave me strength to undertake the infliction of the counter wound, which I knew alone could preserve you from utter misery and despair; and yet, if you would cherish the illusion, if you would not that the stern reality should sear up each avenue to hope, to each sweeter recollection of the past, I will, if you desire it, abstain." "Nay, not so, Mrs. Headley," replied the unhappy officer; "you are very cruel, but I know you mean it well; proceed--let me be told all. The stronger your recital, the more confirmatory of the utter destruction of my dreams of happiness, and the better for myself. I have already said that scorn and contempt alone can dwell in my heart, if that which I surmise you are about to relate be but found to be true. I am ready for the torture--begin!" and, as if with a dogged determination to hear, and suffer while he heard, he leaned his elbow on the back of his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand. The recital need not be repeated here. All that had occurred on the preceding day, and that which is already known to the reader, Mrs. Headley now communicated, adding that she had been undecided in her opinion on the subject, until the answer to the question put to Von Voltenberg convinced her that the whole thing had been planned, and that she had willingly thrown herself into the power of Wau-nan-gee. The few guns, she concluded, were evidently a signal of which she availed herself by instantly galloping off, while Ronayne was yet at some distance from her, and unhorsed. Prepared as the unhappy officer had been for intelligence involving this mysterious change of affection in his wife, he was utterly dismayed when Mrs. Headley recounted what she had witnessed in the summer-house, to which she had voluntarily gone, and from which she probably never would have returned had not accident disclosed the secret of the trap--door. "This is, indeed, a terrible blow!" he said, solemnly, removing his hand and exhibiting a pale cheek and lip, and a stern and knitted brow; "but now I know the worst, I better can bear the infliction. Strange, I almost hate myself for it; but I feel my heart relieved. I know I am no longer cared for there, and wherefore seek to force an erring woman to my will? And yet, when I think of it, of the monstrous love that weds rich intellect and gorgeous beauty to the mere blushing bud of scarce conscious boyhood, I feel as one utterly bewildered. Still, again, since that love be hers, since she may not control the passion that urges her to her fate, so unselfish am I in my feeling, even amid all the weight of my disappointment, that rather would I have her free and happy in the love she has exchanged, than know her pining in endless captivity, separated from and consumed with vain desire for a reunion with myself--her love for me unquenched and unquenchable." "Ah! what a husband has she not lost! Generous, noble Ronayne, that is what I had expected. You bear this bravely; I knew you would, or never should I have dared to enter upon the matter. But your generosity must go further; it must never be known that Maria has gone off willingly--no doubt must be entertained of her continued love for you. She must still be respected, even as she is pitied and deplored; the belief that she has been made captive and carried off must not be shaken." "The struggle at her heart must indeed have been great before she fell," remarked Ronayne, musingly, and with an air of profound sadness; "for although her appearance in the rude vault beneath the floor of the summer-house would appear to indicate compulsion, her after conduct justifies not the belief. The imploring earnestness with which she entreated you, Mrs. Headley, not to make known what you had seen to me; her abstaining from all censure of Wau-nan-gee at the moment, and her subsequent interest in him, too forcible to be concealed; her strange and unaccountable manner during our ride, as if to banish some gnawing reproach at her heart; her galloping off when freed for the moment from my presence, and at the evident signal given to announce that everything was prepared for her reception; the appearance of her trunks in the farm-house, evidently, I am now convinced, taken there within a day or two; the pretended desire of the Indians, friends of Wau-nan-gee, to make me a prisoner, and thus induce in me the belief that such was her fate. Oh! yes," he continued, rising and pacing the room rapidly, "I can see through the whole plot. His party were Pottowatomies, painted as warriors of a distant tribe, that suspicion might be averted from themselves. Their object was not to make either Von Voltenberg or myself prisoners, but merely to give such evidence of hostility as to cause us to believe they were enemies. Oh, what sin, what artifice for a woman once so ingenious, a boy so young! But now I am assured of all this, I am better--I am better. Some sudden inspiration has flashed the truth upon me, that I might, find that relief which a knowledge of her unfaithfulness alone can render me." "It must have been even so," rejoined Mrs. Headley; "for, certainly, the fact of yourself and Von Voltenberg being allowed to escape by hostile Indians, who could so easily have shot you down, or taken you prisoners, had they been really so inclined, appears to me to be incredible." "And yet, if it was planned," pursued Ronayne thoughtfully, "what opportunity of communication had they to arrange their measures? Wau-nan-gee has, we know, long been absent for weeks, or certainly not once within the fort." "Ronayne," said Mrs. Headley, significantly, "I speak to you of these things freely as to one so much younger than myself. Have I not just said that I saw Wau-nan-gee most distinctly at your door as I entered--nobody but ourselves know that he has got in, much less in what manner." "I understand you, my dear Mrs. Headley; you would infer that he has stolen in at some obscure part of the fort, and under cover of the darkness; but even if so, am I not always at home?" "Never on guard, Ronayne; or am I mistaken," she added with a faint smile, "in supposing that the officer on duty passes the night with his men?" "By heaven it is so," returned the Virginian vehemently, and striking his brow with his open palm, "this intimacy is of long standing. Though pretending absence, Wau-nan-gee has been ever present. My guard nights have been selected for those interviews. The poison of his young love has been infused into the willing woman's ear and heart, and now that I recollect it, often on my return home have I seen her, pale, dejected, and full of thought--he has entreated her to fly with him--to suffer him to be the sole, the undivided sharer of her love--she has hesitated, struggled, and finally consented. By the same means by which his entrance has been effected, the trunks of Hardscrabble have been removed, and all was prepared for her evasion yesterday, had she not been baffled in her object by your sudden appearance. Oh, I see it all!"	{ "id": "31745" }
9	None	"Ronayne, Ronayne!" resumed Mrs. Headley, after the strong excitement of her feeling had been in some measure calmed, "how rapidly you arrive at conclusions. Much of what you say is probable--for your sake, I would it were all so, but let us be guided in our judgment by circumstances and facts alone. If it had at first been arranged that the plan adopted with such success to-day, why the visit to, and detention in, the vault of the summer-house where every preparation had been made for a long concealment?" "That," replied Ronayne, "is a mystery which time alone can unravel. I confess that it involves a contradiction susceptible of explanation only by themselves. This, in all human probability we shall never know; but then, again, forgive me, Mrs. Headley, for thus detaining you with any selfish interests, but your voice, your counsel, your very knowledge of the facts--all breathe peace to my wounded spirit; but, I ask again, why the scream she gave--why the emotion, the grief, she evinced when, on opening the trap-door, you saw her reclining exhausted on that rude couch? I would reason the matter so as to convince myself _thoroughly_ that her flight has been her own wilful act, for then I shall the less regret, even though I should not be able to banish her image wholly from my mind. You have said that you saw Wau-nan-gee leave the summer-house with an excitement in his eye and manner you had never witnessed before, and that this corresponded with the state in which you found Maria a few moments later. Now, is it probable that if she had purposed anything wrong she would have asked you to accompany her, or that she should have asked you to wait for her, while visiting a spot whence she knew she never would return? Oh, no! this could never be. Her mode of evasion, if such had been intended, would have been very different; she would have chosen a moment when you were in some distant part of the garden, and saw her not, to steal into the summer-house. All clue, then, would have been lost, and the appearance of the Indians lurking about the cottage would naturally have impressed you with the belief that she had been carried off by them. How were they dressed?" "Even as you have described the party that pursued, or affected to pursue you yesterday," exclaimed Mrs. Headley, "in the war paint of the Winnebagoes. I know it well, for their chiefs have often been in council here." "Just so," pursued Ronayne. "Is it not then reasonable to suppose--mark, I do not weakly seek to justify the wrong which but too certainly exists, but I would dissect each circumstance until the truth be known--is it not, I repeat, reasonable to suppose that, even if Maria wanted an evidence of her abduction, she would have gone towards the cottage rather than the summer-house. It would have been easy enough then for the Indians who, I have no doubt, were the same party I encountered at Hardscrabble, to have carried her off before any assistance could arrive from the fort. On the contrary, she was certain of discovery in the summer-house into which she had been seen to enter, and every part of which she would have known would have been most strictly searched. Wherefore, too, the object in keeping her confined, as it were, in a dungeon, when the free air was open to her, and the boundless wilderness offered health and freedom?" "I have thought of all that, Ronayne," replied Mrs. Headley, "and I cannot but suppose that this retreat was a temporary one. In all probability, when Wau-nan-gee issued from the summer-house, he was in the act of proceeding to make his preparations for finishing the work just begun, but seeing that I had not yet left the grounds, waited to know what my movements would be before he took any farther step. My stationing the boat's crew before the gate, where they could command the whole of the view between the cottage and the summer-house, acted as a check upon them, and little dreaming, I presume, that I had discovered the trap-door, they had intended, on my departure across the river, to avail themselves of my absence, and bear her off into the forest. As for the deep grief which I witnessed on entering the summer-house, that may easily be accounted for. A woman of refinement, education, and generous susceptibility, however unhappily carried away she may be by a resistless, and, in her view, fated passion, does not without a pang tear herself from old associations to enter upon new, especially where they are of an inferior character. She may mourn her weakness even at the moment she most yields to it. One dominant thought may fill her soul--one master sentiment influence all her actions, and govern the pulsations of her heart, but that does not exclude the workings of other and nobler emotions of the mind. Even when she feels herself most tyrannized over by the passion, the infatuation, the destiny against which she finds it vain to struggle, sorrow for her altered position will intrude itself, and then is her heart strengthened and her mind consoled only by the reflection that the sacrifice was indispensable to the attainment of that, without which, in the strong excitement of her imagination, she deems life valueless. Charity should induce us to believe that it is, what I have already termed it, a disease, for on no other principle can we account for that aberration of the passions, the intellect and the judgment which can lead such a woman to forget that mind chiefly gives value to love, and to sacrifice all that is esteemed most honorable in the sex by man, to the fascination of mere animal beauty. Ah! Ronayne, this must have been the case in the present instance. You see, I probe you deeply--but enough!" "Dear Mrs. Headley," returned the Virginian, pressing her hands warmly in his own, "I am satisfied that, humiliating as it is to admit the correctness of your impression, there is but too much reason to think that it is even as you say. When I recur to the past of yesterday and to-day, I cannot doubt it; and yet I confess there is much buried in obscurity which I would fain have explained. Were it made clear, manifest as the handwriting on the wall, that Maria had abandoned me for Wau-nan-gee, I should be at ease. It is the uncertainty only that now racks my mind. Could I _know_, not merely _believe_ her false, a weight would be taken from my heart. Oh! Mrs. Headley, why did you not suffer Wau-nan-gee to enter--why drive from me the only means of explanation at which I can ever arrive--and, yet, what could have been his object in thus venturing here after having despoiled my home of its treasure? If guilty, would he have dared to approach me? and that he might not do so with evil intent, is evident from the fact of his having knocked for admission. Oh! Mrs. Headley, I know not what to think--my mind is chaos--I am a very changeling in my mood: not from want of energy to act when once assured, but from the very doubts that agitate my mind, made wavering by the absence of all certain proof." While the soul of the unfortunate young officer was thus a prey to every shade of doubt, and manifesting the very weakness that his lips denied, Mrs. Headley regarded him with, deep concern. She could well divine all that was passing in his heart, and the chord of her sympathy was keenly touched. For some moments she did not speak, but appeared to be lost in her own painful reflections. At length, when Ronayne, who during these remarks had been rapidly pacing the room, threw himself into a chair, burying his face in his hands, evidently ill at ease, she drew forth her packet, the seal of which was broken, and handed it to him, saying with sadness-- "My dear Ronayne, I had hoped that I should not have been under the necessity of making known to you the contents of this note, but I see it cannot be withheld. It was placed in my hands, just after I had parted with Mrs. Elmsley, by Serjeant Nixon, who stated that Maria had left it with him for me, as she rode out this morning, telling him it was of the utmost importance that he should deliver it." "I saw her in conversation with him," said Ronayne, as he took the note and approached the light to read it, "and on asking what detained her, she said, hastily, that she was merely sending you a message--not a document of the importance which you seem to attach to this. I felt at the time that she was not dealing seriously with me; but as it seemed a matter of little consequence I did not pay much attention to it; but, let me read!" The following were the contents of the note, which Ronayne eagerly perused, with what profound emotion it need scarcely be necessary to describe: "My dear Mrs. Headley: When you receive this, you will have seen me, perhaps, for the last time; but I am sure that you will believe that, in tearing myself from the scene where so many happy, though not altogether unchequered days have been passed, no one occupies a deeper place in my regret than yourself, whom I have ever regarded as a second mother. The dreadful reasons which exist for it, however, prevent me, as a wife, from acting otherwise. I know you will condemn me--tax me with ingratitude and selfishness. I am prepared for reproach; but, alas! no other course remains for me to pursue. If I have yielded to the persuasions of the gentle, the affectionate, the devoted Wau-nan-gee, it is not so much on my own account as in consideration of the hope held out to me of a long future of happiness with the object of my heart's worship. For him I can, and do make every sacrifice, even to the incurring of your displeasure, and the condemnation of all who know me. But let me entreat you to remember, that if he is seemingly guilty, I alone am truly so, and chargeable for the deep offence that will of course be attributed to him. Remember that I have planned the whole; and should it be decreed by fate that we never meet again, I pray God in his infinite goodness to preserve those whom I now abandon, and spare them the distraction that weighs upon this severely-tried heart. "I promised you a candid explanation of everything relating to what you saw yesterday. This you will find fully detailed in the accompanying document, written after you had left me, and before the return of Ronayne last night from fishing." "Document! what document?" asked the Virginian, interrupting himself, and in a voice husky from emotion; "there is nothing here, Mrs. Headley, but the letter itself." "Nothing but that and the piece of embroidery which Maria had worked for me were contained in the packet," was the reply. "In her hurry she must have forgotten to inclose it." "In the accompanying document (resumed the Virginian, reading) you will find the nature of my connexion with Wau-nan-gee fully explained. You will, of course, make such use of all that is necessary to your purpose as you may deem advisable; but, as I make that part of the communication which refers to Wau-nan-gee strictly confidential, I conjure you never, in the slightest way, to allude to him as being connected either with my evasion or with the revelation I have made to you in the inclosure. Adieu, my dear Mrs. Headley. God grant we may meet again! "Your own Maria." During the perusal of this note, Mrs. Headley had watched the countenance of Ronayne with much anxiety. She saw there evidence of strong and varied feelings which he made an effort to subdue, and so far succeeded that, when he had finished he returned the note to her with a calm she had not expected. "There is no need of further confirmation now, Mrs. Headley," he said, with a bitter half-smile. "You have, indeed, probed but to heal. All my weakness is past. To-morrow I shall be myself again, and attend the council. Pardon me that I have been the cause of detaining you so late, and believe me when I say that deeply do I thank you for the interest you have taken in me." "God bless you, Ronayne! Alas, you are not alone in, your trials--much of moment awaits us all. Good night!" And, assuming her disguise, she speedily regained her home.	{ "id": "31745" }
10	None	"Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day that cries--Retire, when Warwick bids him stay." --_Henry IV. _ On the western bank of the south side of the Chicago River, and opposite to Fort Dearborn, stood the only building which, with the exception of the cottage of Mr. Heywood on the opposite shore, and already alluded to, could at all come under the classification of a dwelling-house. The owner of this mansion, as it was generally called, which rose near the junction of the river with Lake Michigan, was a gentleman who had been long a resident and trader in the neighborhood, and between whom and the Pottowatomie Indians in particular, a good understanding had always existed. Several voyageurs, consisting of French Canadians and half-breeds, constituted his establishment, and in the course of his speculations, chiefly in furs, with the several tribes, he had amassed considerable wealth. He was, in fact, the only person of any standing or education outside the wall of the fort itself, and of course the only civilian, besides Mr. Heywood--whom, however, they far less frequently saw--the officers of the garrison could associate with. His house was the abode of hospitality, and as, in his trading capacity, he had opportunities of procuring many even of the luxuries of life from Detroit and Buffalo, which were not within the reach of the inmates of the fort, much of the monotony which would have attached to a society purely military, however gifted or sufficient to their mutual happiness, was thus avoided. His library was ample, and there was scarcely an author of celebrity (the world was not overrun with them in those days), either historian, essayist, or novelist, whose works were not to be found on the shelves of his massive black walnut bookcase, made by the hands of his own people from the most gigantic trees of that genus that could be found in Illinois. He had, moreover, for the amusement of the officers of the little garrison, prepared a billiard room, where many a rainy hour was passed, when the sports of the chase and of the prairie were shut out to them, and for those who asked not for either of these amusements, there was a tastefully, but not ostentatiously, furnished drawing-room, with one of the best pianos made in those days, which he had had imported at a great expense from the capital of the western world, and at which his amiable and only daughter generally presided. Margaret McKenzie had been born at Chicago, but having lost her mother at an early age, her father, profiting by one of his periodical visits to New York, had taken her with him for the purpose of receiving such an education as would enable her not only to grace a drawing-room, and make her a companion to a man of sense and refinement, but to fit her for those more domestic duties which the uncertain character of so secluded a life might occasionally render necessary, and where luxury and education alone were insufficient to a trading husband's views of happiness. After five years' absence, she had returned to Chicago, a girl of strong mind, warm affection, without the slightest affectation, and altogether so adapted in manner and education--for she eminently combined the useful with the ornamental--that her father was delighted with her, not less for the proficiency she had made in all that gives value to society, but because of the utter absence of all appearance of regret in abandoning the gay and enlivening scenes of the fascinating capital, in which she had spent so many years, for the still, dull monotony of the primeval forest in which her childhood had been passed. But here she was not doomed to "waste her sweetness on the desert air." There were only two officers in the garrison, besides Captain Headley, when Miss McKenzie returned to her native wilds--Doctor Von Voltenberg and Lieut. Elmsley. The third who made up the number of those attached to the company had a few days previously been shot and scalped by a party of Indians near Hardscrabble, while on his return to the fort from shooting the hen, or English grouse, of the prairie. His place was supplied by Ensign Ronayne, who had joined the garrison a few days after. Lieutenant Elmsley, captivated by the accomplishments and amiability of the fascinating Margaret, had offered her his heart and hand, and obtained her unreluctant promise speedily to share his barrack room, some twenty feet by twelve in dimensions. Meanwhile, in order to prove to him how well she was fitted to be a soldier's wife, not an article of food was ever placed before her father's almost constant visitors that did not in some measure pass under her supervision. Poor would have been the preparation of the grosser viands had not her directing voice presided; and, as for the tarts, and puddings, and custards, _et hoc genus omne_, no one who tasted could doubt that no hands but her own had operated in the fabrication; and the currant, the cranberry, the strawberry jelly, the peach, the plum, and the cherry preserve, and the currant and gooseberry wine! What, in the name of all that is delicate in gastronomy, could be more delicious or exhibit greater perfection of taste! So thought Von Voltenberg. He was in raptures. Such a wife, he thought, was all he wanted to his comfort; he could have dispensed, if necessary, with the more intellectual portions of the worth of Margaret McKenzie, but his imagination could not picture to itself perfection superior to that of an interesting and beautiful woman, manipulating among fruit, and sugar, and dough, until she had produced results far sweeter and much more prized by him than all the ornamental accomplishments in the world. It was even whispered that the Doctor, deeply sensible of the treasure he should obtain in the possession of so generally useful a wife, had absolutely proposed for her, but that she, without offending him, had rejected the honor. Whether it was so or not, no one knew positively, for Margaret McKenzie was not a woman to triumph in the humiliation of another, not because she considered it in any way a humiliation to a man that he did not so accord in sentiment with her as to render an union for life with him desirable, but because she knew it would, however absurdly, draw upon him the ill-natured comments of his companions. Be that as it may, whether or not he did offer and was rejected, it made no difference in his relations with the family. He ate her dinner, luxuriated over her preserves, and sipped her wine as plentifully as when first she had offered them to him; and they always were the best friends in the world. Soon after the first rumor of Von Voltenberg's offer--and if the secret was betrayed, it must have been by himself, during one of his moments of devotion to his favorite whiskey punch--it was generally known throughout the fort and neighborhood that Lieutenant Elmsley was to espouse Miss McKenzie, and that the ceremony was only delayed until the arrival of his the officer so recently killed and scalped, as has been stated, was now almost daily expected. At length he came, and soon afterwards Captain Headley, duly commissioned to perform the service, in the absence of a clergyman, married them, Ronayne assisting as groomsman, and Mrs. Ronayne--then Maria Heywood--as bridesmaid. This was two years previous to the marriage of the Virginian himself, and the occasion on which he first met her whom he subsequently so fervently adored. It was no privation to Mrs. Elmsley to forsake the almost luxurious ease of her father's house for the more sober accommodation of her husband's barrack-rooms. True, these were comfortably furnished, but still they had that primness which belongs ever to the quarters of a soldier; but from the moment of casting her destiny, she had determined in every sense to be a soldier's wife, and to inure herself from the first to the plainness incident to the condition. All she had transferred to the fort was her music and her books; and if at any moment caprice or inclination led her to desire a change, it was but to get up a little party, such as their limited social circle would permit, and transfer the amusements of the day to her father's more inviting mansion, where the servants had from herself learned all the art of management. Lively in disposition in the extreme, Mrs. Elmsley loved to promote the comfort of others; and as her husband possessed an equally happy temperament, they contributed not a little to enliven the circle of which, in point of gaiety, they might be said to be the centre. The owner of the establishment himself--Mr. McKenzie--was fond of good living, and having arrived at an age when continued prosperity permitted a relaxation from the toils of the earlier and cooler portions of the day, loved to indulge after dinner in a large arm-chair, placed in a veranda that overlooked the fort and country around, and where the light air from the lake, waving through the branches of the thin trees, swept with refreshing coolness along the broad corridor. He generally smoked the fragrant herbs of the Indians, mixed with tobacco, and sipped the delicious clarets with which his cellar was stocked, and which he kept, not for sale or barter, but for the exclusive use of himself and friends. Immediately after Winnebeg had left Captain Headley, he made his way to the mansion of Mr. McKenzie, whom he found, as usual, sitting in his veranda, enjoying his pipe and wine after dinner. The greeting was that of old friends long separated. They had known each other from their youth; and, while the Indian entertained the highest respect for the character and opinions of Mr. McKenzie, the latter in turn reposed the most unbounded confidence in the sincerity and integrity of the chief. "Well, Winnebeg, my old friend, where do you come from? Where have you been all this time? I thought you had deserted us altogether. But I recollect now; Captain Headley sent you with despatches to Detroit. What news do you bring back? But first try a glass of claret. Harry!" --calling out to a son of one of his voyageurs, who acted in his household in the capacity of his private servant--"bring another chair and a wine-glass." "Yes, come from Detroit, Missa Kenzie," replied the Indian gravely, as he seated himself, took his tomahawk from his side, filled it, and began to smoke; "bring him bad news for you--for all." "How is this, Winnebeg?" exclaimed his listener, putting down the glass which he had raised to his lips. "What bad news do you mean?" "Leave him all dis," he observed, as he swept his hand towards the fort and the outhouses and buildings containing Mr. McKenzie's property--the profits of a long life passed in a region to which he had become attached from very habit. "Leave what! my property? I do not understand you, Winnebeg; speak out! What are you driving at, man? What necessity is there for all this?" "English fight him Yankee now--big war begun. By by English come, take him Chicago!" "The war begun!" said Mr. McKenzie, rising in astonishment from his seat; "do you mean to say, Winnebeg, that the English and Americans are actually at war? that they have been fighting at Detroit? How do you know it?" "How him know it?" returned the chief; "look here, Winnebeg fight him English," and baring his thigh, just below the left hip, he showed the scar of a superficial flesh wound still encrusted with blood. "Where did you get that, Winnebeg, and how long since?" "Two week," he replied, holding up as many fingers, "near Canard Bridge, close, to Malden, Canada--General Hull angry--say Winnebeg no business fight--carry him despatches." "General Hull! How long has General Hull been there? Where, then, is Colonel Miller, of the fourth regiment, who commanded the other day?" "Colonel Miller Detroit too; but Hull big officer--great chief--come with plenty sogers--send Winnebeg with despatch to Gubbenor here." "Indeed! This is important; I must hasten to see Captain Headley, and learn from him the contents. Alas! my good friend Winnebeg, this news may, and I fear will, be the cause of my utter ruin. Of course, you have no idea of what the despatch contains?" "Yes, Missa Kenzie, Winnebeg know. Winnebeg wish to speak to you about despatch--say go directly to Fort Wayne." "The troops ordered to Fort Wayne, and all we possess left wholly unprotected. This is indeed a calamity," said the trader, raising his hand to his now thoughtful brow. "You no take him goods on pack-horses to Fort Wayne?" remarked the Indian inquiringly. "Impossible, Winnebeg! I might take a few packages of peltries, but the great bulk must be left behind; yet it seems to me folly to go to Fort Wayne. We shall be cut off before we get there." "Just so," returned Winnebeg. "See him Gubbenor, Missa McKenzie; tell him not go. Stay here--fort strong--plenty powder--plenty guns--you tell him so." "Most assuredly I will; and if he adopts the most prudent course, he will remain. With your strong force without and ours within, we may have a fair chance with any force that may be brought against us, whereas heaven only knows what may not be the result if we attempt so long a march through the wilderness, alive with Indians in the interest of the British. Good by, Winnebeg; you will excuse me, I am sure, for there must be no time lost in consulting with Captain Headley. Make yourself at home, and call out to Harry for anything you may want. That claret will not hurt you after your long journey; it is pleasant to the taste, and not very strong." "Tankee, Massa Kenzie; Winnebeg go to Pottowatomie camp--not been dere yet. Gubbenor say no tell him Ingins war begun till hold council to-morrow. Winnebeg sure him know it free, four days." "Why, do you think that, Winnebeg, since there has been no intelligence of the kind since your arrival?" "See him plenty Pottowatomie here in Detroit while Winnebeg wait for despatches." "Indeed; but they may not have returned." "Don't know--maybe no, maybe yes." "Well, to-morrow the matter will be no secret, Winnebeg; and some decision will no doubt be added. In the meantime, you will be able to learn whether anything is known in the encampment of this unwelcome news, and, if so, what your people think of it." "Kenzie," said the chief, taking and warmly grasping the trader's hand, "all Pottowatomies tink like Winnebeg--no go to Fort Wayne."	{ "id": "31745" }
11	None	When Mr. McKenzie entered the fort, it was with a clouded brow and an oppressed heart. At the gate he met his son-in-law, Lieutenant Elmsley, who, while burning with impatience to be near and console his unfortunate friend, was without the power to leave his post, and in his vexation and annoyance, kept pacing rapidly up and down in front of the guard-house. "What is the matter, Elmsley--what disturbs you so unusually?" "Can you ask, sir," said the officer, "or have you not heard the dreadful news?" "Yes, I have heard it, but did not suppose it had as yet been generally known." "The whole garrison knows it. It could not be concealed. The poor fellow rushed like a madman to announce it. He fell fainting to the ground, and was carried to his room, where, even at this moment, Mrs. Headley and Margaret are attending him." "Attending whom?" demanded Mr. McKenzie with an air of astonishment, "and to what are you alluding?" "Why, Ronayne, of course; to whom do you allude if not to him? Have you not heard that, while riding out with his wife and Von Voltenberg this afternoon, they were intercepted by a party of hostile Indians, and poor Maria taken prisoner." "God bless my soul, is it possible? This is terrible, indeed. Are we then already surrounded by hostile Indians, and is the war already brought to our door?" "War! what war?" asked the subaltern, "and what has this fearful piece of treachery to do with open war--war with whom?" "And have you not heard that England and the United States are openly engaged in hostilities--has Winnebeg not revealed this?" "Not a word," replied Lieutenant Elmsley, astonished, in his turn, at the information. "At another moment, and on an indifferent occasion, this mutual misunderstanding might afford room for pleasantry," continued Mr. McKenzie with a grave smile; "but it is not so. Winnebeg, I see, has been true to his trust; and although cognizant of the nature of the despatches, revealed the information to no one but myself, whom he regarded as having not only a right to possess it at the earliest moment, but as being the most proper person to advise with the commanding officer, at the earliest moment, on the measures to be adopted. I am here for that purpose; think you I shall find him alone, for I wouldn't enter upon the subject before Mrs. Headley." "I have just said that Mrs. Headley and Margaret are in attendance on the unfortunate Ronayne," replied Elmsley. "You will, therefore, be sure to find him alone, and no doubt busied in the formation of plans of operations consequent on this intelligence." "Recollect, not a word of this until it is officially revealed. I shall not even let Captain Headley know that I am aware of the facts, but simply state that, having heard he was in receipt of despatches, I had come to know if there was any news of importance. But, of one thing I would warn you, Elmsley; there will be a council of war to-morrow, and I could wish that your view of the subject may lead you to prefer defending the fort to the last extremity in preference to a long and uncertain retreat to Fort Wayne, which I know is suggested in the despatch." "I shall have no difficulty in arriving at that decision," returned the officer of the guard, "for common sense only is necessary to show the advantages of one course over the other. In the meantime, I shall evince no knowledge of what you have conveyed to me, until the hour of council. Did no other consideration weigh with me, I would oppose a movement which cuts us off from all hope of restoring the dear lost wife of Ronayne to her distracted husband." "Good bye, God bless you," answered the trader, as he moved towards the quarters of Captain Headley. "Then," mused Elmsley, when alone, "are the forebodings of that fusty old number of the National Intelligencer which I have thumbed for hours over and over again for the last three months at length finally realized--and war was come at last; well be it so! My chief anxiety is for Margaret. Would that she and all the rest of the weak women in this fortress were safe within the fortifications of Detroit; but all evil seems to be coming upon us at once." "Ah! Mr. McKenzie, I am very glad to see you," said Captain Headley, rising as the trader entered the room set apart for his library and the transaction of military official business. "Take a seat. You could not have paid me a more opportune visit." "I had understood that Winnebeg had just returned with despatches from Detroit," remarked the trader, "and am come to learn the news." "Bad enough," answered Capt. Headley, gravely, as he handed to him the despatch from General Hull. "Read that!" Mr. McKenzie attentively perused the document. It was evidently of a nature not to please him, for as he read he knit his brow, bit his lip, and uttered more than one ejaculatory "pish!" "And what do you intend to do, Captain Headley?" he demanded, as he twisted the paper in his fingers impatiently. "Stay, my dear sir," said the commanding officer, anxiously, "do not thus disfigure or slight the general's official--I must preserve it as the only voucher for the course I shall in all probability pursue." "What is that course?" asked Mr. McKenzie; "surely, Captain Headley, you will not strictly follow the letter of these instructions? You are not compelled to do so. It is left optional with yourself; and there cannot be a question as to the great disadvantage attending a retreat." "Pardon me," said the commanding--officer, with something of the hauteur of one sensible of his own personal responsibility; "I consider every paragraph in this official as a direct order. The only sentence that would appear to leave a certain option with myself is where reference is made to the _practicability_ of retreat. Now, I can see nothing impracticable in it. We have nothing to apprehend, with a body of five hundred brave Pottowatomies for our escort, while, if we continue here we must expect a strong British force speedily upon us." "Let me give you a word of counsel before this question is publicly discussed," returned the trader seriously; "I know the Indians well, and how easily they are influenced by circumstances. Friendly as these Pottowatomies now seem to be, the influence of the majority of the tribes who have joined the British forces may soon change them from friends into foes." "My life on their fidelity," returned Captain Headley, with unusual energy. "While Winnebeg continues with them, I feel that I should dishonor by doubting him." "Do not mistake me," returned the trader. "Your faith in the honesty of Winnebeg, Capt. Headley, is not greater than my own--nay, not so great, perhaps, for I have known and always regarded him from his boyhood; but all the Pottowatomies are not Winnebegs, neither are the warriors so completely under the control of their chiefs as to permit their counsels alone to influence their actions." "You do not mean to say that you have reason to doubt any of these people, Mr. McKenzie?" remarked the captain, seriously and inquiringly. "Not at all; but I wish to show how much more imprudent it would be to trust to them than to ourselves; reinforcements may arrive in time if they are sent for immediately, and should they not, it will be time enough to think of evacuating when our Indian spies bring us notice of the preparations of the British to attack us." "And should they arrive before our retreat is begun, then must, we be driven into an unequal contest, for the order of the secretary at war expressly declares that no post shall be surrendered without a battle. It is evident that the fort cannot be maintained against a regular force; therefore, the garrison, or they who survive the assault, must be made prisoners in any case; whereas, by retiring now, we not only prevent the advance of the enemy, to the manifest ruin of yourself and other settlers in the neighborhood, but carry succor to Fort Wayne. This is the resolution I have taken. After first consulting with my officers on public parade in the morning, when our position shall be fully made known to all, I shall meet the Indians in council. The necessary directions have been conveyed to Winnebeg." "I can only regret, sir," returned Mr. McKenzie, with great gravity of speech and deportment, "that your determination should have been formed before consulting with your officers. In a case of this kind, involving the interests of all, it becomes, I should conceive, not a mere courtesy but a duty, that the opinions and advice of all competent to judge should be taken." "You need not be alarmed, Mr. McKenzie; I perfectly know how to act on this occasion. The opinions of my officers shall be taken, even as I have taken yours. If you have anything further to offer, therefore, I shall be happy to hear it." "Captain Headley," returned the trader, rising with dignity, and taking up his hat, "I have nothing further of advice to offer to one so confident in his own judgment; but bear in mind what I now tell you, that if you follow the letter of these instructions rather than the spirit, you will have cause to repent it. I make not this remark from mere considerations of my own personal interests, which, of course, will be greatly affected by this abandonment of the post, but because I sincerely believe that a defence will entail less disaster than a march through the vast wilderness we shall have to traverse, hampered as we shall be with women, less able to bear up against fatigue, privation, and disaster. As the Indian orators say, 'I have spoken!' and now, sir, I have the honor of wishing you a very good day." "Well, what says he--what does he intend?" asked Lieutenant Elmsley, who was lingering near the gate, waiting for the return of his father-in-law. "He is an obstinate, conceited ramrod," returned the latter, peevishly; "but you will know all to-morrow, for he really intends to do you the honor to consult you in the morning." "But what is his decision? You have not said." "To give up everything to the Indians, and retreat forthwith." "Can it be possible?" exclaimed the officer, perfectly indignant at the communication. "Even so. Alas, for the poor women, and the ladies particularly! what a march for them; but I go, meanwhile, to 'set my house in order.' Well, Elmsley, all I had garnered up through a quarter of a century of incessant toil, as a heritage for you and yours, will, I fear, be utterly lost." "God bless you," said the officer, grasping his hand, "think not of that. There are far weightier considerations at stake than those of a merely pecuniary nature. The lesson Margaret has taught herself--to be contented to live on a soldier's pay--will not have altogether been thrown away upon her. The loss of her fortune is the least calamity to be dreaded." "Nobly said, Elmsley. Well are you worthy of her!" He warmly shook the hand that still lingered in his own, and then turned the angle of the gateway leading down to his own dwelling.	{ "id": "31745" }
12	None	"For we to-morrow hold divided council." --_Richard III. _ On the following morning there was unusual commotion in the fort, and, notwithstanding the great sultriness of the weather, both officers and men appeared in the full costume of the regiment from an early hour. The bright and silken flag, worked by the hands of Mrs. Ronayne, had been hoisted by Corporal Nixon's own hands, for he knew that not a man of the garrison would look upon it without vividly interesting himself in the fate of her who had worked it, and desiring to be a volunteer of the party he fully expected would be sent out that morning to attempt her rescue. Already had he decided on five of the number who, besides himself, would be selected by Ronayne on the occasion, and these were Collins, Phillips, Weston, Green, and Watson. He knew that an early parade had been ordered by Captain Headley, and as this was a rare occurrence, he could assign no other cause for it than the desire the commanding officer entertained to send off the little expedition as speedily as possible. Precisely at eight o'clock the roll of the drum brought forth from their respective barrack rooms some sixty men, composing the strength of the little fort, with the exception of the invalids and convalescents, some fifteen in number. But even of these, such as could find strength to drag themselves, came forth and lingered in the rear of the slowly forming little line, while women and children gathered in groups near the guard-house, anxious to see who would be the fortunate ones selected for the recovery of the much-loved wife of their favorite. A few moments later, and the officers were seen approaching from their several quarters to join the parade. Captain Headley, dressed in his newest uniform, was the first on the ground; then came the Doctor, then Elmsley, for, on that occasion, the guard at the gate had been left without an officer; and lastly, much to the surprise of all, Ronayne. As he approached, all eyes were fixed upon him, and every breast acknowledged a sympathy in the pallor of his now unmoved brow, that in more than one instance moulded itself into a tear it was impossible to suppress. As for the women, they held their aprons to their eyes and wept outright. On gaining his company, the Virginian touched his cap as usual to the commander of the parade, and, passing close by Elmsley, whose eyes he saw riveted upon him with much interest, he significantly grasped his hand. "Mr. Elmsley," ordered the commandant, "let the company be wheeled inwards, to form a hollow square." The order was promptly obeyed, and within the square stood the little group of officers. "Gentlemen and men!" began Captain Headley, as he unfolded a despatch, "it is on no common occasion that we find ourselves assembled this morning." Every eye was again turned upon Ronayne. The looks of the men seemed to say, "We know it, and we are prepared to do our utmost to repair the evil." "There is not a man of us, your honor," said Corporal Collins, "who is not ready to volunteer to go out and recover Mrs. Ronayne, or die in the attempt. You have but to say the word." "Silence, sir! How dare you presume to speak in the ranks! Corporal Collins, from this day you lose your stripes,--a fit example, truly, for a non-commissioned officer to set to the men. Mr. Elmsley, you will see to this." The lieutenant gravely touched his hat, but replied not. "It is not for this purpose that I have assembled you," resumed Captain Headley. "Much as is to be deplored the unfortunate occurrence of yesterday, matters of deeper importance must engage our attention now." Many of the men shrugged their shoulders, and looked their discontent. They could not imagine what he meant, or what could be of more importance to them than the recovery of the lost lady. The parade was once more called to attention, when Captain Headley proceeded to read to them the document that has been so often before the reader. "You see, gentlemen and men," he continued, when he had finished the perusal, "how intricate is our position, and how little choice there is left to us to decide in the matter. It must be but mere form to ask your opinions on the subject, for the directions of the General are so positive that our duty is implicitly to follow them. Mr. Elmsley, as the oldest officer, what is your opinion?" All had heard with the greatest surprise the unexpected communication, but there were few who were of the opinion of their commander, that their safety would be best insured by a retreat. The men, of course, were not expected to have a voice in the consultation, but it was desirable that they should hear what their respective officers had to say, and therefore the subject had been opened to the latter in their presence. "My opinion, Captain Headley," returned his lieutenant, "can be of little weight in a matter which you appear to have decided already; however, as it is asked in presence of the whole garrison, in presence of the whole garrison will I give it. On no account should we retire from this post. Our force, it is true, is small, but we have stout hearts and willing hands, and, with four good bastions to protect our flanks of defence, we may make a better resistance than it appears they have done at Mackinaw, should the British deem it worth their while to come so far out of their way to attack us. My own impression is that they will not, for there is nothing to be gained by the conquest of a post which commands no channel of communication, and therefore offers no advantage to compensate for the sacrifice of life necessary to take it. Certainly, nothing will be attempted unless Detroit itself should fall. The British forces will have too much to occupy them there to think of weakening by dividing the troops they have in that quarter. On the other hand, should we undertake a protracted march to Fort Wayne, encumbered as we are with women, and children, and invalids, there is but too great reason to infer that parties of British Indians, apprised of our march, will hasten to the attack, and then our position in the heart of the woods will be hopeless indeed. These, sir, are my views on the subject nor can I conceive how a man of common discernment can entertain any other." "Mr. Elmsley, I merely asked you, in courtesy, to pronounce your own opinion, not indirectly to pass censure on those of your superiors. I have stated not only my opinion, but my decision. Even were I desirous to remain I could not, for our provisions are nearly consumed." "Why, captain," said Phillips, speaking from his place in the ranks, "I know that we have cattle enough to last the troops six months." "Who speaks? Who dares to question my assertion?" thundered Capt. Headley. "We may have cattle enough," he added, in a milder tone, feeling that some explanation was due to the men generally, "but we are deficient in salt to cure the meat when killed." "A sheer pretence!" muttered another voice not far from Phillips; "where there is a will, there is a way." "Who spoke?" demanded Captain Headley, angrily. "I did, sir," answered Collins; "you have taken the stripes from me, you can do no more." "Drummers, into the square!" ordered the captain. "Gentlemen, before we proceed further in this matter, this man must be tried for insubordination--a drum head court martial immediately. Sergeant Nixon, go to the orderly's room and bring the articles of war." "Nay, Captain Headley," interposed the sergeant, "poor Collins!" "What, sir! do you, too, disobey?" "No, sir," returned the non-commissioned officer, respectfully, "but I thought when brave men would so soon be wanted for the defence of those colors, your honor could not be serious in your threat to score their backs; and a braver and a better soldier than Corporal Collins is nowhere to be found in the American ranks. He is excited, sir, by the loss of Mrs.--" "Stay, Nixon," interrupted Ensign Ronayne, "not another word. Captain Headley," he resumed, sternly, turning round to his commandant, "if Corporal Collins is punished, you will have to punish me also, for I swear that be but a hand laid upon him, and I will incur such guilt of insubordination as must compel you to place me under arrest. This severity, sir, at such a moment, is misplaced, and not to be borne." "Mr. Ronayne, depend upon it, this conduct on your part shall not pass unnoticed. When the proper time arrives, expect to be put upon your trial for this most unofficer-like interference with my authority. At present, I can ill afford to spare your services, and placing you in arrest now would only be to affect the interests of my command. When we reach Fort Wayne, you may rely upon a proper representation of your behavior. Private Collins, retire to your place in the ranks." "Reach Fort Wayne!" returned the Virginian, emphatically. "Mark me, sir, we shall never reach Fort Wayne. Captain Headley," he continued, more calmly, "look at those colors; do you not think we shall find more spirit to defend them while floating there (and he pointed to them), calling upon us, as it were, to remember the day when first they were unfurled before the British Lion, than when carrying them off encased and strapped with the old kettles and pans of the company upon some raw-boned old pack-horse, as if ashamed to show themselves to an enemy." "And those colors especially," ventured Sergeant Nixon, emboldened by the warm language in his defence used by the high-spirited young officer. "They are the same worked by the hands of Mrs. Ronayne, and run up there on the day of her own marriage, on the fourth of July. I hoisted them with my own hands this morning, because I believed we were going out to the rescue of that dear lady, and, in my mind, I can only say that it would be much easier to send out half the force for her, with a few Indians for scouts to point out where the red devils are, and then, when we have got her safe, to return here and defend the place, or perish under the ruins." "God bless her!" exclaimed nearly half the men, turning their eyes towards the rustling flag, which a slight and rising breeze now displayed in all its graceful beauty of color and proportion. "Sure enough she worked it, and we are ready to die under the same, if she only be here to see us." "God bless her!" repeated the women in the distance. "If our prayers could be of any use, our husbands should run all risk from the Indians, so that we might see her sweet face again. Oh, let them go, captain!" Despite all the determination he had formed, Ronayne could not stand this new feature in the scene unmoved. He drew his handkerchief hastily from the bosom of his uniform, and carried it to his eyes. The recollection of the fourth of July, so recently passed, came with irresistible force upon his memory, and even while his own heart was made more desolate, this universal manifestation of the regard in which his wife was held affected him deeply. "Nay, Mr. Ronayne, rather than exhibit this emotion before the men, had you not better retire?" remarked Captain Headley, in a low tone; "their excitement, too, will the sooner subside when you are gone." "Sir, if you assume a weakness in me," returned the officer, haughtily, as he removed the handkerchief from his eyes, "you are wrong. I came here not to advert to the past, but to do my duty. I confess I am touched by the honest and noble feeling of my comrades, but nothing more. No entreaty of mine will be urged in support of their prayer. I am prepared to sink my individual loss in consideration of the general danger." All the men were taken by surprise. They had wondered from the first at seeing Ronayne come upon parade, with a manner so different from that which he had shown on the preceding evening; but they had taken it for granted that he knew of an intended sortie, and, relying on its successful issue, was only waiting for the order from Captain Headley. A loud shout was now heard from the common, and presently one of the two sentinels that had been stationed at the gate walked quickly up with his firelock at the recover, and reported to Captain Headley that the Indians were mustering strongly about their encampment, and seemingly more painted than usual. "This is as it should be," replied the commanding officer. "The day of council should be a gala day, whatever the occasion, and doubtless they are making preparations accordingly. It is well, however, that I have changed the hour of our consultation from twelve to eight. We have now more leisure for our own preparations." "And these are, Captain Headley, permit me to ask?" remarked Mr. McKenzie, who had stood at some distance from the parade, without interfering with the preceding discussion. "To distribute, sir, as directed, the stores belonging to the United States then dismantle the fort, and depart at once for Fort Wayne. Those noble and faithful Pottowatomies, who are now assembling for the council, will bear us bravely through." One or two shots were now heard from the gate. The men were startled; still more so when they heard a loud mocking laugh succeed to the report. Several of them turned their heads and looked around. They saw that the flag, then wheeling and tossing, as if indignant at the outrage, had been cut by the bullets. The Indians had never before attempted this. "That, sir, is the work of your friendly Pottowatomies," remarked Ronayne, With a sneer; "their friendship is truly very remarkable at this particular moment. They show their regard for us by insulting the American flag in a way in which they never did before." "March off your guard immediately, Mr. Elmsley; let the sentries be posted, and all remain armed until further orders; yet mark, both officers and men, no distrust must be openly shown. Do not let it appear that the inconsiderate act of one or two young men has raised your unfounded and ungenerous suspicions of a whole tribe. It is not that I have any doubt as to their truth, but my policy has ever been to show them we are never unprepared for an emergency. Corporal Collins, you will resume your Stripes." In obedience to his order, the guard was relieved at the gate, and the whole of the men made to linger about the parade, preparatory to the hour of council.	{ "id": "31745" }
13	None	While Lieutenant Elmsley was occupied as acting adjutant--a duty which he was called upon to perform, as well as that of regimental subaltern--Ronayne sauntered mechanically towards the gate. Notwithstanding the seeming indifference he had at first manifested in regard to the absence of his wife, there were few among the men who, whatever their surprise at his language, were not afterwards made sensible that he was profoundly affected; and as he somewhat sternly passed each soldier on his way, they silently and with unusual deference--a deference that indicated their own strong sympathy--touched their caps to him. Arrived at the gate, he looked long and anxiously, almost incessantly, even as one without an object, towards Hardscrabble, the forest road to which was dotted, here and there, with occasional openings, enabling the eye to distinguish the serpentine course of the silver river. All around and before him were the lounging Indians to whom allusion has just been made. There appeared to be unusual excitement in their manner, and groups of the younger warriors particularly were to be seen in animated conversation. He was about to retire from the gate and join Lieutenant Elmsley, who had now nearly finished distributing his guard, but anxious to take one last look of the neighborhood of Hardscrabble, his eyes suddenly fell upon the outline of a horse just emerging from a wooded part of the road upon the plain, and partially concealed by the figure of an Indian that stood at the side of the horse. He looked again--the distance was too great to enable him to judge distinctly, but he felt convinced the rider was a woman. There was A telescope kept in the bastion near the flagstaff, for the use principally of the officer of the guard. He walked rapidly to this, and drew the instrument to its proper focus, but when he looked in the direction in which he had before gazed nothing was to be seen. Vexed and annoyed beyond all measure, he descended again rapidly to the gate, but with no better success. He could not doubt that it was his wife whom he had seen, yet unwilling to breathe the knowledge even to himself, his heart was a prey to the most contradictory feelings. In a few moments, however, the horse he had before remarked again appeared emerging from the same point of road, but this time he no longer carried a woman but a warrior, so that all means of identifying the former were denied to him. But still there was evidence sufficient. The horse was evidently Maria's, though with its tail twisted and plaited as for disguise; and as Ronayne with the glass brought fully to bear upon him, saw the rider throw over his shoulders and fasten round his neck, a blanket, and place on his head a colored calico turban, such as was in common use among the Pottowatomies, he felt satisfied that it was the same youth who, in the disguise of a Miami, had pressed him so closely in the chase of the preceding day. Strange to say, he entertained no feeling of enmity towards the youth, even when he turned away with feelings of mingled bitterness and mortification, and silently ascended the bastion to replace the glass. Never was his mind more unsettled--never had he entertained so perfect a sentiment of indifference for everything around him. It was very well to talk of pride, and scorn, and fortitude, but existence to him had become a dull weight, a rayless future, and nothing would have pleased him better at that moment, than the sudden announcement of a British force being at hand. In the stirring excitement of action only could he hope to find distraction, and the ball aimed at his heart, the sword pointed to his throat, he would have scarcely deemed it worth his while to seek to turn aside. The roar of artillery and of musquetry would, he felt, be music to his ears, provided it shut out from memory the recollection of what had been. But the idea of a long and monotonous march to Fort Wayne, even provided it should be effected without interruption, bringing with it at each moment recollections of the past was a horror not to be endured; and he determined, by every means in his power, to oppose the resolution of the commanding officer to the uttermost. He was already under the ban of one threatened court-martial, and it mattered little to him what steps Captain Headley might adopt in regard to him for the future. He had passed some moments in these reflections--fitful, varied, and broken as those of a disconnected dream--when turning his eyes again towards the gate where the sentinels had been posted, he saw one of them bring his musket to the charge as if to prevent the ingress of some one seeking admittance. Struck by the circumstance, Ronayne hastened below, and as he advanced he saw the same sentinel pick up a piece of paper, the superscription of which he was endeavoring to examine. Before he had time to do this, however, the officer had come up, and the sentinel promptly handed it to him. "Good God! what does this mean?" It was the handwriting of his wife. Ronayne looked forward upon the common, and saw at about a hundred yards before him, and retiring rapidly, the horseman whom he had just before remarked. There was no necessity for asking any questions. The whole thing explained itself. "What can she have to say to me?" he mused to himself, as he broke the bark string with which the note was tied; his competitor of yesterday, too, the bearer! Hastily he unfolded it. It contained these few words, hastily written in pencil on a leaf torn from her memorandum book--"Go not to the council!" He examined the paper closely--he could find no more. The feelings of Ronayne, on reading these few words, traced by his wife's well-remembered hand, may be comprehended. All the stubbornness of his indifference was shaken; and sinking every consideration of self he found a strange, wild pleasure in the knowledge that she was free from personal restraint, and had power to command the services of those whom she willed to do her bidding. What the meaning of the caution was, in regard to the council, he could not divine, neither wherefore it had been couched in such laconic terms; but it was evident that, as the new wife of Wau-nan-gee, she had obtained information of some danger of which they in the garrison knew not, and that the recollection of those she had left behind was not so weakened as to prevent her from imparting to those most interested what she had learned. Feeling the necessity of communicating instantly with Elmsley on the subject, yet scarcely knowing how, without exposing Maria, to account to him for the manner in which he had received the singular warning, he sought his friend, who had now finally disposed of his men at their several posts, and told him that, without feeling himself at liberty to reveal to him the medium through which the suspicion had been awakened in his breast, he had every reason to believe that some treachery was intended at the council called by Headley, and that he had come to consult with him accordingly. With infinite good taste and tact, Elmsley utterly abstained from making the slightest allusion to Mrs. Ronayne, not only because he had perceived that her husband did not seem to encourage any approach to a subject which gave him pain, but because he felt that the consolation of those words, on an occasion of such bereavement, was rather a mockery than a sympathy. Without, therefore, making the slightest allusion to the past, he answered gravely-- "If you have reason to apprehend this, Ronayne, we can take our precautions accordingly. As the whole object and intent of the council is to _seem_ to hold a consultation as to the course we ought to pursue in this emergency, whereas it is simply in fact to enable Headley, who is becoming stubborn and pompous as of old, to tell the chiefs that he intends at once to distribute the public stores among themselves and warriors, and then march with little more than the men can carry on their backs; as this only, I repeat, is his object in holding a council at all, I see no great reason why either you or I, who have already given our opinions on the matter, should attend it. We may do the 'state some service' by remaining within." "Would it not be well," returned the Virginian thoughtfully, "to give Headley some hint of false dealing on the part of the Pottowatomies? not such as to lead him to believe that any direct intelligence has been received of that fact, but simply that some loose hints have been thrown out." "My dear fellow," returned the lieutenant, with a faint smile, "do you think there is anything under the sun--scarcely even the tomahawk in his own brain--that could persuade Headley to mistrust his pet Pottowatomies? No, not even his long experience of the treachery of the race--not all his knowledge of the fickleness of their character--of the facility with which they turn over in a single day from the American to the British flag--would convince him." "And yet," pursued Ronayne, musingly, "they know nothing of the war. What could be their motives, where their immediate interests will be rather retarded than promoted by the maintenance of peaceful relations?" "How do we know what passes without the fort? They may have had their runners and news brought to them of the war before Winnebeg returned." A sudden thought flashed across the brain of Ronayne. Could tidings of the event in any way be connected with the flight of his wife? and had that, at the instigation of Wau-nan-gee, accelerated the moment of her departure? But Elmsley knew not what _he_ knew, and he offered no remark on the subject. "It wants now an hour," resumed Lieutenant Elmsley, looking at his watch, "to the time named for the council which is to be held on the glacis immediately in front of the southern bastion, and, therefore, immediately under the flag. Join me here then, Ronayne, and I shall have made the necessary arrangements. All the responsibility I take upon myself, my friend, not only as your senior, but as one who is perfectly willing to take the lion's share of the anger that has been showered so plentifully upon both this day. Now I must hasten and regulate the '_imperium in imperio_' for I am afraid that if, as you say, we trust alone to Headley's reading of Pottowatomie faith, we shall have rather a Flemish account of satisfaction to render to ourselves. Goodbye. In half an hour--not later." Ronayne, having nothing in the meantime to do, sauntered towards his own apartments. When he entered his chamber, Catharine, the faithful servant of his wife, was leaning along the foot of the bed, her face buried in the covering and sobbing violently. The depth of her sorrow was anguish to him. He shuffled his feet along the floor to make her sensible of his presence. The girl heard him; she looked up--her face and eyes were so swollen with tears that she could scarcely see. She started to her feet, and raising her apron with both hands to her eyes, left the room sobbing even more violently than before. "Poor girl--poor girl!" murmured Ronayne, while a tear forced itself into his own; "indeed I feel for your grief; but it will soon subside; you will soon be well, while I ---" He threw himself, dressed as he was, even without removing his sword, upon, the bed--he took out Maria's hasty note--he read the words "Go not to the council" at least fifty times over. There was not the minutest particle of each letter of each word that he did not typify in his heart. Her delicate and expressive, yet faithless hand had traced the whole. It was enough. It was the last relic of herself.	{ "id": "31745" }
14	None	"I would have some conference with you that concerns you nearly." --_Much Ado About Nothing. _ When Ronayne rejoined his friend, all the preparations he intended making had been completed, and Mrs. Elmsley having despatched a servant to say that breakfast was waiting for them, the latter, after having stationed Corporal Collins at the gate to give early notice of the approach of the Indians, linked his arm in that of Ronayne, and conducted him to his rooms. It was, of course, the first time the Virginian had seen Mrs. Elmsley since the preceding evening, when, with Mrs. Headley, she had been a pained witness of the desolating grief she so deeply shared herself. The swollen eyelid and the pale cheek attested that little sleep had visited her eyes during the subsequent part of the night; and when she affectionately took the proffered hand of Ronayne, whose composedness she was greatly surprised and pleased to witness, there was a melancholy expression of sympathy in her glance that tried all the powers of self-possession of the latter. How different was that breakfast table from what it had been on former occasions! How often, both before and after their marriage, had Ronayne and his wife partaken of the hospitable board, with hearts light as gratified love could render them, and exhilarated by the witty tallies of the amiable hostess, who, full of life and gaiety herself, sought ever to render her more sedate friend as exuberant in spirit as herself. How graceful the manner in which she recommended her exquisitely-made coffee, her deliciously-dried bear and venison hams, the luxuriously-flavored and slightly-smoked white fish from the Superior and the Sault; and with what art she allured the appetite from one delicacy to another, until scarcely an article of food at her table was left untasted. And yet all this, not in a spirit of ostentatious display of her own aptitude in these somewhat sensual enjoyments, but from a desire, by the exercise of those little niceties of attention which insensibly win upon the heart, to please, to gratify--to make sensible that she sought to please and to gratify--those whom both herself and her husband so deeply regarded. The breakfast was now a hurried one. It had not been prepared with the usual care. The directing hand of the mistress seemed not to be visible--it was heavy as the hearts of those who now partook of it, and even the never failing claret, of which Elmsley compelled his friend to swallow several goblets, had lost more than half its power to exhilarate; for, oh! there was one of that once happy party gone for ever from their sight, and the solemn and restrained manner of each was sufficient evidence of the deep void her absence had created. It was a relief to all when Corporal Collins hurriedly appeared at the door and announced that the greater portion of the warriors of the Pottowatomies, with Winnebeg at their head, were now advancing towards the glacis, where a large awning, open at the sides, had been erected soon after the morning's parade. "Winnebeg at their head, did you say, Collins?" "Yes, sir, Winnebeg, and with him--for I know them as well--Wau-ban-see, Black Partridge, To-pee nee-be, Kee-po-tah, and that tall, scowling chief that never looks friendly, Pee-to-tum. They are all in their war dresses, and their young men as well." "I am glad, at least, Winnebeg is with them," remarked Elmsley to his friend. "Whatever may be purposed by the others, neither he nor Black Partridge can have any knowledge of it. Has Serjeant Nixon had that three-pounder run up into the upper floor of the block-house, Collins?" "They are at work at it now, sir. I expect it will be all ready by the time your honor gets there, Mr. Elmsley." "You are on guard at the gate?" "I have been where you posted me, sir." "Good! Is Captain Headley gone out yet?" "Not yet, your honor. I saw him, as I came along, go towards Doctor Von Voltenberg's rooms." "We had better wait then, Ronayne, until he goes forth to assemble the council; otherwise he may interfere and play the devil with us all, by countermanding my arrangements." "And do you really mean to say that you would permit him to do so, Elmsley? I am sure I would not; for, if ever disobedience to orders could be justified it is on this occasion." "I do not exactly say that I would, Ronayne; but it is just as well to avoid clashing if possible. I confess I am no particular advocate, where the thing can be avoided, of wilfully and deliberately thwarting the authority of a commanding officer. But once he is out of the fort I shall be in command." Another non-commissioned officer entered. It was Weston, who, that morning, had been promoted to the dignity of lance corporal, and the commanding officer's immediate orderly. "Lieutenant Elmsley, the captain desires me to say that he is waiting for you and Mr. Ronayne to accompany the doctor and himself to the council." "Then," said the subaltern addressed, "you will give my compliments, Weston, to Captain Headley, and say to him that both Mr. Ronayne and myself decline attending that council--that we do not think it prudent to leave the fort without an officer, and that we conceive that having given our opinions on the matter for which the council is called, we can be of much more service here than there. Now mind, Weston, you will deliver this message respectfully, and in a manner befitting a soldier to his superior." "Certainly, sir," replied the corporal, as he touched his, cap and withdrew. "You will have a visit from himself next, Elmsley," remarked his wife. "But why refuse to attend the council? There is no enemy near us, and surely half an hour's absence on the glacis cannot much endanger the safety of the garrison, surrounded as we are by friendly Indians." "Margaret, my love," said her husband, taking her hand affectionately, "we must trust nothing to chance. No one can tell what may not occur in the interim of our absence. Who, for instance, could have foretold yesterday morning that we should be as we are to-day!" "True," said Ronayne, as he paced the room with sudden and bitter excitement; "who could have told yesterday that we should be as we are to-day? There is nothing certain in life--no, nothing--all is vanity." This painful change of feeling and of manner, from the self-control so recently imposed upon himself, had not been without its cause. The tenderness of his friends brought back to his memory the recollection of many an hour of happiness passed in that room--when the same manifestations of affection had been exhibited in presence of the wife. But where was she now--where was his own share in that happiness which, for the first time, he almost half envied in his friend? The door was again opened, and in walked not Captain Headley but Mr. McKenzie; his brow was overcast, and there was evidently deep care on his mind; but after tenderly embracing his daughter, he remarked to the officers, "I am glad you have come to the decision of not leaving the fort. I met Headley going out, and he is very angry. He has made me promise, however, to follow him in a few moments. I should have gone at once, but I could not resist the twofold temptation of pressing this dear girl to my heart, and telling you both how much I approve your prudence. For once you and Headley seem to have exchanged characters." "No doubt," returned Elmsley, smiling, "that if we ever get to Fort Wayne, both Ronayne and myself will be hanged, drawn, and quartered by sentence of a court-martial, as a just punishment for our most glaring disobedience of orders here; but that will not be worse than being scalped here for obeying them; besides, there is this advantage attending the first--we shall have a little longer lease of life. But seriously, sir, there is now no time to lose. The moment you are out of the gates, I shall cause them to be fastened until the council is over. I have had cause for entertaining some little suspicion of your friends the Pottowatomies--nay," seeing that the trader looked surprised, "there is no time to enter into explanation now. Later, I will state to you." "I have no doubt you have been correctly informed," replied Mr. McKenzie, as, after throwing his arm around the waist of his daughter, he replaced his hat and prepared to depart. "Great as is the confidence I have in Winnebeg and the majority of the chiefs, I confess there has been a boldness--an almost insolence--perceptible in the behavior of many of the young men, seemingly urged on by Pee-to-tum, that I neither understand nor approve; but, as you say, there is no time to lose. God bless you, Margaret!" When he had passed the gates, to which he had been accompanied by his son-in-law and Ronayne, Serjeant Nixon, who, as previously instructed, stood near for the purpose, fastened the bars and turned the lock. What men could be spared for the purpose were divided between the two subalterns. The one took his post in the upper floor of the block-house nearest to and overlooking the glacis; the other ascending the south bastion, manned two of the guns--the burning matches of both being concealed. Not less than four hundred warriors could have followed their leaders to this council. The chiefs had already assembled and taken their places under the awning, while a little above them sat Captain Headley, the Doctor, and Mr. McKenzie, when the great mass moved towards the glacis. All were habited in half war dress, if the term may be permitted, and a formidable number separated from the main body and drew near to the gate. This, much to their surprise, was in the very act of being closed as they appeared before it. Much dissatisfaction was expressed in guttural sounds and exclamations, and one young Indian, more daring than the rest, struck his tomahawk deeply into the door. No notice was taken of this at first; but finding that the Indians persevered in their clamor and demand for admittance, Ronayne, who was in the block-house, ordered the three-pounder to be fired over their heads. This at once had the effect of dispersing and driving them towards the glacis, which they now tumultuously crowded, speaking loudly and angrily to the chiefs, who interrupted at the very opening of the council, yet not more surprised than the two officers were on hearing the gun, had started to their feet and turned their eyes towards the fort--the flashing light of the torches being now distinctly visible. There being no repetition, however, of the report, Captain Headley, who had been questioned by the chiefs as to the cause, explained the discharge by attributing it to accident, or an intention on the part of Lieutenant Elmsley to compliment the opening of the council. But though he stated this, he did not himself believe that either was the reason, for he was well aware that no piece of ordnance had been in the block-house early that morning, and consequently, that it must have been placed there from some vague idea of danger connected with his officers' refusal to attend the council. He had observed, with some anxiety, the gathering of the Indians around the gate, and without being able to understand its exact character, entertained a vague impression that some danger was impending, yet by a strange contradiction, not at all uncommon, was more than ever annoyed with Elmsley for manifesting thus openly and markedly the distrust he entertained of their allies. In an increased desire for conciliation he now resumed the council. The chiefs were duly informed, through Winnebeg, that war had been declared between Great Britain and the United States; that the American general commanding on the frontier had sent orders to evacuate the fort immediately, and make the best of their way to Fort Wayne, under the escort of the Pottowatomies then present: but that, before the march commenced, he (Captain Headley) was, in order to show the friendship of the United States, to distribute among the chiefs and warriors in the neighborhood all the property of the government in equal shares--"not only all stores of clothing and implements of the chase shall be divided among you," he concluded, "but the provisions and ammunition, which latter we have in abundance. All we ask in return is safe escort to Fort Wayne." No sooner was this last announcement made when the glacis was filled with triumphant yells from the warriors. The chiefs themselves, with the exception of Pee-to-tum, whose cry had been the signal for their clamor, preserved a dignified silence. The eyes of Mr. McKenzie and Winnebeg sought each other, and there was a pained expression of disappointment in both that revealed at once the cause of their concern. The former bit his lip and muttered, as he turned away from the Indian to Captain Headley, the word "fool." "Sir, did you speak?" asked the latter, half coloring as he fancied he had caught the word. "I have said and think, Captain Headley, that in this last act of folly--the promise of ammunition to the Indians--you have signed our death-warrant. No one acquainted with Indian character can misunderstand the feeling which pervades, not the chiefs but the warriors. If anything were wanting to satisfy me it would be found in the yell of satisfaction with which that promise was received. They are too drunk with hope even to stop to inquire. Tecumseh's emissaries have been among them. British influence has been at work; but we will talk of this later. The chiefs seem surprised at this discourse between ourselves." "Gubbernor," said Winnebeg, solemnly, and in his own broken English phraseology, "as the head chief of the Pottowatomies, I return thanks to our Great Father for the liberal presents he has made to our nation; but I think it will be better not to go away or give up the ammunition, because we have plenty of everything to defend the fort for a long time. Give my warriors blankets and cloths, and the squaws trinkets, and keep the powder safe here. We can kill the cattle and make pimmecan. If a force comes to attack you, we can attack them from the woods and, the sand-hills. This, gubbernor, is what I have to say." "And I," remarked Pee-to-tum, starting to his feet and with fierce gesticulation, "insist, in the name of the warriors, that the wishes of our Great Father of the United States be done. He has said we shall have the powder, and we will have it--and the rum, and Kenzie's strong drinks too. Father, I have spoken." Another loud and triumphant yell from the warriors grouped around too clearly evinced that there was danger to be apprehended from those they had hitherto looked upon as their friends. Captain Headley felt ill at ease, for he was conscious that he had irrevocably committed himself; and, what was more mortifying to his pride, he was compelled inwardly to admit that his subalterns, although at the price of disobedience of orders, had, in this instance, evinced far more judgement and prudence than himself. Still, the pride of superiority--mayhap of vanity--was in some measure deprived of its humiliation, as he consoled himself with the reflection that their precaution must have been the result of an intimation of some change of feeling on the part of the warrior, whereas he himself had been left, wholly in ignorance on the subject, and led to repose confidently on their good faith. Still he shuddered as he thought of those within, at what might have been the turbulence of the young men, evidently encouraged by the dark Pee-to-tum, had they gained admission into the fort. Feeling that things had arrived at a crisis and that it would not be prudent to provoke those in whose power they now unquestionably were, he remarked calmly to Winnebeg that the word of the Father of the United States was pledged, could not be withdrawn without dishonor, and that, therefore, his resolution was unchanged in regard to the distribution of the powder with the other presents, which should take place on that very spot on the morrow. Winnebeg looked angrily round as the yell of Pee-to-tum marked the triumph and satisfaction of the latter at this renewal of the promise of Captain Headley. It was uttered, not in gladness for the gifts, but as thought it would express the knowledge that the donation was compelled--not to be avoided. Mr. McKenzie had difficulty in restraining the nervousness of his annoyance. "Then, sir," he said, addressing the commanding officer, "since we are to assist in cutting our own throats, it seems to me that the most prudent course to pursue will be to leave everything standing as it is, and allow the Indians to help themselves, while we march as rapidly as possible to our destination." "What! and without escort? That, indeed, would be madness," exclaimed Captain Headley. "It is from the escort we have most reason to apprehend danger," returned the trader. "What say you, Winnebeg?" "Winnebeg say, suppose him Gubbernor not stay fight him English--go directly. Leave him Ingin here divide him presents." Black Partridge and all the other chiefs, except Pee-to-tum, gave the same opinion. Whether nettled at the support given to the proposition of Mr. McKenzie by Winnebeg, or more immediately influenced by his strict sense of obedience to the order he had received from General Hull, or by both motives, Captain Headley firmly repeated his determination to distribute everything, as he promised, on the following day. The hour of twelve was named, and the council broke up, the younger Indians leaping and shouting with joy as they separated in small parties, some yet lingering about the fort and glacis, but the main body moving off again to their encampment.	{ "id": "31745" }
15	None	The remainder of the day passed heavily and gloomily. All felt there was a crisis at hand, and the insolent tone which the younger Indians had assumed, left little hope with any that the escort of their allies on the long and dreary route on which they were about to enter would bring with it anything but despair and disaster. Captain Headley had exerted his prerogative. He had, as commanding officer, decided upon his course in opposition to the judgment even of his Indian counsellors; but he was not happy--he was not satisfied himself. On re-entering the fort, after the council had been broken up, he had felt it necessary to the maintenance of his own dignity to summon the subalterns before him, and read, or rather commence to read to them, a lecture on their disobedience of his command to them to follow him to the council; but, with strong evidence of contempt in their manner, they had turned on their heels and walked away without replying, leaving him deeply mortified at a want of respect for him, which was rendered the more bitter to his pride by a certain latent consciousness that it had not been wholly unmerited. On entering his apartment, he found his noble wife preparing at her leisure the private arrangements for departure, and calm and collected as if no circumstances of more than ordinary interest were agitating the general mind. He caught her in his arms; he sat upon the sofa, and drew her passionately to his heart. Never in the course of twenty years' marriage had he more fondly loved her. There was a luxury of endearment in that embrace that renewed all the earlier and more vivid recollection of their union, and for many minutes they remained thus, each wishing it could last for ever. When this full outpouring of their souls had subsided, their hearts beat lighter, felt freer, and there was less scruple in entering on the subject of the immediate future that awaited them. While they thus sat conversing in a strain of confidence and tenderness, which the immediate trials to which they were about to be exposed rendered, more exquisitely keen, Mr. McKenzie and Winnebeg entered unannounced. At the sight of Captain Headley, hand in hand with his wife, who sat upon his knee, the former would have retired, but Mrs. Headley, without at all displacing herself or affecting a confusion she did not feel, begged him to remain, adding that, as she supposed Winnebeg and himself had important business with Captain Headley, she would retire into the adjoining room. She rose slowly and majestically, bowed gracefully to the trader, and took the hand of the chief, who as heartily returned the warm pressure she gave it. "God bless him squaw!" he said, feelingly; "Winnebeg always love him. Lay down life for him." "Thank you, good Winnebeg," returned Mrs. Headley, warmly, while a faint smile played upon her features; "I am sure you would do that, but let us hope it will never come to the trial." "Hope so," returned the chief, as he shook his head gravely, and followed with a mournful glance the receding form of the noble-minded woman. "Captain Headley," remarked Mr. McKenzie with severity, when the door was closed on her, "I am come to use strong language to you, but the occasion justifies it. If you do not rescind your promise of powder to the Indians, the blood of your wife, of my daughter--of every woman and child--of every individual in the garrison, be upon your head! Sir, you will be a murderer, and without the poor excuse of even being compelled to pursue the course you have. Was it not enough to promise them the public stores, without exciting their cupidity still further? Did you not hear the insolent Pee-to-tum declare that not only he would have all the ardent spirit as well, and not merely that, but what was contained in my cellar? When men--and Indians, in particular--use such language, do you think it prudent to put the means of our certain destruction in their hands? Do you think it likely that, when once they have drained to repletion of the maddening liquor, they will hesitate as to the manner of disposing of the powder so recklessly, nay, so guiltily, given to them? No, sir; let those articles be theirs, and we are lost, irrevocably lost! Speak, Winnebeg--you hear--you understand all I say--am I right?" "Yes, Kenzie right," returned the chief; "sorry give him powder--young warrior not obey Winnebeg--Pee-to-tum bad man--make him wicked:--no give him powder, Gubbernor!" All the extent of the indiscretion of which he had been guilty now, for the first time, occurred to Captain Headley, and he could not but agree with the trader, that the results he foretold were those the most likely to follow the distribution. "But how am I to act?" he returned (his pride causing him to reply rather to Winnebeg than to Mr. McKenzie); "how can I retract the promise I have so solemnly made without incurring the very danger you seem to apprehend? It will never do. Pee-to-tum will then sow disunion between us and our allies, and then where will be our expected escort?" "Captain Headley, are you wilfully blind that you do not perceive you have lost all power, all influence to command where most you seem so much to rely? Why, sir, it is clear that they are only waiting for the delivery of the presents to throw off the mask. Better would it have been had you allowed them to gut the fort and choose for themselves. In their eagerness for plunder, they would have lingered at least a couple of days behind, thus enabling you to effect your march without them. Better that, I say, than the suicidal course you have adopted; but far better still it were had you boldly resolved to defend the post to the last. Your daring and your determination would have awed the Indians. Your present evident weakness and vacillation but inspire contempt." "Mr. McKenzie," said the captain, rising with strong indignation in his manner, "this language I may not, will not hear with impunity." "Nay," continued the trader, "you shall hear, for I have a right to speak. By your conduct, all are imperilled. For the men it were not so bad; but the women! Indeed, no language can be too strong to express the dangers you have drawn around us all. Have you no thought of your own noble wife?" The door opened, and Mrs. Headley stood once more before them, calm and composed, but with a countenance slightly flushed. "Headley--Mr. McKenzie, excuse my intrusion, but I could not avoid overhearing this unpleasant argument, which can tend to no benefit in our strong emergency. Think me not bold if I intrude in this matter, and, as a woman who has passed not a few summers of existence in these wilds, offer my opinion. With you, Mr. McKenzie, I perfectly agree that it would be highly imprudent, in the present changed state of feeling of the Pottowatomies generally, to supply them with ammunition which may be used against ourselves, and, with Captain Headley on the other hand, deem that it would be impolitic to exasperate the young men by denying that which they now so confidently expect." "And how, dear Ellen, would you solve the difficulty?" asked her husband, smiling. Mr. McKenzie spoke not; but his eyes were bent upon her with mingled surprise, respect, and admiration. "You may keep the word of promise to the ear, but break it to the hope," she replied. "Did you not say you had appointed to-morrow for the delivery of the presents?" "I did. To-morrow at twelve. Everything will then be handed over." "Then," resumed Mrs. Headley, "what more simple than to produce, among the other parcels, a single cask of powder and another of rum; and if asked why there is not more, to offer in excuse that you had not known your supply was so low. No doubt, Pee-to-tum and those who, with himself, are discontented, will express disappointment, even indignation; but that is a very secondary consideration, when we consider the importance of withholding the gift. One cask of powder and one of rum divided among four hundred warriors will not amount to much after all." "All very well, Ellen; but what is to prevent them, if they fancy themselves duped, from forcing the store and discovering the deceit that has been practised? Then, indeed, will they have some just ground for their fury." "I have provided against that," she replied. "I mean that Winnebeg shall call a council of his young men this night at twelve, so as to keep them away from the fort that they may not know what is going on; then, when all is still, the whole of the men can be employed in removing the casks of powder and liquor, rolling them some into the sallyport, and emptying their contents into the well, which you know is built there as a reservoir in the event of a siege; the remainder, conveyed through the northern gate, the heads knocked in, and the contents thrown into the river. If they should search, they will find nothing." "Good!" said Winnebeg, who perfectly understood the proposition, and had listened to every word. "Indeed, indeed, Mrs. Headley," remarked the trader, "who will not admit that there is more resource on an emergency in a woman's mind than in all our boasted wisdom put together? A better plan could not have been devised. You will adopt it, Captain Headley?" "Most certainly," he said, fervently grasping the hand of his wife. "When did my Ellen ever fail to better my judgment by her sound advice?" "And yet, but for our little misunderstanding, Captain Headley--a misunderstanding not personal, but simply of opinion--we should never have had the advantage of her most wise umpiry. This is certainly an illustration that good sometimes comes of evil." "And now, gentlemen," said Mrs. Headley, playfully, "that I have conferred upon you the benefit of that wisdom you seem so properly to appreciate, I will again leave you to yourselves." "God bless him!" said Winnebeg, as he took the hand that was again proffered to him in the most friendly manner. "My ammunition and liquors must be destroyed in the same manner," said the trader, who now rose to take his leave. "Only three or four of my voyageurs are at home just now. You will allow some of your own men to assist them, Captain Headley." "The moment the public stores are destroyed, they shall all do so," replied the captain; "the work cannot be too speedily done. Think you, Winnebeg, you can keep your young men in the encampment to-night?" "Try him Gubbernor--call him council--speak him of march to Fort Wayne; spose young Ingin come, good--spose him no come, sleep till to-morrow." "Very well, Winnebeg, you must arrange it as best you can, but contrive at least to keep them from prowling around the fort. At midnight, then, Mr. McKenzie, we shall commence the work of destruction. When you have made your own preparations, and wish to come in for aid, follow the subterranean passage that leads from the river near your warehouse to the sallyport; you will find the men there busily engaged, and ready for you the moment they have emptied the contents of our casks." The commandant waved his hand in a familiar manner as he concluded, and the trader and the chief withdrew.	{ "id": "31745" }
16	None	"But I am constant as the northern star." --_Julius Caesar. _ The remainder of that day, the 12th of August, passed over without incident, but not without anxiety; for the Indians, no longer indulging in the indolence of the wigwam or the activity of the chase, occupied themselves with running, leaping, wrestling, jumping, throwing the rude stone quoit, and firing at a target with the bow. It might have seemed as though they sought to intimidate, as much by exuberance of spirits as by a display of numbers, the little garrison, who, it was clear, from the closing of the gate and the firing of the gun, no longer regarded them with the confidence they had ever hitherto manifested. These sports were evidently the prelude to some ulterior purpose, either immediate or not distantly remote, and the energy with which they were followed, attested the excitement with which the accomplishment was looked for. It seemed as though none would permit a moment of repose to the blood until the fond object for which it had been excited should have been attained. All this was remarked from the fort; but, notwithstanding a vigilant lookout was kept up, Captain Headley had given orders that if small parties of the Indians should seek admission, it was not to be refused to them. This made the duty exceedingly severe, for the men, being compelled to work in harness under a scorching sun, suffered greatly, and none were sorry when, at the close of the day, not only their own task had partially terminated, but the jaded Indians, drunk with too much joy and excitement, were seen wending lazily for the night to their several places of repose. At about midnight Captain Headley and his officers stood, not together, but on different parts of the rampart, watching the encampment of the Pottowatomies. Most of their fires had been extinguished, but towards the centre where stood the tent of Winnebeg, there was a bright flickering glare, around which forms of men could be seen moving to the measured sound of the faintly audible and monotonous drum. "Now, then, gentlemen, is the moment for exertion. Winnebeg has evidently found it easier, in their present humor, to get his warriors into a war-dance than a sober council; but no matter in what manner, provided their detention be secured. You will now move your men to the stores, and, in order not only to prevent accident, but noise, see that all are provided with their moccasins. Mr. Elmsley, you will take command of the party conveying the ammunition through the sallyport, and empty it into the well; and you, Mr. Ronayne, will proceed through the northern gate, roll the casks which I have directed each to be covered with a blanket to the edge of the river, cause their heads to be forced in noiselessly with chisels, then empty the contents--powder as well as rum--into the stream. No light must be used to betray your movements to the Indians, or to incur the risk of explosion. One lantern only hangs up in the store out of the reach of all harm, and it is transparent enough to enable you to see what you are about, to distinguish the several casks, those containing the powder and rum, from those in which are packed the bags of shot, flints, gun-screws, &c. All these latter you will throw into the well, with the spare muskets, the stocks of which must be noiselessly broken up. This operation will take up some hours, gentlemen. The nights are not long, and it will require all the time until dawn to complete the work. Now, then, that you have your instructions, proceed to work with your respective parties. For myself, I shall superintend the whole." Without replying, the two officers departed to execute the but too agreeable duty assigned to them, while Von Voltenberg, who had paid his professional visits for the night, was instructed to keep a vigilant lookout on the common until dawn, in order to detect any movement on the part of the Indians, singly or in parties, to approach the fort. Corporal Green, whose sight was remarkable for its keenness, was instructed to keep pacing the circuit of the rampart during the night, and to report to the doctor, for whom, in consideration of his being a non-combatant, a chair had been placed in a sentry box overlooking the encampment, anything remarkable that he might observe. Nothing particular at first occurred during the execution of this important duty. The casks were silently rolled, knocked in, and emptied in the well and river. This took up many hours; but towards dawn, as Ensign Ronayne was following at some little distance in the rear of his men, he thought he observed a dark moving form as of a man crawling upon his belly, and endeavoring to approach as near as possible to the spot where the men were at work. Impressed at once with the assurance that it was some one sent by Pee-to-tum to watch the actions of the garrison, he advanced boldly up to him, being then distant at least fifty feet from his party, and near the awning which had been left standing for the accommodation of the Indians who were to receive their presents the next day. The prowler, finding it impossible to elude the officer in the position in which he was then gliding, suddenly started to his feet, and sought to escape detection in flight; but Ronayne, who was a very quick runner, and moreover wore moccasins as well as his men, soon came up with him, when the Indian rapidly turned, and, upraising his arm, prepared to strike a desperate blow at the chest of the unarmed youth. But even while the knife was balancing, as if to select some vulnerable part, another figure started suddenly from behind a part of the awning, close to which they all were, and grasping the arm of the assailant, dexterously wrested the weapon from his hand, and flung it far away from him upon the glacis. All this was the work of a moment. The spy turned fiercely upon the intruder, and, saying something fiercely and authoritatively to him in Indian, strode leisurely away. Ronayne could not be mistaken. The first was Pee-to-tum, and even if he could not have traced the graceful outline of the well--knit figure, the soft and musical voice which replied to the scorning threat of the fierce chief sufficiently denoted it to be Wau-nan-gee. "Heavens! how is this? Wau-nan-gee!" he asked, sternly, yet trembling with excitement in every limb, "why came you here? Why have you saved my life? Speak! are you not my enemy? Where is my wife?" All these questions were asked with the greatest volubility, and in a state of mind so confused by the host of feelings the presence of the young Indian inspired, that he scarcely comprehended the latter as he replied:-- "All! love him too much, Ronayne wife--love him Ronayne too--Wau-nan-gee friend, dear friend--Wau-nan-gee die for him--Ronayne wife in Ingin camp--pale--pale, very much!" "Answer me," said Ronayne, grasping him by the shoulder in pure excitement, "tell me truly, Wau-nan-gee--I will not hurt you if you do--but tell me, on the truth of an Indian warrior, is not my wife your wife? did she not go to you? does she not love you?" "Ugh?" exclaimed the boy, with an expression of deep melancholy in his manner; "Wau-nan-gee love him too much, but not make him wife. Spose him not Ronayne wife, then Wau-nan-gee; die happy spose him Wau-nan-gee wife. Feel him dere, my friend--feel him heart--oh much sick for Maria--but Wau-nan-gee Ronayne friend no hurt him wife." "Can all this be possible?" he exclaimed, vehemently to himself. "Oh, what a noble, what a generous being; he restores life and happiness to my heart! But still I am not yet convinced, the joy is too great for such light testimony. One question more, Wau-nan-gee: why did my wife leave this? Did you persuade her to go?" "Yes, Ronayne, Wau-nan-gee tell him go. Shuh!" he continued, as if enjoining silence, and looking cautiously round, "no speak, Ronayne--Ingin very wicked--kill him garrison by by--Ronayne and Maria--Wau-nan-gee friend, dear friend--Wau-nan-gee save him--Ingin kill him--Maria cry very much, promise no." Then drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, which the officer recognised, even in the gloom, as that which he had thrown down at Hardscrabble, and which was subsequently waved from the window of the farm-house, he handed it to him. "Now, then," he exclaimed, "is all my doubt removed, and again am I the happiest of men in the assurance of the continued love of the adored one. Oh, Wau-nan-gee, my friend, my brother!" He threw himself into his embrace; he pressed him forcibly to his heart. "Oh, how true, how just was the feeling which caused me not to hate, even when I fancied you had most injured me! Wau-nan-gee, you must always be my friend; you must be Maria's friend; you must love us both!" "Yes," said the Indian, warmly and with difficulty maintaining the stoicism of his race; "Wau-nan-gee happy to lay down his life for Ronayne and Maria; oh! Ronayne," and he took the hand of the Virginian and placed it on his chest which he bared, "can't tell how much Wau-nan-gee love him Maria--want to make him happy. Suppose Ronayne come now with Wau-nan-gee--take him to squaw camp. Stay there till battle over. Yes, come, come!" "Noble and generous boy! how do you win my very soul to you!" returned the officer, as he again affectionately embraced him. "No, no, I cannot do that, great and severe as is this sacrifice of inclination. But what battle do you speak of?" "Letter tell him all," said the youth. "Not say Wau-nan-gee say so." "Wau-nan-gee," said Ronayne, impressively, "no doubt there is danger. We all know it. Was it not you who brought me a line from Maria this morning?" "Yes, my friend. Pee-to-tum say attack him council. Wau-nan-gee tell him Maria write--afraid to say much." "No doubt, then, we shall be attacked before many days are over; but thank God, she at least is safe. Wau-nan-gee, you must take care of her in the camp of your women. When all is safe, you will come to me with her." "Mr. Ronayne," called a voice near the river, "where are you?" It was Captain Headley. "Good by, Wau-nan-gee," said the officer, "I must go. Give my love to Maria, and tell her I am sick to see her," and he put his hand over his heart, "and that I will join her when all danger is over; to-morrow night I shall have a letter for her. You can contrive to steal into the fort at night, and into my room unnoticed, Wau-nan-gee?" "Spose him come," again urged the Indian, "Wau-nan-gee find him little tent for Ronayne and his wife for two three days? Wau-nan-gee wait upon him, bring him food. Maria say come--must come." "No, Wau-nan-gee, my dear friend, you know I cannot as a warrior think of myself alone; I must do my duty; but I am called. Good by, my noble boy. To-morrow night at twelve. God bless you! I leave my wife wholly to your care." "Wau-nan-gee die for him," said the youth energetically, as, after again pressing the extended hand of the Virginian, he traced his way cautiously to the encampment. "Mr. Ronayne," repeated Captain Headley, "where are you?" "Here, sir; I have for a few moments been absent from my post, but I thought I remarked an Indian skulking near to watch our movements, and I followed him. I was not wrong; it was Pee-to-tum. When discovered, he rose to his feet and would have stabbed me, but Wau-nan-gee was near and warded off the blow." "Wau-nan-gee! said you, Mr. Ronayne? Did he ward off the blow aimed at your life?" "He did, sir; why should he not? We have always been friends." Had it not been dark, Captain Headley would have looked as he felt, exceedingly puzzled for a reply. "To tell the truth, Mr. Ronayne, I had not suspected this. I should rather have imagined that he was the chief instigator of the young men to discontent; but I am glad to find it otherwise." For a moment it flashed across the mind of the Virginian that Mrs. Headley had, from policy or in confidence, communicated all she knew in regard to Maria's evasion to her husband. The idea of any man possessing the slightest knowledge of wrong in his wife would have maddened him; but now that he in some measure knew the facts, and looked upon her in all the purity of her spotless nature, he was not sorry to have an opportunity to remove the impression; he, therefore, answered calmly, yet without adverting to the actual position of his wife. "So far from that being the case, Captain Headley, Wau-nan-gee is the last person to engage in an outrage of the kind. Doubtless these letters, of which the youth has been the bearer, will explain much that is now a mystery." The laborious duty of the night being now ended, the gates were once more fastened; and as the officers passed the lamp which hung over the entrance of the commandant's quarters, Ronayne glanced at the superscriptions of the two missives. The one was written in ink, and directed to Mrs. Headley; the other in pencil, and addressed to himself. Ronayne was too impatient to know the contents of the letters to waste further time in conversation. At the invitation of Captain Headley, he entered and unfolded the note, while the commandant sought the apartment of his wife. Mrs. Headley had thrown herself towards morning on her bed, but not to sleep; her mind was too full of apprehensions for the fast coming future, and for the melancholy, sad past; and, even at the moment when her husband entered, her thoughts were of the unfortunate Mrs. Ronayne. "From Maria! is it possible?" she exclaimed, as she broke the seal. "Whence comes this? who brought it?" "What think you of Wau-nan-gee!" he answered, significantly--"Wau-nan-gee, who saved within the hour her husband's life!" "Then, by my soul, is she innocent!" exclaimed the generous woman, rising up. "Almighty God, I thank thee. Oh, how rashly have we judged; but let me read. The document is dated from this, the night before her departure; it is the same, no doubt, she should have inclosed before--not a word in addition. I will read it later. Where is Ronayne?" "In the next room. He, too, has received a communication, which he is now reading. You had better go in to him, while I give some directions to Elmsley, which require to be attended to immediately. I shall rejoin you presently."	{ "id": "31745" }
17	None	When Mrs. Headley entered, unannounced, into the apartment where the Virginian was sitting, he brushed his hand across his eyes, but now they wept not only the emotion of grief that he betrayed, but of joy, of pride, of the fulness of life. He rose, pressed her hand warmly, and, giving her Maria's note to read, took the letter which she proffered in return. "Ah! Ronayne," began the first, "what language can express my feelings--my fears--my agony. For the last week I have not seemed to live a human existence. My mind has been all chaos and confusion. I have been feverish, excited, scarcely conscious of my own acts, and filled with a strong dread of an evil which I know will come, must come, although only protracted. And yet, with all the horror of my position, how much more bitter might have been my self-reproach, my remorse, in having neglected, in my distraction, to inclose the packet for Mrs. Headley, which the noble-hearted, the devoted Wau-nan-gee now conveys. I thought I had given it to Sergeant Nixon, but Wau-nan-gee found it in the pocket of my saddle only yesterday. Oh, but for the arrival of Winnebeg with the intelligence he brings, it would now be too late, and what, then, would have been my sensations? His appearance has altered the plans of the unfriendly portion of the Indians, who, presuming that the troops will soon leave the fort, have determined to wait for the division of the stores, and attack you on the march. But still they could not restrain their impatience, and the day of the council was fixed. All this I learned from Wau-nan-gee, who makes me acquainted with everything that is going on, and is both hated and suspected by Pee-to-tum, who would willingly find him guilty of treachery, and destroy him if he could. I begged him, in my deep sorrow, to be the bearer to you, even amid all danger of detection, of a few words of warning which I knew you would sufficiently understand. He did go, while dashing up seemingly in defiance to the gate; and with a joy you may well understand, I marked the result. So far, then, has the step which my great love for you induced me to take, regardless of minor considerations, been of vital service to you all; for good and generous as Wau-nan-gee is, nothing short of his deep and respectful attachment would have led him to reveal the secrets of his people, and thus defeat their cruel purpose. But, oh! when I think that the danger is only deferred, not removed, how poor is the consolation! Dear Ronayne, my heart is sad, sad, sad! Last night I dreamed you were near, and this morning I awoke to horror, to know that, perhaps, your hours are numbered, while for me there is no hope of death, which then would be a blessing, except from my own hand! Oh, suffer me not to pray in vain if you would have me live! Once you evaded (oh, how cruelly!) the stratagem which would have saved your life and honor--which would have made you an unwilling prisoner with those who, for my own safety, hold me captive. "Alas! had I not hoped that you would have been compelled to share my weary bondage until the dread crisis had passed, I had never been here; and now that the great object of my heart has failed, I would return, and share the danger that surrounds you. One more embrace would give me greater strength to die. One more renewal of each well-remembered face would make me firmer in resolve to meet the coming danger, that danger shared by all. But Wau-nan-gee, in all things else docile as a slave, in this denies me. In his mother's tent I dwell, disguised from the wretch Pee-to-tum in Indian garb, and, although she does not seem to do so, she watches my motions closely. Oh! then, since I may not go to you, come for a brief period to your adoring wife! Come with the occasion back with Wau-nan-gee. He will conduct you to the tent where now I am, some little distance from the general encampment, and never visited but by Winnebeg and his son. You will say I am but an indifferent soldier's wife to give such counsel to a husband. I confess it; my love for you is greater than my regard for your glory. But what glory do you seek? March with the troops and ingloriously you perish; for what can avail defence against the strong force I know to be fully bent upon your destruction. Join me here and you are saved--saved for a long and future course of glory for your country--and, oh! far dearer to me, for a long and future course of wedded happiness. Yet, oh, God! how can my pencil trace this icy language, while my heart is desolate--longing--pining for your presence. Oh, beloved Ronayne! by all the vows of love you ever poured into my willing ear--by all the fires of passion you ever kindled in my heart, I conjure you to come, for I can endure this suspense, this cruel uncertainty no longer. To-night I shall count the long, long hours; and, oh! if Wau-nan-gee return without you, without one ray of hope to animate this breaking heart, I will not leave him until I have won his promise to conduct me at midnight to the secret entrance through which he has so often gained admission into the fort; or failing in my plea to him, I will make the attempt to fly myself. But, dear Ronayne, if you come not, the measure of my grief will be full indeed to overflowing. I can no longer endure this." Such was the last note of the unhappy and distracted Maria Ronayne. The document addressed to Mrs. Headley was more voluminous, and written of course under the impression that when read by the latter, her own husband would be secure from the danger it detailed. It was in substance as follows: Wau-nan-gee, who had been absent for nearly a month in the immediate theatre of war near Detroit, and heard rumors of an intended attack upon Chicago, had hastened back with great expedition to announce to his friends the approaching danger; but much to his surprise, he found on his arrival that the news of that event had been known in the camp several days previously through the agency of certain emissaries who used every exertion to win the Pottowatomies over to Tecumseh and the British cause. A council had been secretly held before the return of Winnebeg with the despatch from General Hull, and terms had been offered and proposals made on that occasion which were variously received, according to the humor, interests, and rapacity of the parties. By the majority of the chiefs, to their honor be it said, the proposal of treachery to the Americans was sternly rejected, but there was one of their number--Pee-to-tum--not a full-blooded Pottowatomie, but a sort of mongrel Chippewa, adopted in the tribe for his untamably fiendish disposition, connected with certain other mere animal qualities, who was loud in his invectives against the Americans for their asserted aggressions on the Indian territory, and he, by pointing out the advantages that would accrue to themselves by an alliance with England, won upon almost all the young warriors to decide in abandoning the American cause immediately. Thus, although there was no decided treaty made, there was a tacit understanding that all possible advantage was to be taken of circumstances, and whenever a favorable opportunity presented itself, the mask was to be thrown off. In vain Black Partridge, Kee-po-tah, Waubansee, and other Pottowatomie chiefs declared they washed their hands of all wrong that might be perpetrated. The young men, or the great majority of them, wanted excitement, blood, plunder; and they sustained Pee-to-tum in all that he advanced. Hoping, however, that the tumult would subside with the absence of those who first incited it, the chiefs did not like to alarm the commandant by a knowledge of what was going on among themselves, but were contented with recommending, as has already been seen, that he should remain in defence of his own post rather than confide himself to the safe keeping of those on whom he depended for an escort. The night of the arrival of Wau-nan-gee he gleaned all this information; and filled with anxiety for the danger that threatened the wife of Ronayne, whom really he loved with a deep passion--yet one utterly unfed by hope or expectation of any kind whatever--he determined that night to enter the fort while her husband was on guard, and acquainting her with her danger, entreat her to allow him to conceal her until all was over. He succeeded, though not without some risk of being discovered in consequence of the exclamation of surprise and almost terror, which Mrs. Ronayne uttered on his appearance so suddenly and unexpectedly before her; but the humble manner of the boy--the deprecating yet earnest look he threw on her, and the lowly posture in which he crouched, soon satisfied her that there was some important reason for his appearance at that hour of the night, which it was essential she should learn. She, therefore, took his hand to reassure him, and with an attempt at lightness, bade him tell her what brought him there after so long an absence at that late hour of the night, and when he must have known that Ronayne was on guard and herself alone? The boy shook his head with a solemn, sad expression, "Come alone, come!" he replied; "no speak him Ronayne. Pottowatomie kill him Wau-nan-gee--oh, Wau-nan-gee very sick!" Those few brief sentences, delivered in that melancholy and significant manner, rendered Mrs. Ronayne extremely nervous. She made him sit on the sofa. She took his hand--she asked him what he meant. With tears swimming in his large, soft, languishing black eyes, he told her everything relating to the subject--of his own return for the express purpose of looking to her safety--of the secret council of the Indians--of the fierce determination of Pee-to-tum and the misguided young men whose cupidity and passions he had so strongly awakened. He said he came to save her, to take her out of the fort until all the trouble was over, to conceal herself in a spot, to watch her, and to protect her as a brother. "And Ronayne--your friend, my husband--what will you do with him?" exclaimed Mrs. Ronayne, greatly excited and terrified by what she had heard. "Oh, Wau-nan-gee, can you not save us all? Will it not be enough to tell Capt Headley what you know, and thus put him on his guard!" "Suppose him tell Captain Headley, Ingin knew it--Ingin know Wau-nan-gee tell him. Kill him Wau-nan-gee like a dog. Save him Maria!" "And will you not save Ronayne? If you care for me, Wau-nan-gee, you will save my husband." "Spose him love him very much husband?" he said, fixing a penetrating yet softened look on her. "Yes, Wau-nan-gee, very much," returned Mrs. Ronayne with emphasis. "If you save one you must save the other." Without pursuing the conversation further, it may suffice to remark that Wau-nan-gee left not Mrs. Ronayne until he had exacted her promise to meet him on the following afternoon in the summer-house, when he said he would be enabled to show her a place where, with her husband, she might be concealed as soon as it was known on what day the Indians should have decided on their attack. This he pledged himself to have arranged in the course of the morning, so that by the afternoon she should be enabled to judge of the convenience it afforded. The trunks seen by Ronayne at Hardscrabble, were hastily packed by Mrs. Ronayne with articles of clothing for both, and conveyed by Wau-nan-gee that night through his secret entrance to the summer-house, and subsequently removed. Not liking to call attention to the circumstance of her crossing the water unaccompanied, and moreover, really desiring the presence of one of her own sex to sustain her in the course that had been forced upon her, she had requested Mrs. Headley to bear her company. On her entering the summer-house, the trap-door, which appeared to have been made that very morning, was open; but instead of Wau-nan-gee, she beheld standing near its entrance another dark Indian whom she had too much reason to fear and dread. It has already been remarked that Pee-to-tum was not a genuine Pottowatomie, but one of that race whose very name is a synonym with treachery and falsehood--a Chippewa. With low, heavy features; a dark, scowling brow; coarse, long, dark hair, shading the restless, ever-moving eye that, like that of the serpent, seemed to fascinate where most the cold and slimy animal sought to sting; the broad, coarse nose; the skin partaking more in the Chippewa, of that offensive, rank odor peculiar to the Indian, than any others of the race; with all these loathsome attributes of person, yet with a soul swelling with the most unbounded vanity and self-sufficiency, based on ignorance and assumption; this man, although having a wife and children grown up, had dared to cast the eye of desire on Mrs. Ronayne. Long had he watched her, not as the gentle, the pure, the self-sacrificing Wau-nan-gee, but as a tiger gloating for his prey. To possess her had been one of his leading motives in urging the alliance with the tribes in the British interests--to hasten the moment she might become a prisoner in his hands, his chief aim in stirring up the young warriors into a determination of early attack. Only two days prior to the return of Wau-nan-gee he had been in the fort, and passing near Mrs. Ronayne as she was amusing herself at battledore with her friend, Mrs. Elmsley, remarked to a companion as he bent his eyes insolently upon her: "The white chiefs' wives are amusing themselves. They are wise. In a few days we shall have them in our wigwams." No notice was taken of the remark at the time. Mrs. Ronayne had more than once noticed the eyes of the loathsome Chippewa fixed upon her with an expression she shuddered at but could not define, and she had attributes his words on that occasion to impotent anger and disappointment, at the dislike she had conceived for him. This was the loathsome being she now met, and knowing, as she did from Wau-nan-gee, all that he meditated in regard to himself and friend, the horror she experienced may be conceived. Rapidly, and in time to suppress in a great measure the scream she attempted to give, the savage placed one hand upon her mouth, and clasping her tightly round the waist, bore her to the opening through which he made her rudely descend, still keeping his hand upon her mouth. When the feet of Mrs. Ronayne touched the bottom of that seemingly living tomb, she was so paralysed by fear that she had not strength to support herself, and but for the arm of the dark chief still clasped around her waist, she must have fallen. The very sight of her weakness inflamed the Chippewa the more. He removed her hat and threw it on the ground. The vast volume of her brown hair he unfastened from the comb. It fell, enveloping her figure to her knees. The eyes of the brutal Chippewa flashed fire in the half darkness that prevailed around. The hand hitherto held upon her mouth, now fell upon and fiercely pressed her bosom, and his hideous lips sought hers. With a violent effort she tore them from the pollution of his touch, and uttering a fault cry of despair, sank fainting from his now loosening grasp. What followed she could not tell; but when some minutes afterwards she came to her senses, weak and exhausted from excitement, Wau-nan-gee was sitting at her side chafing her palms with his own, and with the large tears coursing down his cheeks. At the first sight of the boy Mrs. Ronayne started, for she fancied that she must have been laboring under the influence of a dream, and that not Pee-to-tum, but himself, had used the violence she experienced; but when she recalled all that had passed, perceived her own disorder of dress, and remarked the unfeigned affliction of the youth, she knew that it could not be so. Still deeply agitated, she asked him anxiously where the Chippewa was, and wherefore, he and not Wau-nan-gee had been in the summer-house as promised, when she came in. With every appearance of profound sorrow and sincerity, the youth replied that he knew not how Pee-to-tum had got there--that he himself, after leaving the trap-door open ready for the descent of Mrs. Ronayne, had gone to the further extremity of the vault for the purpose of removing a large stone which blocked up a hole admitting the fresh air from above near the cottage, and that he was returning by this passage, which was narrow but nearly six feet in height, when he heard the cry for aid, and knowing it to be hers he had flown to her assistance, but that the sound of his approaching footsteps must have alarmed the Chippewa and caused him to fly--stopping motionless, perhaps, till he, Wau-nan-gee, had passed him, and then escaping by the same outlet. He it must have been whom Mrs. Headley had remarked stealing across the garden just before she entered it with Maria. Once reassured of the fidelity and truth of the boy, Mrs. Ronayne, although painfully, distractingly ignorant of the extent to which the insolence of Pee-to-tum had been carried, was too much absorbed in the consideration of her husband's safety to lose sight of the subject more immediately at her heart, in mere personal regrets that now were of little avail. She said to Wau-nan-gee that the place in which she then was would certainly have been well suited to the purpose intended but for two reasons; firstly, that now having been discovered by Pee-to-tum, it would no longer be secure; and secondly, that her husband would never consent to abandon his comrades to secure his own safety. She proposed, instead, that a plan should be arranged to make them both prisoners while out on the following day, and in such manner that it should be supposed in the garrison that the capture had been effected by hostile Indians; and to this the youth joyfully assented, stating that a number of his friends less hostile in their intentions might be procured to aid him in the matter. It was arranged that this should be done on the following day, and this at so great a distance from the encampment that Pee-to-tum should know nothing of the occurrence till both husband and wife were beyond his reach. "It is a strange and a wild project," she remarked, "but the crisis is desperate, and anything to save my husband's life. But now I must go, dear Wau-nan-gee; Mrs. Headley is in the garden waiting for me." "No, no go," he said; "spose him Mrs. Headley go home. Wau-nan-gee take Maria home by by. Got canoe here. No let him go home. Pee-to-tum wicked--Pee-to-tum got Ingin plenty yonder," and he pointed in the direction of the cottage; "Pee-to-tum carry off Maria--go see where he is. Shut him door till Wau-nan-gee come back. Mrs. Headley come, no see him here; no tink him here." He accordingly ascended, fastened down the trap-door and departed, as we have said, little anticipating to have been seen by Mrs. Headley. He had not been five minutes gone when she heard a dull, heavy sound which satisfied her that the stone was being rolled from the orifice spoken of by Wau-nan-gee. Feeling assured that Pee-to-tum had seen him depart, and knowing her to be there and helpless, was returning to renew his odious and brutal passion, she sought to rise in order to force up and escape by the trap-door. This she did, regardless of her disordered appearance, and without even thinking of hat or comb; but she had no sooner moved a step forward when she again fell down, as much paralysed by fear as exhausted by weakness. In her helplessness she could only sob and moan and vainly deplore the absence of her late rescuer, while all her thoughts and feelings were of her husband. The footsteps advanced; she grew at each moment more nervous, more terrified. She had scarcely the power to move herself on the spot where she half sat, half reclined. Presently the trap-door was heard to move, soon it opened, and there to her astonishment, yet not less to her exceeding embarrassment, inasmuch as she could not, without compromising the saviour of her honor--the purposed saviour of her life, explain in what manner she had been placed in the strange position in which she had been found, she beheld Mrs. Headley. What followed is known to the reader. It was not, however, Pee-to-tum whom Mrs. Ronayne had heard rolling away the stone, but Wau-nan-gee returning to set her free for the present, as he had seen the soldiers at the gate and knew that she was safe.	{ "id": "31745" }
18	None	"This is my glove--by this hand I will take thee a box on the ear." --_Henry V._ The following morning was as bright and glorious as an August sun could render it, but its very brilliancy seemed a mockery to the gloom and despair that filled the hearts of the little garrison. Still, notwithstanding the treachery few were ignorant the Indians intended, there was a bearing among all, from the commanding officer down, that, while attesting determination and confidence in themselves, left no ground for a suspicion that the designs of their treacherous allies had been revealed. The guard was mounted, as usual, and the customary formalities of the military service complied with, and arrangements were made, soon after the men had eaten their breakfasts, for the conveyance of the stores to the glacis. At twelve o'clock all was ready, and the mass of Indian warriors, painted and armed, moved in loose and disorganized bodies across the plain, and grouped around their chiefs, who, seated on the ground, received for the young men the presents which had been set apart in divisions for every ten. The cloths, blankets, trinkets, and provisions, were first handed over, but when on coming to the ammunition and liquor only one cask of each was, found, the indignation of the whole band, the chiefs excepted, was, as had been expected, excessive. "My Father promised us plenty of powder and plenty of liquor," exclaimed Pee-to-tum, stamping with his feet and gesticulating violently; "Where is it?" "This is all that is left of the stores," exclaimed Capt. Headley. "When we reach Fort Wayne you shall have more." "My Father lies," returned the Chippewa. "Pee-to-tum did not sleep like a lazy hound in his tent last night; he crawled near the fort; he heard the powder barrels knocked in with axes; he heard the rum poured into the river like water. Even to-day," and he pointed with his clenched tomahawk, "the river is red with liquor till it is 'strong grog.' What should prevent us from avenging ourselves for this cheat, by mixing the blood of our father with the same water till it looks like strong rum also?" A terrific yell burst from the surrounding warriors, who all brandished their tomahawks in a menacing manner. "What should prevent you?" said Capt. Headley, suddenly carried out of his usual prudence by the insolence of the ruffian--"what should and will prevent you!" and he pointed to the bastion, which had been manned as on the former occasion, while the burning matches seemed only to await his signal. "Each of those guns contains a bag of fifty bullets, and each bullet can kill its enemy. Now then, have but the courage to lay a hand upon me and you will see the result. See, I am alone--only Mr. McKenzie to witness the act." There was a pause of a few moments, during which low murmurs broke from the younger Indians, and the dark and subtle eye of Pee-to-tum quailed before the bold look of the commanding officer, who continued: "As for you, vile Chippewa, you are the sole cause of all these troubles, all this excitement in the young men of the Pottowatomie Nation. You are of that dark and malignant race, as far below the Pottowatomie in everything that is noble and generous and good as the Evil Spirit is below the Good Spirit. There is nothing but falsehood and treachery in their selfish and avaricious nature. They are deceitful, and so given to love rum that when an Indian is seen wallowing like a hog in the gutter, and with the foam disgorging from his blue and lizard-like lips, stabbing right and left indiscriminately, as if hatred and the sight of blood were essential to his very existence, you may at once know him to be a Chippewa. How then can such a man, and of such a race, disgrace and dishonor the councils of the war path of the nobler Pottowatomies? How, I ask, can Black Partridge, Winnebeg, Waubansee, To-kee-nee-bee, and Kee-po-tah consent to allow such a mongrel chief to exercise an influence among their warriors hostile to the Americans, who have ever treated them with kindness, even when they themselves do not seem to second him in his views?" The scorn Captain Headley threw into his voice and manner as he uttered these words, which they perfectly understood, was such that Pee-to-tum, whose fingers played tremulously with the handle of his tomahawk, could not, without difficulty, refrain from using it; but when he glanced upwards and saw Lieutenant Elmsley attentively watching all that passed with his glass, his rage was stifled, but inwardly he vowed to be revenged. The young men evinced great excitement also; and from that moment, on this occasion particularly, it was evident to Captain Headley that they were entirely under the influence of the Chippewa. "Father," said Black Partridge, rising and solemnly replying to the appeal just made by Captain Headley, "this medal I have worn for many years upon my breast. It was given me by the Great Father of the Americans as a token of a friendship I never have broken; but since everything tells me that my young men, who I grieve to say will no longer obey the voice of their grey-headed chiefs, have determined to wash their hands in American blood, it would not be right in me to keep this token of peace any longer. Father," he concluded, removing the ribbon by which it was suspended over his chest, "I deliver the medal back to you, and may you live to see and tell our Great Father that Black Partridge was ever faithful to the United States, and washes his hands of all that may now happen." The same disclaimer was made by "Winnebeg and the other friendly chiefs; lastly, Pee-to-tum rose: "Dog!" he said, insolently, as he tore his medal from his chest and held it up for a moment, dangling in his hands, "tell him you serve, if you live to see him, that Pee-to-tum, the dark Chippewa, is for ever his enemy--that wherever he can do so he will spill the blood of the Yankee, till it runs like the rum your warriors spilt last night; tell him that Pee-to-tum spits upon his face thus!" Then, throwing it contemptuously on the ground and stamping upon it with his moccasined feet, he burst forth into a laugh intended to be as insulting as the act itself. This profanation was too much for Captain Headley. He rose from his chair, and exclaiming in his fury, "take that, damned Chippewa, in return!" first spat in his face and then hurled at him his heavy military glove, which happening to strike the pupil of his eye while in full glare of indignation at the first insult, it was deprived of sight for ever. Great was the tumult that now ensued. Incapable of acting himself from the intensity of agony he suffered, Pee-to-tum could only utter fierce howlings and threats of vengeance, but several of the warriors advanced furiously upon the commanding officer with the most startling yells and threatening manner. The latter, hopeless of escape, but determined to sell his life dearly, drew his sword while he presented a pistol with his other hand. "McKenzie," he said quickly, "get out of the way! remember me to Ellen!" and then elevating his voice to such a pitch as he knew would be heard in the fort, he distinctly uttered the command "fire!" But the order had been anticipated. Even as the word fell from his lips the curling smoke from a gun was seen, and loud cheers succeeding to the report burst from every man upon the ramparts, while a second and smaller American flag was waved triumphantly by the hand of Ronayne above the piece which had just been discharged. Astonished at this unexpected scene, the Indians, who had been greatly startled not only at the command which had been so coolly given by the commanding officer, but by the discharge they had incorrectly deemed aimed at themselves, suddenly ceased their clamor, and following the course to which the attention of those within the garrison appeared to be directed, beheld, to their surprise, five-and-twenty tall and well--mounted horsemen dressed in the costume of warriors, and headed by a man of great size, pushing rapidly along the road leading from Hardscrabble for the fort. The nearer they approached the louder became the shouts of the soldiers, until finally the latter all left the ramparts, evidently to open the gates and welcome the new-comers, who soon disappeared through the opening. The arrival of these strangers, small as their number was, had evidently an effect upon the Pottowatomies, who for a moment looked grave, and attempted no longer to molest Captain Headley. Mr. McKenzie, who was still present and knew how to take advantage of the occasion, profited by the surprise, and suggested to the commanding officer, that as the conference was now over and the presents all delivered, they should return to the fort to know who the new-comers were. The friendly chiefs were, moreover, invited to accompany them; and thus they returned leisurely, without further interruption, into the stockade. Pee-to-tum, suffering severely, had been led to his tent; and the threat bulk of the warriors, freed from the excitement of his presence, busied themselves with collecting together their individual shares of the presents they had received. During the whole of the afternoon they were to be seen wending their way leisurely, and in small and detached groups--sometimes in single file--from the glacis to their own encampment. "Headley, my dear fellow," exclaimed the leader of the party--a tall, powerful, sunburnt man, dressed like his companions, who now stood dismounted, holding the bridle of his jaded horse and conversing with the Doctor, for the other officers were still at their posts. "Is what I hear then true--and have I only arrived in time to be too late? Is all your ammunition then destroyed--all, all, all--none left?" These questions were anxiously put as the stranger held the hand of the commanding officer grasped in his own. "It is even so," returned Captain Headley, impressed with deep regret for the act, for in a moment he saw that this addition to his little force would have enabled him to maintain his post until the arrival of the British at least--"all that remains are twenty rounds of cartridges for the pouches of the men, and a single keg for use if necessary on the march--not six rounds of ammunition remain for the guns." "By G--, how unfortunate!" returned the stranger, striking his brow with his palm; "had I been but eighteen hours sooner you were all saved, for here are five-and-twenty as gallant and willing hearts as ever wielded tomahawk or rifle. Hearing of your extremity I had hastily collected them to afford you succor. Oh, I could eat my heart up with disappointment!" he continued, "to think that all my exertions, my speed, have been in vain. Headley, what could have induced you to destroy the ammunition--your only hope of salvation?" "What has been done," replied the commanding officer, with unfeigned sorrow at his heart as he reflected on the subject, "cannot be undone; but, ray dear Wells, it was impossible that we could divine the generous interest which was sending you to our rescue; and had not the powder and other ammunition been destroyed it must have fallen into the hands of those who I grieve to say are but too ready to use it against us. Moreover, purposing as I did, and do, to march to-morrow morning, at all risks and under whatever circumstance, I had given up this day all provisions not necessary for our subsistence on the march. If then even the ammunition had remained, we must have suffered from want of food." "What, with those five-and-twenty horses, Headley?" returned the other, pointing to the group that stood in the centre of the barrack square. "Not so. They would have been sufficient when killed and dried to have yielded us food for a month. No man knows better how to make pimmecan than myself. Still," he continued, with greater vivacity, "there is a hope. I have shown the manner in which the provisions can be replaced, and I know you have a well within the sally-port into which can be received the waters of Lake Michigan--let search be made and instantly, and no doubt out of all that you have thrown away, sufficient serviceable powder may be found to enable us to defend the fort for ten days longer, when something will assuredly turn up to better our condition." "Would that it could be so," returned Captain Headley, with a solemnity rendered more profound from the very smallness of the contingency on which the safety of so much depended, "but there is no hope. Anticipating that the Indians would attempt the very course you now suggest--that of saving what powder might be uninjured by the slimy bed into which it was thrown, all has been so mixed up with rum and other liquids as to be rendered utterly useless. Everything seems to be against us." "Then, since all hope is over," returned the stranger with marked disappointment, "we will not indulge in vain regrets for the past, but make the best preparation for to-morrow. It is only to die in harness after all. But, alas! I pity the poor women. How is my dear Ellen--how does she support this severe affliction?" "Bravely--nobly, like herself," returned the commanding officer with emotion. "She will be delighted, yet grieved to behold you--delighted at the generous devotion that has brought you so far, and at the head of so small a force to our assistance; grieved because she will know that you have only come in time to share our fate. But dispose of your party and come in. Serjeant Nixon," he called to that official, whom he saw passing from the rampart to the guard-house. The non-commissioned officer was soon at his side, and the captain having given him directions to quarter the Indians for the night in the officers' mess-room, liberally supplying them and their horses with whatever they might require, and the stranger having himself addressed some remarks to his people in the Miami tongue, they both repaired with heavy hearts to the quarters of the former. The meeting between Captain Wells and Mrs. Headley--the uncle and niece, both of whom entertained a strong natural affection, founded as much on similarity of character as on mere blood connexion--was a very affecting one. They had long been separated, and year after year a visit of a few weeks had been promised by the former to Chicago; but the multiplicity of his public duties, for he was an active agent in the Indian Department, had always prevented him from carrying his intention into execution. But now when he heard of the danger to which the garrison was exposed, and his beloved niece in particular, he lost not a moment in appointing a deputy to perform his duties during his absence, and collecting five-and-twenty warriors whom he knew to be not only devoted to him but the most resolute of the Miami race, he hurried off with the object of forming a sort of body-guard to the ladies of the detachment which he had been informed had received the instructions of General Hull to proceed forthwith to Fort Wayne. Had he had reason to doubt the faith of the Pottowatomies intended to form the escort of the detachment generally, he might and would have brought with him a much larger force; but it was not until after he had traversed almost the whole of the one hundred and eighty miles which he and his party had ridden without rest, that he obtained information of the Indian disaffection. Alarmed lest he should be too late, he and his party urged their harassed steeds to greater speed, and having made a signal to the garrison, which was seen by Ronayne through the telescope he kept constantly to his eye, the gun was fired, the flag waved, and the shouts pealed forth that, in all probability, in drowning his words of command saved the life of his friend and relative. "Well, Ellen, my love," proposed Capt. Headley, after a good deal of conversation on the subject of their position had taken place, "as this is to be the last of the many days which, until within a week, we have passed so happily in Chicago, what say you to our all dining here together? With many of us it will, doubtless, be for the last time. We have still a few bottles of claret left in which to drink your uncle's health, mixed up only with a regret that his visit to us had not occurred at a happier period." "Most willingly, Headley, I approve your suggestion, and shall cause the dinner to be prepared. All I ask is the assistance of Mrs. Elmsley and Ronayne's servants. With their aid my own servants can even contrive to manage something for a dinner." " _Dum vivimus, vivamus! _" exclaimed the herculean and resolute captain. "I can see no reason why, because we are to be shot down and perhaps eaten to-morrow, we should not enjoy the pleasure of a little social eating and drinking ourselves to-day! I am not one to lament fruitlessly over that which cannot be avoided. Sufficient for the day, as scripture has it, is the evil thereof. I certainly go in for the dinner and a glass of claret. It will help to wash down half the dust I have swallowed within the last forty-eight hours." "Well, gentlemen," said Mrs. Headley, with a playfulness extraordinary for the occasion, but which was induced solely by a design to set the minds of her friends at ease, by impressing them with a belief that her unconcern was greater, than it really was, "while I prepare the feast, go you out into what highways and byways are left to us and invite our friends. Uncle, you have not seen Mrs. Elmsley since she was a young, clashing, and unmarried belle. She will be delighted to meet with you. Tell her I will take no denial--both herself and husband must attend. We shall dine at five, becoming fashionable as we stand on the brink of the grave; and by the way, Headley, all these troubles have made me quite forget it, but this is the anniversary not only of my birth but wedding day." "God bless you!" said her husband, tenderly embracing her, "and grant of his great mercy that you may see many returns of the day under far brighter and more auspicious circumstances!"	{ "id": "31745" }
19	None	It was a curious sight--one that could only have been witnessed in a military community, used to scenes of excitement and ever prepared for danger--to see under the roof of the commanding officer of Fort Dearborn, not only men but delicate and educated and highly accomplished women, partaking, with seeming unconcern, of a meal which each felt might be the last but one they were fated to taste on earth, and as it were with the sword of Damocles suspended over their heads. There was an evident desire to banish from the mind any thought of the morrow--to sustain each other, yet with the conviction strong at their hearts that none of them would ever live to see Fort Wayne. They, nevertheless, talked seriously and deprecatingly of the change they would find between the two quarters--the one just overtopping the wild flats of Ohio, like a solitary oasis in the desert; the other, that which they were about to leave--rich in rides and drives, offering every facility and amusement to the lover of the gun and of the rod--to those whose taste led them to prefer rowing over the comparatively tiny waters of the Chicago, or sailing along the broad expanse of the noble Michigan. But they could not wholly succeed in cheating themselves into temporary forgetfulness of the much that was to intervene before that change could be effected. Now and then there would be a painful pause in the conversation; and then as each glanced into the eyes of each, and could distinctly read the dominant thought that was passing in his mind, another attempt would follow to give a tone of indifference to the subject. Not so with the humbler portion of the garrison. On the contrary, there was no attempt to conceal from each other, or from themselves, the magnitude and extent of the danger that awaited them; but in proportion as they even magnified the peril, so was their determination increased to defend themselves and families if attacked, to the last. The single men talked in groups, and hesitated not to condemn in strong language, the course pursued by their commanding officer, for it was obvious to all that had he at the first decided on defending the fort, the Indians never would have acted in the insolent and hostile manner they had manifested; and even if they had, the provisions and ammunition preserved, they might, with this newly arrived strength, have made a defence of months against their treachery. The principal spokesmen were Serjeant Nixon, Corporals Green and Weston, and Phillips, Case, Watson, and Degarmo, who having been the last whose fortune it had been to smell powder against the Indians, were considered as being more immediately competent to speak on the occasion. Such of the married men as were off guard passed what hours they could in consoling and sustaining the courage of their poor wives, who wept bitter tears and uttered ceaseless lamentations, not so much on account of the trials that awaited themselves as their helpless children, in a distressing march through the wilderness, which they regarded with nearly as great horror as the tomahawk of the Indian itself. To return, however, to the quarters of the commandant. It must not be assumed that because the excellent claret of that officer, to which had been added a few bottles saved from Mr. McKenzie's private stock, was enjoyed with a gusto not habitual to men in the same position with our little band of martyrs, there was the disposition to drown care through that very tempting medium, or to indulge in the slightest degree in excess; or if there was an exception it was to be found in Von Voltenberg, who managed now and then dexterously to top off an extra glass, until by repeated little manoeuvres of this kind he had in the end been one bottle ahead of his companions. Soon after dinner Ronayne, whose spirits had been cheered on the one hand and depressed on the other by the letter of his wife, had, at the suggestion of Mrs. Headley, read for the satisfaction and information of all the document addressed to himself; and when this was concluded, exciting in the minds of all, and particularly those yet unacquainted with the contents, renewed interest in her fate, the ladies withdrew to complete such of their arrangements for the march as were still necessary. On their departure followed by the customary and, in this instance, heart-impelled honors, and the health of the newly-arrived guest being drunk, as "The Hero of the Valley of the Miami," Mr. McKenzie took the occasion to remark: "I have heard much of the prowess evinced by Captain Wells, both against General St. Clair's army and while acting with that of General Wayne, and should like much to know from his own lips whether report speaks correctly of him or not. Come, captain, the opportunity may not soon occur again--will you indulge us?" "Willingly," returned the captain, raising his tall and herculean frame in his chair and draining off his claret; "As you say, the opportunity may not again soon occur; there is something here," and he pointed with his finger to his breast, "that tells me that of the many fights in which I have been engaged, that of to-morrow will be the last." All looked grave, but no one answered. Each seemed to think that such would be his own individual case. "Pass the wine, Headley," resumed his relative. "Gentlemen, you must not expect me to enter into a history of all my old fights, both against and in defence of my own country. That would occupy me until to-morrow morning; and you know we have other work cut out for us. I will simply give you an outline--a very skeleton of the causes which found me first fighting against St. Clair, and subsequently in the ranks of Wayne." Without encroaching on the patience of the readers of this tale by using his precise words, it can only be necessary here to give an epitome of the military career of Captain William Wells, which was indeed one of no ordinary kind. He was a native of Kentucky, and in early boyhood--being scarcely ten years of age--had been taken prisoner, during a foray into that then wild state by the Miami Indians. Being a boy of remarkable symmetry, resolution, and intelligence, he was greatly noticed by one of the principal chiefs of the tribe, who adopted him as a son, and trained him to battle, into which he invariably went whenever most was to be done. This mode of life young Wells loved so greatly, and the kindness shown him was such that he never entertained the slightest regret at the loss of old associations, or a desire to return to them. At the time of the great battle between the Indians and General St. Clair, he had gained the reputation of being one of the most formidable warriors, both from his skill and great personal strength in the ranks of the Miamis; and entertaining no scruple of conscience, simply because he had not taken the trouble to reflect on the subject, entered with all the ardor of his nature into that contest, and it was said that a greater number of the American soldiers fell by his hand than any other individual warrior engaged, and now he rose higher than ever in the estimation of his tribe. But the very circumstance of his prowess and success had the effect of dissociating him for ever from those in whose cause he had triumphed. After that sanguinary battle, so fatal to the American arms, he for the first time began to reflect on the great wrong he had done to his own race, and resolved to atone for the past by killing, in fair fight, one Indian at least for every American that had fallen beneath his tomahawk and rifle. Acting promptly on this suddenly-formed resolution he at once abandoned his adopted father, and his Indian wife and children, and hastened to Gen. Wayne, to whom he offered his services. By that officer he was gladly employed, principally as a scout, almost up to the close of the war; and during its continuance many were the daring feats he performed. One example must suffice. A short time previous to the great battle of 1794, Wells, on whom General Wayne had conferred the rank of captain, took with him a subaltern and eleven men, for the purpose of watching the movements of his old companions in arms. His men were all well trained to the peculiar duty they were called upon to perform, and, after having marched three days with a caution and knowledge of the forest scarcely surpassed by the Indians themselves, found that they were on the fresh trail of the enemy, although how many in number they could not tell. They followed leisurely until night, when having seen but one large encampment, Capt. Wells came to the determination, if the disparity of numbers should not be too great, of attacking them. Every disposition was made. The party crept cautiously near them and then lay down in ambush, while their leader, as had been arranged, entered their camp fearlessly and as a friend, and sat himself down on the right of the circle, rapidly counting their numbers as he did so. There were found to be twenty-two warriors with one squaw. On being interrogated he stated that he had just come from the British Fort Miami, and was on his way to stir up the Indians to fight General Wayne. As he declared himself very hungry the squaw hospitably put some hominy on the fire to warm for his supper, of which he had intended to partake abundantly had not a misapprehension on the part of his men hastened the moment of action, and embittered all the satisfaction he would otherwise have derived from his success. A motion of his hand was to have been a signal to fire, each selecting his man; and the party, conceiving that he had given this, acted prematurely, not only depriving him of his supper, which was not yet ready, and of which he stood in great need, but killing the unfortunate squaw who was standing up stirring it at the time, and whom he had intended to save. The next moment the formidable and dreaded tomahawk of the captain went to work among the survivors, and out of the twenty-two warriors but three escaped; he himself receiving a wound from a ramrod shot through his wrist, and his lieutenant being hit by a bullet in the thigh. The greatest havoc committed on this occasion was by Wells himself, and it was his boast that in Wayne's war he had slain a far greater number of Indians than he had killed Americans throughout the contest with St. Clair; and cool indeed must have been the determination of the man who could composedly sit down alone and in the face of twenty-two warriors, some of whom it might have been expected would have recognised him, or to whom accident might have betrayed the proximity of his party, and resolve to dispatch an ample supper before proceeding to the work of blood. But these were the usages of the war in which he had been educated, and a nobler and more generous heart than that of Captain Wells never beat beneath the war-paint of an Indian. Such was the man, the outline of whose story we have necessarily condensed, who now, at the head of those Indians whom he once fought for, and subsequently against, came to proffer his aid to the unfortunate garrison of Fort Dearborn. What such an arm and such daring might have accomplished, had circumstances combined to second his efforts, can easily be surmised; but, unfortunately, all was now of no avail, for the very sinews of success had been wrung from him, and he felt that the utmost desperation of courage must be insufficient to stem the tide of numbers that would lie in wait for their prey on the morrow. But although h was not mad enough to expect that if attacked anything but defeat and slaughter could ensue, nothing would have pleased him more than an encounter on the open prairie with the false Pottowatomies, notwithstanding their great odds, had not the lives of women and helpless children been at stake. These were the considerations that weighed with him the most; for independently of his strong affection for his noble niece, and his interest in her companions, he had never forgotten the occasion when the poor Indian squaw was shot down across the fire over which she was performing an act of kindness to himself; and often and often, during his after life of repose from the toils of war, had her blood risen to his imagination as if in reproach for the act. If this could be called a weakness, it was the only weak point that could be found in his character. As there was little reason to apprehend that the Indians would occasion any annoyance during the night to those whom they were so certain to take at an advantage in the morning, when far removed from their defences, Captain Headley had caused the garrison to be divided into two watches--the one being stationed on the ramparts until midnight, when they were ordered to be relieved by the second party, who in the meantime slept--thus affording to all a few hours of that repose of which for the last week they had scarcely tasted. Midnight had arrived. The watches had been changed, and Corporal Collins being of the new relief, had, after disposing his men in the most advantageous manner to detect an approach, taken his own station near the flag-staff, a point where the greater vigilance was necessary, by reason of the storehouses and other outbuildings of Mr. McKenzie; under cover it was not difficult for a cautious enemy to approach the place unperceived. He had not been at this point half an hour when he fancied he could discover in the darkness the outline of a man moving cautiously across the ground which had been used for the council, and seemingly endeavoring to gain the rear of the factory. He challenged loudly and abruptly, but there was no answer. Expecting to see the same figure emerging from the opposite cover of the building, he fixed his keen eye on that spot, when, as he had conjectured, it fell upon the same, outline, but now performing a wider circuit. The challenge was repeated, but the figure instead of answering remained perfectly stationary. A third time the corporal challenged, and no answer being returned he very indiscreetly fired, when the figure fell to the earth apparently shot dead. The report at that hour of the night naturally caused a good deal of commotion, and brought every one to the spot--not only the officers from their rooms but the watch that had thrown themselves, accoutred as they were, upon their beds. Ronayne, who had retired early for the purpose, was at the time in the act of completing a long letter which he had written in reply to his wife, in which, after pouring forth his soul in the most impassioned expressions of devotion, he urged her in the strongest manner, and by every hope of future happiness on earth, not to adopt the rash step she had threatened, and paralyse his courage, and lessen his fortitude to bear, by her presence in the midst of danger, but to remain secure where she was, with Wau-nan-gee's mother, until the crisis had passed. "I shall fight valiantly and successfully," he concluded, "if you are not near to distract me by a knowledge of your proximity to danger. If, on the contrary, you, in your great and dear love, persist in your design, I feel that I shall perish like a coward. I inclose you a part of myself, in the meantime--a lock of my hair." On hearing the report of the musket a fearful misgiving had oppressed him, for he knew that this was about the hour when Wau-nan-gee had promised to come for his letter, and he hurried to ascertain what had occasioned the discharge. The result of his inquiry was not satisfactory. Had the whole Indian force been discovered stealing upon and surrounding them for a night attack, they would not have carried half the dismay to his soul that he experienced when Corporal Collins told him that he had fired at a solitary individual who was creeping up to the fort and would not answer, although challenged three times. "Corporal," he said, in a low tone, "I have ever been a staunch friend to you, and by that unlucky shot you have destroyed me. The person you fired at was Wau-nan-gee, I feel assured. He was coming for a letter from me to Mrs. Ronayne who is a prisoner, not with other Indians as we had supposed, but in the Pottowatomie camp. The only way you can repair this wrong is by going out secretly through the sally-port and examining the body to see if it really is he." "Look, look, look!" said the corporal, who had kept his eye fixed on the dark shadow hitherto motionless on the ground; "he is not dead--see, he rises, and walks rapidly but stealthily in the direction he was taking when I fired." "And that is to the rear of the stockade, where he has discovered some secret entrance, perhaps in consequence of the picketing having rotted away below. Not a word of this, Collins. If it is he, as I feel assured it is, he will go out again soon, and you must see that he is not interfered with. He must bear my letter to my wife." "You may depend upon it, Mr. Ronayne, he shall not be touched. I will again keep that post myself." The Virginian was right. He had not two minutes regained his room, when a slight tap at the window announced his young and faithful visitor. He flew to the door, opened it, and taking the boy by the hand, let him in. He was paler than usual, and the expression of his countenance denoted emotion and anxiety. As Ronayne cast his eye downwards he remarked that his left hand was bound round with, a handkerchief of a light color, through which the blood was forcing its way. "My God! Wau-nan-gee, is it possible?" he exclaimed, as he grasped him fervently by the opposite palm; "were you hurt by that shot fired just now?" The Indian nodded his head affirmatively, as with an air of chagrin and disappointment, he said, "No good fire, Ronayne--Wau-nan-gee no mind him blood--Ingin Pee-to-tum hear gun fire--see Wau-nan-gee hand--know Wau-nan-gee visit fort." Ronayne, seeing that the youth was mortified at the manner of his reception after the service he had rendered, explained to him fully the facts of the case. He, however, told him that he had spoken to the man who had fired at him under the idea of his being a spy, and that he might rely that nothing of the sort would happen on his return. Anxious to see the extent of the injury he had received, he untied the handkerchief, washed the wound, and found that the bullet had cut away the fleshy part of the palm just under the thumb, but without touching the bone. A little lint and diachylon plaster soon afforded a temporary remedy for this, and the whole having been covered with a light linen bandage, he gave the youth a half worn pair of loose gauntlets to wear if he felt desirous to conceal the wound from the observation of his fellow warriors. This done, and his letter to his wife folded and given to the safe guardianship of the boy, with whom he made his final arrangements for a reunion as circumstances might render prudent and expedient, he finally drew him to his heart, and expressed in tones that could not fail to carry conviction of their truth as well as deep gratification to the generous heart of Wau-nan-gee the extent of his gratitude and friendship. When the young Indian had departed, not before renewing his strong persuasion to induce the officer to accompany him to his wife, Ronayne, determining that no mistake should occur in the compliance of both his directions to Corporal Collins, once more ascended to the bastion from which, he had soon the satisfaction to see Wau-nan-gee glide away in the direction of his encampment, until his figure was soon lost in the distance.	{ "id": "31745" }
20	None	"Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed which his aspiring rider seemed to know." --_Richard II. _ As if in mockery of the climax of trial they were to be made to undergo before its close, the 15th of August, 1812, dawned upon the inmates of Fort Dearborn with a brilliancy even surpassing that of the preceding day. Well do we, who chronicle these events, recollect it; for while the little garrison, in recording whose fate we take not less an interest than our readers can in the perusal, were preparing to march out of the fort--to abandon scenes and associations to which long habit had endeared them, and with the almost certainty of meeting death at every step, we stood at the battery which vomited destruction into the stronghold of him who had counselled and commanded the advance upon Fort Wayne. It has been a vulgar belief, fostered by his enemies, by those who were desirous of relieving themselves from the odium of participation, and of rising to power and consideration by the condemnation of their chief, that the position of General Hull was one fraught with advantage to himself and of disadvantage to his enemies. Nothing can be more incorrect. The batteries, to which we have alluded, had so completely attained the range of the Fort of Detroit, in the small area of which were cooped up a force of nearly twenty-five hundred men, that every shot that was fired told with terrible effect, and not less than three officers of the small regular force were killed or mutilated by one ball passing through the very heart of their private apartments, into which it had, as if searchingly and insidiously, found its way. To the left, moreover, was another floating battery of large ships of war, preparing to vomit forth their thunder, and distract the garrison and divide their fire, which could be returned only from their immediate front bearing on the river, that it soon became evident to the besiegers that their enemy had no power to arrest or effectually check the fury of their attack. But not this alone. Thousands of Indians had occupied the ground in the rear, and only waited the advance of the British columns, furnished also with artillery for an assault in another quarter, to rush with the immolating tomahawk upon the defenceless inhabitants of the town, and complete a slaughter to which there would have been no parallel in warfare. They could not have been restrained; their savage appetite for blood must have been appeased, and of this fact General Hull had been apprised. Moreover, five hundred of his force who had been detached under Colonel Cass, were at no great distance, and had an effectual resistance been made at Detroit--had blood been, as they would have conceived, wantonly spilt, the exasperation of the Indians would have been such that, in all probability, Colonel Cass would not at the present day be a candidate for presidential honors, nor would any of his force have shared a better fate. All these things we state impartially and without fear of contradiction, because they occurred under our own eyes, and because we believe that the people of the United States do not understand the true difficulties by which General Hull was beset. It may be very well, and is correct enough in the abstract, to say that an officer commanding a post, armed and garrisoned as Detroit was, ought to have annihilated their assailants, but where, in the return of prisoners, is mention made of artillerymen sufficient to serve even half the guns by which the fortress was defended? The Fourth Regiment of the line was there, but not the gallant Fourth Artillery, and every soldier knows that that arm is often more injurious to friends than to foes in the hands of men not duly trained to it. With the exception only of the regiment first named, the army of General Hull consisted wholly of raw levies chiefly from Ohio, expert enough at the rifle, but utterly incompetent to serve artillery with effect. Again, the greater the number of men the greater the disadvantage, unless at the moment of assault, for it has already been shown that the British battering guns had obtained the correct range, and half the force had only canvas to cover them. We pretend not, assume not, to be the panegyrist of General Hull, but we have ever been of opinion that, as he expressed himself in his official despatch to the commandant at Chicago, his principal anxiety was in regard to the defenceless inhabitants; and that had his been an isolated command, where men and soldiers only were the actors, no consideration would have induced him to lose sight of the order of the Secretary of War--that no post should be surrendered without a battle. If he erred it was from motives of humanity alone. But we return from our short digression to the little party in Fort Dearborn. As we have before remarked, the sun rose on their immediate preparation for departure with a seemingly mocking brilliancy. None had been in bed from early dawn; and as both officers and men glanced, for the last time, from the ramparts upon the common, they saw assembled around nearly the whole of the Indians, with arms in their hands, and though not absolutely dressed in war dress, without any of those indications of warriors prepared for a long march, such as that meditated by the troops, while their tents still remained standing. "The prospect is gloomy enough," remarked Captain Wells, gravely; "those follows have evidently been up all night and watching the fort from a distance, to see whether an attempt might not be made to 'steal a march' upon them in the dark--look yonder to the loft, do you see that band crouching as the light becomes stronger behind those sand hills? Mark me well if that is not the point from which they will make their attack, if attack us they do! For myself, I am prepared for the worst; and in order that they shall know how much I mistrust them--nay, how certain I am of what they intend, I shall head the advance with my brave warriors painted as black as the devil himself. And so to prepare ourselves." "Corporal Nixon, pull me down that flag," ordered Ensign Ronayne, pointing to it, when the commanding officer had descended to give directions for the formation of the line of march--"that is my especial charge, and he who may take a fancy to it must win it with my life." The corporal replied not. He was not aware of the true position of his young officer's lady, and he was afraid to give him pain by making allusion to her. He, however, promptly obeyed, and when the flag was lowered, and the lines cut away, assisted him in enfolding it somewhat in the fashion of a Scotch tartan round his body. At the moment when the flag came down, the Indians on the common set up a tremendous yell. It was evidently that of triumph at the unmistakable evidence of the immediate evacuation of the fort. The hot blood of Ronayne could not suffer this with impunity. At the full extent of his lungs he pealed back a yell of defiance, which attracted the general notice towards himself, standing erect as he did with the bright and brilliant colors of the silken flag flashing in the sun. Among those who were nearest to him was Pee-to-tum, over whose wounded eye had been drawn a colored handkerchief as a bandage. The Chippewa shook his tomahawk menacingly at him, and motioned as though he would represent the act of tearing the flag from his body. The shout and its cause were heard and known below. Captain Headley returned to the rampart, and with much excitement in his manner and tone, inquired of the young officer what he meant by such imprudence of conduct at such a moment--when they were about to place themselves, almost defenceless, at the mercy of those whom he so wantonly provoked. "It ill becomes you, sir," returned the Virginian, fiercely and sarcastically, "to talk to me of imprudence, who but follow your example of yesterday. Where was the prudence, I ask, which induced you to compromise not only your own life, but the lives of all, in spitting first, then dashing your glove, into the face of the Chippewa?" "If you dare to question the propriety of my conduct, sir," returned his commanding officer, "know that the act was provoked--unavoidable, if we would respect ourselves and command the respect of our enemies. Pee-to-tum had insulted the American people by contemptuously trampling under foot the medal that had been given to him by the President. Join your company, sir! What tomfoolery is that?" alluding to the manner in which the colors were disposed of. "Remove those colors!" "That tomfoolery," returned Ronayne, his cheek paling with passion as he descended to the parade, "means that I know what you do not, Captain Headley--how to defend the colors intrusted to my care. I will not remove them." "This fills the measure of your insolence, Mr. Ronayne," returned the commandant; "you will have a heavy account to settle by the time you reach Fort Wayne." "The sooner the better; but if we do reach it, it will be from no merit of arrangement of yours," returned the subaltern, as he placed himself in his allotted station in the company. It may and must appear not only surprising, but out of character to the reader, that such language should pass between two officers--and these unquestionably gentlemen--of the regular service--the one in command, the other filling the lowest grade of the commissioned service; but so it was. The high spirit of the Virginian had ever manifested deep impatience under what he considered to be the unnecessary martinetism of Capt. Headley, and there had always existed, from the moment of joining of the former, a disposition to run restive under his undue exercise of authority. This feeling had been greatly increased since the resolution taken by Capt. Headley to retreat after giving away the presents and ammunition to the Indians, not only because it was a most imprudent step, but because while the fort was maintained, there was the greater chance of his again being reunited, through the instrumentality of Wau-nan-gee, to his wife. Perhaps had he known the sincere sympathy which Capt. Headley entertained for him at the grief occasioned by her loss, or the knowledge he had obtained of her supposed guilt, which, notwithstanding all their little differences, he guarded with so much delicacy, this bitterness of feeling would have been much qualified; but he was ignorant of the fact, and only on one occasion, and for a moment as has been seen, suspected that Mrs. Headley had, under the seal of confidence and from a presumed necessity, betrayed his secret. If the history of that time did not record these frequent and strong expressions of dissatisfaction and discontent between the captain and the ensign, we should feel that we were violating consistency in detailing them; but they were so, and the only barrier to an open and more marked rupture existed in the person of Mrs. Headley, whom Ronayne loved and honored as though she had been his own mother, and who, on her part, often pleaded his generous warmth of temperament and more noble qualities of heart in mitigation of the annoyance and anger of her husband.	{ "id": "31745" }
21	None	All being now ready, the gates were thrown wide open for the last exit of the detachment, and the little column sallied forth. In the van rode Captain Wells and his little band of Miamis, whose lugubrious appearance likened the march much more to a funeral procession than to the movements of troops confident in themselves, and reposing faith in those whose services had been purchased. Next came thirty men of the detachment, and to them succeeded the wagons, containing, besides the women and children and sick, such stores of the garrison, including spare ammunition, with the luggage of the officers and men, as could not be dispensed with. Thirty men, composing the remaining subdivision of the healthy portion of the detachment, brought up the rear. Their route lay along the lake shore, while the Indians moved in a parallel line with them, separated only by a long range of sandhills. Both excellent horsewomen, and mounted on splendid chargers whose good points had for years been proved by them in their numerous rides in the neighborhood, Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley, with Ronayne on horseback, brought up the extreme rear. The former, habited in a riding dress which fitted admirably to her noble and graceful figure, was cool and collected as though her ride were one of mere ordinary parade. Deep thought there was in her countenance, it is true. Less than woman had she been had none been observable there; but of that unquiet manner which belongs to the nervous and the timid, there was no trace. She spoke to Mrs. Elmsley--who also manifested a firmness not common to a woman, to one under similar circumstances, but still of a less decided character than that of her companion--of indifferent subjects, expressing, among other things, her regret that they were then leaving for ever the wild but beautifully romantic country in which they had passed so many happy days. "How we shall amuse ourselves at Fort Wayne," she concluded, after one of those remarks, "heaven only knows; for although I spent a great part of my girlhood there, I confess it is the most dull station in which I have ever been quartered." "How," remarked Ronayne, with an effort at gaiety his looks belied, "can the colors be better flanked than by two ladies who unite in themselves all the chivalrous courage of a Joan d'Arc and a Jeanne d'Amboise. Really, my dear Mrs. Headley," glancing at the black morocco belt girt around her waist, and from which protruded the handles of two pistols about eight inches in length, "I would advise no Pottowatomie to approach too near you to-day." "I think I may safely second your recommendation, Ronayne," she answered, as uncovering the front of her saddle she exhibited a short rifle which her riding habit concealed, "or they may find that my life has not been passed in the backwoods, without some little practical knowledge of the use of arms. When we were first married at Fort Wayne, Headley taught me to fire the pistol and the rifle with equal adroitness, and I have not forgotten my practice." "And I," said Mrs. Elmsley, "though less formidably provided, have that which may serve me in an emergency--see here," and she drew from the bosom of her riding dress a double-barrelled pistol, somewhat smaller than those of Mrs. Headley. "Well provided, both of you," said the Virginian, "and I was correct in saying that the color and the color-bearer were well guarded, but hark! what is that!" Several shots were fired. They were discharged by the Indians, wantonly destroying the cattle browsing around the road by which they advanced. "Such will be our fate," exclaimed the officer with the excitement of indignation; "shot down, no doubt, like so many brutes." At that moment Captain Headley galloped up from the rear, he having been the last to leave the fort. Ronayne's words were overheard by him, and he demanded, hastily and abruptly: "Are you afraid, sir? You seem well protected." "Sir!" thundered the ensign, "I can march up to the enemy where you dare not show your face." And, apologizing hurriedly to the ladies, he dashed the spurs furiously into his horse's flanks and followed his captain, who had hastened to the front. As the latter gained the head of the column which was only rendered of any length by the dozen bullock wagons containing the stores and luggage, he saw Capt. Wells, who was about a hundred yards in the advance, suddenly wheel round with his Miamis, and push rapidly back for the--main body. "They are preparing to attack us, sir," he shouted. "There is not a moment to be lost in making your arrangements." Scarcely had these words been uttered, when a volley came rattling across the sandhill from the level of the prairie, wounding, but not disabling, two of his men. "We must charge them," he answered, "it is our only hope. Keep them in check, Wells, while I form line. Now, my lads, it is death or victory for us. Baggage wagons halt, and form hollow square, to shelter the women and children from the bullets of the enemy. Rear subdivision, to the front! Right subdivision, halt!" "Left subdivision, halt!" ordered Lieutenant Elmsley, when they had come up. "Front!" pursued the captain, and the line was formed. "Men, throw off your packs--you must have nothing to encumber you in that sand; the drivers will carry them into the square. Ladies, you had better retire there too." "To a soldier's wife the field of battle were preferable on a day like this," calmly returned Mrs. Headley, who, with Mrs. Elmsley, had ridden up with the rear. "Better to be shot down there than tomahawked near the wagons. Besides our presence will encourage the men--will it not, my lads?" A loud cheer burst from the ranks. Each man, certainly, felt greater confidence than before. "Then forward, charge!" shouted Capt. Headley, availing himself of this moment of enthusiasm; "recollect, you fight for your wives and children; if you drive not the Indians, they perish!" "Nay, forget not, you fight for your colors!" cried Ronayne, galloping furiously through the sand to the front, and heading the centre. The ascent was not very steep, and as the colors, tightly girt over the shoulders of Ronayne and hanging from the flanks of his horse, first appeared crowning the crest, and then the little serried line of bayonets glittering like so many streams of light in the sun's rays, exclamations of wonder, mingled with fierce shouts, burst from the Indians, who up to this moment had, after their first volley, been wholly occupied by Captain Wells and his party of horsemen, whom they seemed more anxious to make prisoners than to fire at, and this in consideration of their horses, which they were anxious to obtain unwounded. "Wells," shouted Captain Headley, on whose little line the Indians now began to open their fire, "send half your people to protect my right flank. Charge, men! It is all down hill work now, and we are fairly in for it. If we are to die, let us die like men." Simultaneously, and without the order, the men shouted the charge as, with their commanding officer and the colors full in view before them, they dashed forward where their enemies were the thickest, and such was the effect of their unswerving courage that the latter, although in numbers sufficient to have annihilated them, were awed by their resolution; and in many instances, those who were not in the immediate line of their advance, stood leaning on their guns watching them and without firing a shot; nor was this strange, for it must be recollected that the hostile feeling to the garrison had not been shared by all the Pottowatomies, especially by the chiefs and more elderly warriors. Before the determined advance of the gallant little band the Indians gave way, until they had retired again nearly as far as their own encampment, but the ranks were fast thinning by the distant fire of the enemy, whom it was found impossible to reach with the bayonet. "This will never do," thundered Capt. Headley; "halt! form square!" The order was speedily obeyed; but on hearing firing behind and looking round for his wife and Mrs. Elmsley, to place them in the centre, Captain Headley saw that a great number of the Indians whom they had driven before them had turned aside and reunited behind--thus cutting them off from their party. It has already been observed that the horse Mrs. Headley rode was a magnificent animal, docile yet full of life and spirit, and the excitement and sound of battle had, on this occasion, given to him an animation--a-grace, if it may be so expressed, which, rendered even more remarkable by the superb figure of his rider, excited in several of the Indians a strong desire to get possession of him uninjured. Her own scalp they were burning with eagerness to secure; for from the first moment of the charge down the hill, she had used her little rifle so successfully that of three Indians hit by her two had been killed, and they had evinced their deep exasperation. The anxiety to extricate herself, without the horse being wounded, in all probability saved her; for they fired so high that almost all the bullets passed over her head, although not less than seven did reach their aim--one of them lodging in her left arm. The Indians were now pressing more closely upon her, when Captain Wells, seeing the danger to which the noble woman was exposed, dashed back at the head of his brave horsemen, and used the tomahawk with such effect without the enemy being able to guard themselves against the rapidity of his movements, that he soon cleared a passage to her, cleft the skull of a Pottowatomie who had reached her side, and was in the very act of removing her riding hat to scalp her alive, and lifting her off her horse, covered with wounds and faint from loss of blood, bore her rapidly down towards the lake. As he approached it, he met Winnebeg and Black Partridge returning to the scene of blood, to save her if possible, as they had previously saved Mrs. Elmsley, who had had her horse shot under her, and been wounded in the ankle. Both were hurried into a canoe, and concealed under blankets by those good but now powerless chiefs, while the brave but desperate captain returned to head his warriors and try the last issue of the fight. Meanwhile, Captain Headley had been again attacked and with great fury by the rallying Indians, while the only diversion in his favor was that made by the little band of Miamis, who, however, could not be expected to render efficient aid much longer; besides, whatever immediate advantage might be gained, the final result when the darkness of night should set in, was but too certain. Not only his officers and himself, but his men felt this, and they could scarcely be said to regret it, when, surrounding them from a distance, the Indians renewed a fire which, from the moment of their first being thrown into square, had in a great degree been lulled. During that short interval they had been made to moisten their parched lips from their canteens of water into which had been thrown a small quantity of rum at starting, and no one who has ever donned the buckler need be told the exhilarating, the renewing influence of this upon men jaded with long previous watching and fighting at disadvantage. "Men, husband your ammunition," enjoined the captain, "keep cool, and when I give the word, level low and deliberately. Our position cannot be better, for the country is all clear and flat around us. God defend the right." "Commence file-firing from the right of faces," he ordered, as he remarked that the Indians, rendered bolder by has inactivity, were evidently closing upon him, as for the purpose of a rush. Steadily and coolly the men pulled the trigger for the first time; and the effect of the caution he had given was perceptible. The Indians were no less galled than astonished when turning from one face to get out of the way of danger, they found the bullets coming upon them from every point of the compass--not very many, it is true, but quite enough to stay and to warn them that a nearer approach was dangerous; and before the little band had discharged a dozen cartridges each--few failing to tell--they had withdrawn entirely out of reach of danger either to themselves or to their enemies. While thus they stood, as it were, at bay, they for the first time had leisure to look around and observe the havoc that had been done along the slope of the sandhill and on the plain below. Nearly half of their gallant comrades lay there scalped and tomahawked, and with their bodies and limbs thrown into those strange contortions which mark the last physical agony of the soldier struck down by the bullet in the midst of life and health; but for every private lay two Indians at least--a few of them who had been overtaken in the furious charge down the hill, but most of them sufferers from their fire while formed in their little but compact square. Capt. Headley and his lieutenant looked anxiously, but silently, towards the sand hill, where they had last seen their wives exposed to the most imminent danger, yet gallantly defended by Captain Wells and his Miami warriors, three of whose horses, shot under them, encumbered the ground, but nothing was to be seen of either; and the bitterness of sorrow was in their hearts, for they believed them to be dead, and that their bodies were lying beyond the crest of the hill, whence occasional shouts were heard. As for Ronayne, he kept his eye fixed in the opposite direction, for they were not far from the encampment of the Pottowatomies, and he felt satisfied that his beloved Maria, who, after the great peril to which he had fears Mrs. Headley and Mrs Elmsley were exposed, he deeply rejoiced to know was in a place of safety, was then not far from him, and no doubt forcibly detained from the field by the mother of Wau-nan-gee, or by the youth himself. " 'Twere folly to remain here longer and thus inactive," remarked Captain Headley. "The Indians are evidently waiting for night to renew their attack, for they are sensible that, as few of them are provided with rifles, our muskets have greatly the advantage of range. Hark! do you hear the yells and shouting of the hell-hounds in the fort? It is well for us that nearly half their force has been attracted thither by the thirst of plunder and the hope of obtaining rum. But let us resume our position on the hill. Now that we shall be enabled to command every thing around us, if we are to die let us fall together like men and soldiers in our little serried square." "Long live our brave captain! --huzza! We will light to the last cartridge, and bayonet in hand," exclaimed Paul Degarmo, raising his cap excitedly. The cheer was taken up and prolonged until the forest that bounded the places they were in sent back the echo. Scarcely had this subsided, when terrific shrieks and cries, mingled with fierce yells, burst from the opposite side of the sandhill. This lasted for about five minutes, and then gradually died away. Then many straggling shots were heard, and these died away in distance. Captain Headley, who had deferred his movement towards the sandhill during this manifestation of the presence of the enemy on the other side of the ridge, now moved his men to its base, and there halted them. After a little time, ordering a rush with the bayonet on the first Indians who should show themselves in any force, he stepped out of the square, and moved in a stooping posture to gain the summit, that he might reconnoitre the enemy and see what they were about. But scarcely had he reached the top when he again rapidly descended. His face was pale--his lips compressed. He had seen a sight to shake the nerves of the sternest soldier, and gladly did he swallow, from the canteen of Sergeant Nixon, who offered it to him, the cordial beverage that carried renewed circulation to his veins. "Forward, men, with as little noise as possible, and gain the crest of the hill; but, whatever you see, let not your nerves be shaken into indiscretion. If you fire without orders from me, you are lost without a hope. Be cool, and when I do give the command to fire, let the front face of the square exchange their discharged firelocks for those of the rear face, in order to be always loaded. Now, men, be cool." Captain Headley was wise in issuing this precautionary order, for the sight the little square beheld, on gaining and halting on the ridge, was one not merely to render men reckless and imprudent, but in a great measure to drive them mad.	{ "id": "31745" }
22	None	"A crimson river of warm blood like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind." --_Titus Andronicus. _ To understand the horrible scene that met the view, first of the commanding officer, and subsequently of the little square, it will be necessary to go back to certain events of the past half hour. When Captain Wells had returned from delivering over his wounded niece to the charge of Black Partridge and Winnebeg, both of whom had, with deep sorrow, beheld the fiendish excesses of their young men, but without being able to prevent them, he was pursuing his way across the sandhill to the assistance of Captain Headley. Suddenly, while looking around to find out in what part of the field his Miamis were, he saw several Pottowatomies approach the spot where the baggage wagons were drawn up, and commence tomahawking the children. The cries and shrieks of the mothers, as the helpless victims perished one after the other, under their eyes, until nearly a dozen had fallen, brought with it all the renewal of the horror he ever experienced when women and children were the assailed, and drove him almost frantic. "Is that your game?" he exclaimed furiously in their own language! --"thank God, we can play at that too." The attempt to check the strong party assembled round the wagons, he felt would be unavailing, but resolving to venture, single-handed, into the encampment of the enemy, where their children had been left unguarded, he turned his horse's head, dashed past the fort again at his fullest speed, and with revenge and a threat of retaliation racking his very heart strings, made for their wigwams. Alarmed, in turn, for the safety of their squaws and children, the murderers now desisted from their work and followed as vapidly as they could on foot, the flight of the Miami leader. Every now and then they stopped and fired, but at the outset all their shots were in vain, for the captain, accustomed to that sort of warfare, throwing himself along the neck of his horse, loading and firing in that position, baffled all their attempts to bring him down, while he waved his tomahawk on high, as if in triumph at the successful issue of what he meditated. As the pursuing Indians passed the gate of the fort, now filled with plunderers, many intoxicated, Pee-to-tum, who had been there from the first--his love of drink being even stronger than his thirst for revenge--came staggering forth, suddenly aroused to a consciousness of what was going on without, and demanded to know the cause of this new and immediate tumult. The young Indians hastily informed him; when the Chippewa, dropping on one knee, and holding his ramrod as a rest upon the ground, ran his right and uninjured eye along the sight, pulled the trigger, and brought down the horse of the fugitive, which fell with a heavy plunge. A tremendous shout followed from the band who had lost, four warriors by his fire, and who, consequently deeply enraged, now made the greatest efforts to come up with and secure him. Before he could disengage himself from his horse, under which he lay severely wounded himself, two other Indians came up from an opposite quarter, and, taking him prisoner, sought to bear him off before the others could reach him. These were the chiefs Waubansee and Winnebeg, the latter of whom, seeing the danger of the captain from the moment when the massacre of the children commenced, had left Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley under the care of Black Partridge, and hastened to be of service to him if possible. But all their efforts to save him were vain. With rapid strides, and shouts rendered more savage than ever by the fumes of the liquor he had swallowed, and with the scalp of the unfortunate Von Voltenberg--who had been killed while returning to the fort for a small flask of brandy which he had forgotten--dangling at his side, Pee-to-tum advanced with furious speed, and, stabbing the captain in the back, put an end to his misery. No sooner had he fallen, than, like a vulture, the Chippewa sprang upon the lifeless body, and, making an incision with his knife upon the strong and full-haired crown, tore the reeking covering away, and thus added another trophy to his disgusting spoils. This was the signal for further outrage, Exasperated by the knowledge of the revenge he had meditated, and the loss he had already occasioned them, the warriors who had first followed the ill-fated Miami leader, cut open the left side with their knives, and tore forth the yet warm and bleeding heart, which, as well as the body itself, they bore back in triumph to the very spot whence they had set out, Pee-to-tum carrying his heart, pierced by the ramrod, as it protruded a couple of feet from the barrel of his rifle. Squatted in a circle, and within a few feet of the wagon in which the tomahawked children lay covered with blood, and fast stiffening in the coldness of death, now sat about twenty Indians, with Pee-to-tum at their head, passing from hand to hand the quivering heart of the slain man, whose eyes, straining, as it were, from their sockets, seemed to watch the horrid repast in which they were indulging, while the blood streamed disgustingly over their chins and lips, and trickled over their persons. So many wolves or tigers could not have torn away more voraciously with their teeth, or smacked their lips with greater delight in the relish of human food, than did these loathsome creatures, who now moistened the nauseous repast from a black bottle of rum which had been found in one of the wagons containing the medicine for the sick--and what gave additional disgust was the hideous aspect of the inflamed eye of the Chippewa, from which the bandage had fallen off, and from which the heat of the sun's rays was fast drawing a briny, ropy, and copious discharge, resembling rather the grey and slimy mucus of the toad than the tears of a human being. At the moment when the little square thus reappeared unexpectedly before them, the revellers, who had supposed them either in the hollow below, or long since disposed of by their comrades, were almost instantly sobered and on their feet. Quickly they flew to secure their guns, which lay at a little distance behind them; but, before they could reach them, a volley from the front face of the square was poured in with an effect which, at that short distance, could not fail to prove destructive; and of the twenty Indians who had composed the circle, more than a dozen of them fell dead, or so desperately wounded, that they could not crawl off the ground. "Good, men!" shudderingly remarked Capt. Headley, "we have revenged this slaughter at least. Cease firing. Pull not another trigger until I order you. If there be a hope left for us, it must depend wholly upon our coolness. What a pity you missed that scoundrel Pee-to-tum. Hark, Elmsley, do you hear his brutal voice calling upon the Indians to renew the attack!" --and then in a lower tone to the same officer: "What can have become of our wives? Yonder rides a Pottowatomie mounted on Mrs. Headley's charger. I pray God they may not have made them prisoners!" "Heaven grant it may be so, sir!" solemnly returned his subaltern; "but, in their present exasperated state, I fear the worst. Why, while we were in the hollow, I distinctly saw Mrs. Headley bring down two Indians with her rifle. They would not easily forget that." "And I, sir," said Sergeant Nixon deferentially, as if fearing to intrude, "saw Mrs. Elmsley's horse shot under her; and when an Indian came up and struggled with her, she threw her arm around his neck, and presented and fired a pistol at him, and then tried to get at his scalping knife which was suspended over his chest. What the result was, I could not make out; but the last I saw of her, she was seized by another Indian and carried in his arms across the very spot where we now stand. See, sir, that is her horse!" and he pointed to the animal, which lay only a few feet from the square, and which, among the dead bodies of soldiers, Pottowatomies, and Miamis, had hitherto escaped their attention. "See, sir, they are collecting in great force near the gate," observed the lieutenant--"I can distinctly see Pee-to-tum, who has joined them, motioning with his hand to advance." "Then is this the best position we could have chosen," returned Captain Headley; "courage, men! A taste of biscuit from your haversacks while you have time, a teaspoonful of rum, and then we must at it again. Mind, above all things, that you keep cool, and do not fire a shot without orders." From the moment that Ronayne had placed himself, with the colors, at the head of the little party when advancing up the sandhill, he had not spoken a word, but continued to gaze fixedly and abstractedly upon that part of the plain or prairie which led to the inner encampment of the Indians. His whole thought--his undivided attention was given to his wife, whose anxiety, nay, anguish, at hearing the sounds of conflict which denoted his imminent peril, he knew must be intense. True, he himself was spared the anxiety and uncertainty which filled the breasts of his comrades on seeing those they loved best on earth exposed to all the fearful chance of battle, but even in that there was an excitement which in some degree compensated for the risks they ran. The very fact of their presence had sustained them; but now that the final result seemed no longer doubtful, and that the annihilation of the whole party was to be momentarily expected, he felt that one last look, one last embrace of her he loved, would rob death of half its horrors. But this was but the momentary selfishness of the man. When Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley were known to have disappeared, he more than ever rejoiced in the circumstances which had removed his beloved wife from the horrors of the day, and placed her under so faithful a guardianship as that of the generous Wau-nan-gee. But there was another reason for the calm, the serious silence which the Virginian had preserved. Independently of the aching interest he took in all that he supposed to be passing at that moment in the mind of his absent wife, he had been deeply galled by the last insulting remark of Captain Headley, to which he had, it is true, replied in a similar spirit, yet which nevertheless had continued to give him much annoyance. His duty as bearer of the colors being rather passive than active, he had not found it necessary to open his lips, except to utter a few words of encouragement and approval to the men. Formed in hollow square, as the little force now was, there was no opportunity for display of individual or personal prowess, or he certainly would have sought an opportunity to test with his commanding officer the extent of their respective daring. But now an occasion at last presented itself, and in a manner least expected.	{ "id": "31745" }
23	None	From the position now occupied by the devoted little band, a view of the whole adjacent country was distinctly commanded, even to the very gates of the fort, from which they had never advanced more than half a mile on their retreat, and within a mile of which their movements had again brought them. On looking anxiously around to see from what direction the most imminent danger would proceed, Captain Headley remarked a largo body of Indians issuing from the gateway, and moving slowly from the fort towards them. "Give me the glass, Mr. Elmsley," he said to that officer, who had it slung over his shoulder, "let me see if I can make out what they intend. Ha! by heaven they are moving one of the field pieces towards us. Could they but manage a few rounds of that, they would soon make short work of the affair, but the simpletons seem to have overlooked the fact of the gun being spiked--even if they knew how to aim it." "If it is the gun that was in the block-house, it is not spiked, sir," remarked Sergeant Nixon. "Not spiked! how is that?" asked the captain quickly--almost angrily. "The spikes were too large, sir; and Weston, whose duty it was, broke a ramrod off instead." "Ha! is it so? What a thought strikes me! Could we get hold of that gun, we might yet make terms with those devils. Who will lead a forlorn hope and volunteer to take it?" "I will," thundered Ronayne, with sudden vivacity, his eye flashing fiercely as he met the glance of his commanding officer. "Spare me three men from each face of the square, and I will bring it to you or die in the attempt." The captain colored and looked annoyed with himself. "One moment, Mr. Ronayne. Have we the means of removing the broken ramrod if we should get the gun? Where is the armorer?" "I have them, sir," returned the man. "I thought a drill and a hammer would be useful on the march, and so I put them in my pack." "Pish! there is another difficulty. Your pack is as difficult to reach as the gun. It is in the wagon, is it not?" "Yes, sir, and the hammer in it, but I have the spike thrust through a piece of beef in my haversack." "All right. There are stones enough around to supply the absence of a hammer." "Volunteers to the front!" said Ronayne, in a low, firm tone, and with compressed lip. "What Hardscrabble men will follow me?" Simultaneously, Sergeant Nixon, Corporals Collins and Green; Phillips, Watson, Weston, and Degarmo, stepped forth, with several others, anxious to be of the party, until the number was made up, and again the diminished square closed upon its centre. "Not yet," cried Captain Headley, who, having once more applied the glass to his eye, was closely watching the movements of the Indian mass. "Nothing must be left to mere chance. Mr. Elmsley, what is the position of the wagon which contains the ammunition?" "It was the leading one, sir," returned the officer addressed. "What alteration has been made in the act of throwing them into square, I cannot possibly tell." "See, is not that it?" asked the commanding officer, pointing to one from the top of which several casks protruded. "It is," was the reply. "Then, Mr. Ronayne, first lead your party to the wagons and let each man load himself from the keg of ball cartridge, and as many grenades as he can carry--these must supply the place of larger shot, if we get the gun. Lose no time. There is not an Indian on that side of the sandhill now, and you will easily accomplish your object. Sampson," addressing the armorer, "you may as well avail yourself of the opportunity to get your heavy hammer. The stones about here are brittle, and may break." In little more than five minutes, this first part of their duty was accomplished, although under circumstances far more painful and repugnant than the more dangerous one in reserve. On their way to the wagons they were compelled to pass close to the scalped and disembowelled body of the brave but unfortunate Wells, whose still bleeding heart, only half eaten, was encrusted with sand, and bore the ragged impress of teeth driven furiously and voraciously into it. On their arrival near the wagons, their nerves were further tried by the horrible and disgusting spectacle of the slain children, whose scalped heads and mutilated remains gave unmistakable evidence of the fate that awaited themselves unless Providence should interpose a miracle in their favor, while their ears were assailed by the stifled groans and sobbings of mothers who had covered their heads up with blankets and sheets, not only with a view to shut out the appalling sight of their murdered offspring, but to seek exemption from a similar fate. So confused was the perception of those poor, unhappy creatures, that they could not identify either the voices or the language of those who were now near them--some, the fathers of the innocents they mourned--but believed them to be Pottowatomies, and it was not until they had departed, and were out of sight, that they ventured again to uncover their heads, and breathe a pure air. By the time the party returned, and had deposited within the square the keg of ball cartridges, and some fifty hand grenades, the Indians in great numbers had brought the three pounder, which was now made out to be the calibre of the gun, to the very spot where Capt. Headley had first formed the square, and just without the present range of the heavy muskets of the men. There was a great deal of clamor and bustle about the manner of manoeuvring the piece, and with the aid of the glass it could be distinctly seen that they once or twice applied a burning torch to the breech, for, when this was done, the Indians grouped around retired quickly from its neighborhood, but, on finding it did not explode, seemed for the first time to be sensible of the cause, and again gathered near it. "Now, Mr. Ronayne, is your time," said Capt. Headley to the young officer, whose volunteers, twelve in number, with a hand grenade in each haversack, and a second in his right hand, now stood ready, with their muskets at the trail, to ignite the port fire, and descend upon the formidable mass below them. "Sampson, the moment you reach the gun, drive in the spike, and turn the muzzle towards the thickest of the enemy. Every bullet will, doubtless, tell. The discharge will throw them into confusion, and enable you, Mr. Ronayne, to retire under the cover of our musketry. The gun once here, and we may change the fortune of the day. Are your port fires all lighted? Forward, then!" And down in silence dashed the little party into the midst of their enemies. Taken completely by surprise, and dismayed at the sight of the hissing port fire, which they did not comprehend, the Indians at first drew back and opened a running fire from their inferior guns, but seeing how small was the number of their assailants, they again advanced and waited for their nearer approach, determined apparently to save their powder and make the tomahawk alone perform its work. Suddenly, Ronayne, who had dismounted on the hill, halted within twenty paces of the spot, and with his men at extended order. The Indians dared not to provoke a hand-to-hand encounter, for that would have brought them within the range of the muskets they saw levelled above. This was a most critical and anxious moment to the young officer. He had descended the hill too rapidly for the port fire to be sufficiently consumed for ignition of the shells generally, and for nearly a minute they stood thus, their muskets still at the trail, and at every moment expecting the Indians to make a final spring upon them. At length, after the lapse of a few seconds, which seemed ages, the fire rapidly approached the iron. "Now, my lads," shouted the Virginian, "throw them in lustily." A loud cheer burst from the lips of each, as, after having hurled the missives of death into the dense groups of the astonished savages, they followed up the advantage created by the confusion of the bursting shells, by a rush upon the gun, the drag-ropes of which were seized amid many distant shots, and so effectually used that, before the former could recover from their panic, the piece was withdrawn under cover of the fire from the square, and its muzzle turned to the enemy. A second loud and triumphant cheer followed from the hill, and the strong voice of Captain Headley could be distinctly heard when it had ceased. "Quick, quick, Mr. Ronayne; there is another strong band approaching the wood on your left. The work is but half done." "Light your second grenades," ordered Ronayne. "The sight of the burning port fires will keep them in check. Sampson, will you never have finished with the gun? what are you fumbling about that you do not drive in the ramrod?" But the man spake not; he reclined motionless over the breech of the field piece. The next moment the brazen plated cap fell from his head, and a white forehead was exhibited, with a slight incrustation of blood on the temple showing where the fatal rifle ball had entered. "Ha! dead!" exclaimed Ronayne, excitedly, as he caught the man by the collar and gently lowered him to the ground. "I must then perform your duty." He caught up the drill and the heavy hammer which the stiffening armorer had dropped, and so well and powerfully did he use it, that after a few blows the end of the ramrod, broken short off at the touch--hole, fell into the body of the gun, and the vent-hole was clear. "All right," he exclaimed; "quick, Collins, a couple of cartridges to prime with." In another moment the gun was ready. The officer passed his eye along the sight, and saw that the muzzle pointed fully at the large body that was approaching a small patch of brushwood to take him in flank. "The moment I fire," he ordered, "throw in your second grenades, seize the drag-ropes and retire with all speed with the gun. I see the fuses are nearly burnt out; this is rather a short one for my purpose, Collins, but it must answer." Stepping to the right side of the gun, he held forth the grenade with his left hand, and applied the port fire to the touch-hole. There was a fizz of a few seconds, and then the gun went off with a loud explosion, and a fierce recoil. Yells and shrieks rent the air, and in a moment the whole of the new band were scampering away in full flight, leaving behind them some five-and-twenty of their party killed and disabled by the discharge of the piece, loaded, as has been seen, with musket bullets. Profiting by the consternation into which this murderous fire had thrown the whole body of Pottowatomies, the men pealed forth another cheer even louder than the first, hurled forward their grenades, not yet ready for explosion, as far as they could throw them, and seizing the drag-ropes, ran fleetly with it towards the hill. Stricken with disappointment, the Indians lost sight of their usual caution, and rushed furiously forward to recover the gun, which, however, being now discharged, was of no actual use to them. "Leave the gun where it is, and bring off your officer," shouted Captain Headley in a clear voice. "See you not that he is wounded, and the Indians advancing to dispatch him?" This was the first intimation the men had of the fact. In their anxiety to secure the gun, they had not observed that Ronayne, hit by a rifle bullet while in the very act of firing his piece, had been brought to the ground with a broken leg, and rendered unable to follow them. But, no sooner had Captain Headley uttered the order than all hastened back to the spot where the Virginian reclined on one side, with the musket of the armorer tightly grasped, and his look still bent upon the distant forest. Just as they had reached, and were preparing to lift him up, the Indians again rushed forward to dispute his possession. They were within twenty paces, and brandishing their tomahawks triumphantly, when, suddenly, and one after another, burst in the midst of them, the grenades which had been hurled prematurely on the discharge of the field piece, and striking panic into their body, caused them once more hurriedly to retire. But this check was only momentary. Rendered reckless at every moment from the liquor which all had more or less imbibed at different periods of the battle, and ashamed that they should be kept at bay by so mere a handful of men, the dark mass now fiercely closed upon the little party that bore off the wounded officer, and commenced their attack. Meanwhile, Captain Headley, seeing this resolute forward movement of the Indians, and anticipating the certain destruction of the whole, moved his little square rapidly towards the gun, causing his men to take with them the ammunition which had been collected there, and soon the piece was again loaded and turned to his front. But it was found impossible to discharge the gun without endangering the lives of his own men more than those even of the enemy, for the Indians in immediate pursuit kept themselves so cautiously in the rear of the former, that, in the position he then occupied, it was impossible to reach them alone. The only movement that could save them was a rapid change of ground, so as to enable him to take the enemy in flank, and of this he hastened to avail himself by again occupying the sandhill. This was done; but in the short time taken to effect the movement, the bloodhounds had too well profited by their advantage. At the head of the pursuers was the Chippewa, Pee-to-tum. His voice had been loudest in the war whoop, as his foot had been the most forward in the advance; and his denunciations of the dog Headley, as he called him, were bitter, and he called loudly for him that he might kill him with his tomahawk. "Save yourselves, men, and leave me to my fate," exclaimed the Virginian, as he heard the voice of the Chippewa almost in his ear. "Nixon, remove the colors from my shoulders and take them into the square. I shall not die happy until I know them to be secure." "Nay, sir," said the non-commissioned officer, "we will not, cannot desert you; and, if we would, it is now out of our power--we are too closely pressed--we must fight to the last." "Then drop me, and turn and fight. Let us not be struck down like dastards, with our backs to the enemy. Where is that musket?" "Here it is, sir," said the serjeant; "but in your present disabled state you cannot make use of it." "At least I will try," returned the Virginian. "If I could but slay the black-souled Pee-to-tum, I should revenge the treachery of this day, and perhaps be the means of saving the remnant of our brave fellows." "Oh!" gasped Nixon, as he fell suddenly dead upon the body of his wounded officer. He had been shot through the back and under the left rib. A fierce veil followed, and Ronayne beheld the hellish face of the Chippewa, looking more disgusting than ever in the loss of his left eye, as, with shining blade, he bounded forward to take the scalp of his victim. The body of the serjeant lay across his shattered leg, and not only gave him great anguish, but impeded his action, faint, moreover, as he was from loss of blood from several subsequent wounds received during his transit from the spot where he first had fallen. But the opportunity of avenging his wife, himself, and his slaughtered companions--the latter all murdered at his instigation--was one that would never occur again, and all his energies were aroused. Even while the half--drunken savage was in the act of taking the scalp of the unfortunate Nixon, Ronayne removed the bayonet from the musket, and grasping it with all the fierce determination of hatred, drove the sharp long instrument with such force through his exposed body, that not only the point protruded several inches on the opposite side, but the inner edge of the socket itself cut deeply into the flesh. Absolutely roaring with pain, the Chippewa left his bloody work unfinished. The knife fell from his grasp. He sprang to his feet, and having at once seen by whose hand the blow had been inflicted, a sudden thought appeared to occur to him. Down again he threw himself furiously upon the body of the wounded officer, who, anticipating the act, had by this time armed himself with the knife that lay with its handle on the ground and the trickling blade across the down-turned cheek of the serjeant. He sought to encircle him in his death grip, but, in falling, the handle of the bayonet had struck the ground, driving the weapon even deeper in, and thus adding to his torture. But the greater his suffering, the more desperate became his thirst for revenge. He now managed to throw his arms round the neck of the Virginian, and said something in broken English, which, accompanied as his language was by a fiendish laugh rendering his countenance more hideous than ever, caused the latter to make the most furious endeavor to release himself, while with his right and disengaged hand he struck blindly with his knife at the uncovered throat of the Indian. But the weapon was soon wrested from his enfeebled hands, and the Chippewa, dexterously turning himself so as to get the body of his enemy completely under him, now tried to scalp him alive. Weak as he was, the young officer did not lose sight of his presence of mind. Scarcely had the scalping knife touched his head, when it was again withdrawn with the most horrible contortions of the whole body of the Chippewa. Fixing his eye on the Indian's face above that he might feast on the agony of the wretch who had just avowed himself to be the violator of his wife, while threatening a repetition of the outrage when the battle should be over, the Virginian had seized the handle of the bayonet, and turned the weapon so furiously in the wound as to cause one general laceration, the agony arising from which could only be comprehended from the spasmodic movements and wild bellowings of the savage. In order to free himself from the torture he was too much distracted by pain to think of removing by the instant death of his enemy, the Chippewa sprang suddenly upwards, but this movement only tended to increase the torments under which he writhed, for, as the Virginian held the handle firmly in his grasp, the bayonet was half withdrawn, and the sharp point forced, by the down-hanging weight of the socket, into a new direction. Wild with revenge and pain, he was at length in the act of raising his tomahawk to dispatch the Virginian, who had abandoned his hold of the bayonet, when a shot came from the front of the square, and Pee-to-tum fell dead across the bodies of both his immediate victims. Singular to say, the ball, aimed by Captain Headley himself at the upper part of his person, and during the only period when the Indians could be reached without danger to some one or other of the men, entered his brain over his injured eye, and forced out the other. The fall of the detested Chippewa--the head and stay of their battle--seemed greatly to dispirit the Pottowatomies, a band of about fifty of whom had followed them in this fierce onset. Of that number, some fifteen had perished, both in the hand-to-hand encounter with the immediate followers of Ronayne and several shots from the square. On the other hand, but four of the volunteers remained--Corporal Collins, Phillips, Weston, and Degarmo--the latter severely wounded. All the others had fallen, and, with the exception of Serjeant Nixon, been scalped. A cessation of the contest now ensued, and the Indians, holding up what was intended to be a flag of truce, asked permission to carry off the body of the Chippewa. Sensible how impolitic it would be to exasperate them without necessity, Captain Headley granted their request, adding that now the bad man who counselled them had been stricken down by the anger of the Great Spirit, he hoped they would come to their senses and obey their legitimate chiefs. A low murmuring among themselves was the only reply, as they placed the body in a blanket, drew the bayonet from the wound, from which followed a copious dark stream, and leisurely proceeded with their burden and the scalps they had secured to rejoin another body of their tribe who had been watching them in the distance, and who now rapidly advanced to meet them, evidently anxious to know why they returned unmolested, and what tidings they brought. Advantage was taken of this cessation of combat to bring back what remained of the gallant little band of volunteers within the square. The dead were left to moisten the sands on which they had so bravely fallen. Ronayne still lived, but he could not be removed. The slightest motion of his body brought with it agony little less excruciating than that which his enemy had experienced. He knew he must die, and he begged Captain Headley to let him perish where he was, under the shadow of the guns of his comrades, and in full sight of the forest which he knew contained all that he loved on earth. What he asked to be spared to him was a cloak to shield him from the burning heat of the sand, and a little water to moisten his parched lips. Oh! what would he not have given for a draught of the cool claret of the dinner of yesterday!	{ "id": "31745" }
24	None	"He that comforts my wife is the cherisher of my flesh and blood." --_All's Well. _ "What nearer debt in all humanity, than wife is to the husband." --_Troilus and Cressida. _ It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and a burning sun threw its strong rays upon the sandhill where stood prepared, for whatever further emergency might occur, the little band of American soldiers now reduced to less than one half of their original number. The acquisition of the three-pounder had greatly encouraged them for the moment, but, during the inaction that succeeded to the death and removal of the body of the fierce Chippewa, each had leisure to reflect on the but too probable issue of the struggle. As long as day remained to them, they felt that they could, while possessed of the gun and a sufficient quantity of ammunition, defend themselves; but when the darkness of night should come on, enabling their enemies to approach and surround them from all quarters, it must be vain to expect they could maintain the contest with the same success that had hitherto attended their extraordinary efforts. Inactivity, in a position of that kind, ever brings despondency, and from one evil the mind is prone to revert to another. The married men thought of their wives and children and the horrible fate that awaited them, and from the men of strong nerve which they had manifested themselves to be while in positive action, they now were fast becoming timid, and irresolute, and anxious. The sight of the many dead and scalped bodies of their comrades around them was not much calculated to reassure them. Meanwhile, Captain Headley had kept his glass almost constantly directed towards that part of the common adjoining the fort, where the great body of the Indians had now collected, and appeared to be in earnest deliberation. Among the number of those assembled he could distinctly make out Winnebeg, Waubansee, and Tee-pee-no-bee, the former of whom seemed to be addressing the younger Pottowatomies in energetic terms, while he frequently pointed to the blanket which contained the body of the slain Chippewa. At length, when he had been succeeded by the two other chiefs just named, who seemed to deliver themselves in a similar spirit, a yell apparently of assent and approval came from the dark mass, and in a few minutes a party of about a hundred detached themselves from the group, and preceded by the same flag that had been raised by the immediate followers of Pee-to-tum, slowly advanced towards the little square. "Courage, men," said Captain Headley, "we have not fought our steady battle for nothing; but let us give the credit of success where most it is due, We owe our preservation, if we are preserved, wholly to the gallantry of Ensign Ronayne. Had he not removed the spike from that gun, and fired it at the eventual sacrifice of his own life--nay more, had he not slain Pee-to-tum, our most bitter and relentless enemy--we should all have slept upon this field--that sight we should never have seen;" and he pointed to the rude flag of which Winnebeg was the bearer, and which was then half way from the point of departure of the band. "Even so," observed Lieutenant Elmsley--"to poor Ronayne, if this rag means anything pacific, and, from the fact of its being borne by Winnebeg, I have no doubt it does, must be ascribed our exemption from the fate of our unhappy comrades. Your ball was well aimed, Captain Headley, and hastened the death of the loathsome and vindictive savage; but never could he have survived that bayonet wound. Life must have ebbed away with the blood that followed its removal; yet," and this was said with a significance which his commanding officer seemed to understand, "it must be not a little satisfactory to you to know that your shot saved him from the tomahawk that was already raised to dispatch him." "Would that in doing so I had saved his life," returned Captain Headley, seriously. "How doubly unfortunate is our position--without a surgeon to attend the wounded. Von Voltenberg I have not seen during the day--I greatly fear he has fallen also." At this moment the Indians had come within about twenty paces of the square, one face of which Captain Headley had ordered to be opened to make a display of the gun behind which stood a man with a lighted match. Here they halted, looking with mixed regret, awe, and anxiety upon what they had so recently had in their own possession, while Winnebeg advanced a few paces to the front. "What would the chief Winnebeg?" asked Captain Headley, with dignity. "He brings with him a flag. Are the Pottowatomies sick with blood?" "The Pottowatomies are strong," returned the old warrior, in the figurative language of his race, "but they would not slay the brave. If the warriors of the white chief will lay down their arms and surrender themselves prisoners, their lives shall be spared." "This is well to promise," rejoined the commanding officer; "but what reason have we to believe that the Pottowatomies are serious? They know that we will fight to the last, and they seek to save their own lives by fair words." "On the faith of a chief, I pledge myself that their word shall be kept. Pee-to-tum is dead--he has no longer power over the young men, and they will now obey the voice of their own leaders." "The word of Winnebeg is always good," replied Capt. Headley, "but I distrust his young men; they received presents from their Great Father, and promised to escort his soldiers to Fort Wayne. How have they kept their word? Look around. More than half my soldiers lie there; but, not alone. If the Pottowatomie count well, they will find more than two Indians for every white man." "Our Father's warriors are brave," returned the chief, "and so the Pottowatomies would spare their blood. If they surrender their arms, I promise, in their name, that no more shall be spilt." "I will consult my brave soldiers--they shall decide," observed the commandant, "not that I doubt your word or your good intentions, Winnebeg, but as you had not the power to restrain your young men at first, how am I to know that you can do so now? At present we have arms in our hands, and can defend ourselves; but if we yield them up, we may be tomahawked the next moment. However, as I said before, my brave, followers shall decide." "Mr. Elmsley," he added, turning coolly to his subaltern, "count up our little force, and ascertain how many men of the detachment remain." "Two-and-twenty, sir," returned his subaltern, who had taken but a few minutes to enumerate them. "Two-and-twenty out of sixty with whom we advanced to the charge this morning, besides two officers--one mortally wounded, the other missing. Well, this is rather hot work; but you see, Winnebeg, that if our loss has been more than forty, including the Miamis, the Pottowatomies killed are more than double in number." Winnebeg replied not, but he looked imploringly at Captain Headley, as if desirous that he should accept the offered terms without irritating his people with allusions to their heavy loss. "Well, men," continued that officer, who had remarked the particular expression of the countenance of the chief, "what is your decision? I am perfectly ready to act as you shall say, either to fight to the last, or to surrender, with the chance of being knocked on the head afterwards." "Had we not better put it to vote, sir?" suggested Lieut. Elmsley; "the responsibility will then rest with the majority." "A good idea, Mr. Elmsley. So be it. The majority of votes shall decide whether we fight or surrender." The votes were accordingly taken, and the result was an equal division--eleven for surrendering and taking the chances of good faith--the other eleven, chiefly the unmarried men, for fighting to the last. "The casting vote is with you, Mr. Elmsley; that given, we return our answer," remarked Captain Headley. "Winnebeg," said the lieutenant, addressing him for the first time, "one question I would ask you first: know you anything of our wives--are they dead--and where is Mr. McKenzie?" "They are all alive," returned the chief with animation--"bad wound, though--Winnebeg help save him himself." Human nature could stand no more. Both officers, as if actuated by the same common impulse, met and embraced each other warmly. A mountain weight seemed to be taken from their oppressed hearts, and those two men, who had preserved the most cool and collected courage through the fearful, the appalling scenes of that day, stilling all their more selfish feelings, now suffered the warm tears to gush in silence from their eyes. The men beheld this sight with an emotion little inferior to their own, and many a tear trickled over their faces and moistened and mixed with the dark deposit left by the bitten cartridge, as they too rejoiced in the safety of those brave and noble women. "There can be no doubt what my decision in this matter will be now," remarked the lieutenant, when he had a little recovered from his emotion. "The good Winnebeg who has done thus much--saved those most dear to us--cannot want the power to save ourselves. My vote is for the surrender." "Winnebeg," said Captain Headley, with great feeling, "whatever doubts may have existed in our minds as to the propriety of surrendering, they are now wholly removed. We know your worth and humanity, and commit ourselves wholly to your good faith. Indeed, from the moment I saw you coming at the head of this party, after the death of the black-hearted Pee-to-tum, I felt that we were safe from further attack. Still, it was my duty to consult the men who had so bravely fought with me. We consent to become your prisoners, on three conditions--first, that we be suffered to retain our colors, which you see there wrapped round the dying body of Mr. Ronayne, the friend of your son; secondly, that we be permitted to bury our dead comrades; and thirdly, that we be surrendered to the nearest British post at the earliest opportunity." Winnebeg, after looking at the spot where the young officer lay, spoke for a few moments with his followers, who did not seem to relish the arrangement, for a good deal of animated conversation ensued between themselves; but at length the point was satisfactorily settled, and the former assented to the conditions of surrender Captain Headley had imposed. To have reposed any faith in the warriors themselves after what had occurred, that officer was now fully sensible would have been an act of madness; but he confidently hoped that, although Winnebeg and the other friendly chiefs might not have had the power to restrain the excitement of their young men in the first outburst of their rage for blood, their influence would to a certain extent be regained, now that the fiercest act in the drama had been played, and the chief actor was no more. The only thing that created uneasiness in him was the apprehension that the severity of their own loss might induce such a desire of vengeance in the minds of the warriors as to cause in them a renewal of their fury, and an utter disregard of the pledges of their leaders. Something however--indeed much--must be left to chance. As prisoners they might and would be saved, if the influence of their sager warriors and their own better feelings prevailed, while, as combatants, every man, without an exception, must have fallen. Moreover, the reason which had decided Lieutenant Elmsley in giving his vote had an equal influence in sustaining himself in the expediency of surrender. Their wives were prisoners, and a reunion with them was not impossible; whereas if they had resolved on defending themselves with the obstinacy of despair, that hope must have been for ever cut off, and the noble women--not to speak of the partners of their brave and humble followers--who had taken so prominent a share in the combat, wounded and sustained only by the faint possibility of a meeting with their husbands, would assuredly be made to undergo a similar fate. And now commenced the most humiliating part of the movements of the day--the breaking up of the gallant little square, and the return, flanked by their Indian captors, of the remains of the detachment to the fort. In compliance with the wish of Captain Headley, expressed at the suggestion of his men, instead of taking the route selected by Winnebeg in his advance, the party were suffered to return past the wagons. The scene which took place here was one of mingled consolation and despair. Such of the married men as had survived the conflict anxiously sought their wives, many of whom, with pale cheeks and sunken eyes, and hearts nearly crushed by the pitiless murder of their children, still wrung comfort in the midst of their despair, as they gazed once more on the features of those whom they had given up as lost for ever. But then, on the other hand, was the soul's misery complete of the poor women, widowed within the past few hours, who sought eagerly but in vain to distinguish the features of him who alone could console her under a similar bereavement, and who, with tears and sobs, sank back again into the wagon, in all the agony of increased and confirmed despair. It required stern hearts to behold all this unmoved; but the knowledge that their wives had been unharmed, whatever the savage destruction of their children, brought some little relief to the overcharged hearts of such of the married men as had been spared, and in their secret hearts they returned thanks to the Providence that had guarded not only their own lives, but the lives of those most dear to them.	{ "id": "31745" }
25	None	And with what feelings did they now re-enter the fort, and what an aspect did it present! Half-drunken Indians were yet engaged in the work of plunder and destruction, insomuch so that it scarcely appeared to them the same place from which they had sallied out in the morning; and there were moments when the stoutest-hearted wished that they had never returned to it, but perished on the field where their comrades lay, unconscious of the past, regardless of the future of desolation, of which all they saw seemed to give promise. The officers' quarters, and the blockhouses, which had afforded them protection and shelter during many a long year, were now burst open, and every article of heavy bedding and furniture hurled into the square--the latter ripped open, and broken, and the feathers and fragments strewn around as if in mockery of the neatness that had ever been a distinctive characteristic of the well--swept parade ground, where heretofore a pin might have been picked up without a finger being soiled in the act. These were, seemingly, too minute considerations to have weighed at such a moment when higher and more important interests were at stake; but, to the well-regulated eye of the soldier, accustomed to order and decorum, they were now mountains of inequality and discomfort, which contributed as much to the annoyance and mortification of his position as the very fact of captivity itself; and if this was the feeling generally of the men, how deep must have been its effect on the officers, and particularly on Capt. Headley, who had ever been punctilious to a nicety in all that regarded the internal arrangements of Fort Dearborn. But, offensive as this was, how much more so was it to behold many of the band fantastically arrayed, not only in their own clothing, but in that of their wives, desecrating, as it were, the terrible solemnity of the day, and mocking at the severity of suffering to which the latter had been subjected. Of the Indians who had formed their escort, some stopped outside the gate, others mixed with the spectators, and only about a dozen followed them to the mess room, which Winnebeg said he had selected for their temporary quarters, as being the least liable to interruption or molestation. He promised to send them food, and later in the evening, when all was quiet, to conduct the two officers to their wives, who, for greater quiet and security, were still lying concealed in the canoe where he had first placed them. "Winnebeg, Winnebeg," said Capt. Headley, solemnly, "how can we ever sufficiently repay you for your noble conduct to-day? Depend upon it, I shall not fail to make known to our Great Father that you have saved the lives of one third of the detachment; but let me remind you of the first part of our contract--the burial of the dead. There is plenty of daylight, and I wish to send out a dozen men for the purpose of digging one common grave for them all. Mr. Ronayne must, if not dead, be brought in on a litter; if, however, he is no more, no grave can be more honorable to him than that shared with his followers. You know, Corporal Collins, where the spades and picks are kept." "Yes, sir, I know where they are usually kept, and where it is not likely they have been disturbed. What men, sir, am I to take?" Almost every man in the detachment expressed his anxiety to be of the party; but the remainder of those who had been with the Virginian when he fell, and a few others, all unmarried men, were selected. "Do you not think, sir," said Lieutenant Elmsley, "that I should command this party and superintend the arrangements? Poor Ronayne must be delicately handled." "If you will do so, Mr. Elmsley, I shall be most glad; but not deeming it absolutely necessary, I did not propose it as a point of duty. But there is another thing to be considered: Winnebeg, what escort will you give to my people? You know your young men are excited, and many may not know of the conditions of our surrender." During this conversation, almost the whole of the Indians, to the number of eighteen or twenty, who have been alluded to as having plundered and offensively arrayed themselves in the dresses of the officers' wives, and who were evidently the most turbulent of the band, had been drawing gradually closer around the little party of prisoners. All were more or less ludicrously painted, and exhibited the most grotesque appearance. When the remnant of the detachment first entered the fort, it was remarked that one of them--a mere youth--had closely, almost impertinently, examined the features of the officers, and had followed, with most of his companions. When Captain Headley made his request for an escort, this individual suddenly went up to Winnebeg, tapped him on the shoulder, and said something, not in Pottowatomie but in Shawnee, accompanied by much gesticulation, which seemed to have great weight with the chief. "Give him escort, dis," said the latter in reply, as he glanced his eye quickly upon the group, and with seeming intelligence. "What! those men!" returned Captain Headley, with a shadow of remonstrance in his tone. "Yes, all good Pottowatomie--all brave warrior--no give him dis," and he pointed to those who had accompanied them from the field, "all too much tired with fight already--dis men stay here all day. No fight." Although by no means persuaded by the reasoning of Winnebeg, that men who had been plundering and drinking what they could find, during the whole of the morning, were the most proper persons to guard prisoners from the violence of excited enemies, Capt. Headley felt that it would be imprudent to urge any further opposition. For a single moment, it occurred to him that the chief had offered this escort with a hostile motive, but it was a thought which, involuntarily forced upon his mind, was as instantly discarded as unworthy of the chief, and, whatever might have been his latent misgivings, he no longer opposed an objection. The preparations were soon made; the litter, and materials for digging found, and the little party, who had taken off their uniforms to avoid particular remark, and to be more free in their movements, sallied forth. On passing near the gate, and in a direction opposite to that by which they had just entered, they beheld the body of Doctor Von Voltenberg, within a few paces of the pathway by which they now advanced, which was the route taken by the Indians with the three-pounder. He was stripped to the skin, scalped, and with a profusion of large green flies and ants of the prairie settled on and seemingly disputing possession of the dark and coagulated blood that was already incrusted on the festering wound. The body was fast becoming bloated and discolored under the rays of an August sun, but no one could mistake the black and the peculiarly cut whisker, and the good natured and smiling expression of face which even in death had not wholly deserted him. They had now reached the point where the Indians stood when the first grenades were thrown in among them by the followers of Ronayne. From this could be commanded a full view of the theatre of contest as far as the crest of the sandhill, being a full musket-shot from the spot where he had last fallen. The intermediate space, as has already been remarked, was thickly strewn with dead bodies amounting in all to upwards of a hundred, and the place chosen for interment by Lieutenant Elmsley was the small copse of underwood, from which the flank movement had been made upon Ronayne by the fresh band of Indians upon whom he had directed the fire of the three-pounder. While occupied in digging a grave of about twenty feet square, their strangely attired looking escort amused themselves with examining the dead uniformed bodies that lay strewed thickly around, and it was remarked that they showed no such curiosity in regard to their own people who were indiscriminately mixed up with them. Gradually they approached the crest of the hill, and Lieutenant Elmsley, who was distrustful of their intentions, and kept a close eye upon their movements, saw the youth, already noticed, suddenly bound with uplifted tomahawk towards the spot where poor Ronayne was known to lie, and, after addressing a few words to his companions, stoop over his body, with what intention he could not make out, but he presumed to dispatch and to scalp him, for the cry uttered by the Virginian and heard even at that distance, was piteous to hear. Desiring the men to go on with their work, and collect the bodies as soon as it was completed, he hurried rapidly to the scene of this new action, and as he advanced saw another and a much stronger party of Indians approaching the same spot. Rapidly their escort closed in upon the officer over whom the young warrior was kneeling, and stooping down, drew from their victim another moan of inexpressible anguish. All then rose, and, grouped together, moved away parallel with the said ridge until they were finally lost behind a sudden elevation that continued the hill in an obtuse angle towards the forest. Startled by the appearance of these fresh comers, Lieut. Elmsley paused for a moment in his advance, but feeling that any appearance of mistrust might act unfavorably upon the band, he renewed his course, expecting at every moment to reach the mangled body of his friend. The Indians approached the same point at the same time, and he saw at once that the majority were composed of those who had accompanied Winnebeg when he came to offer terms to Captain Headley. Trusting, therefore, that there was no violence to be apprehended from those who were aware of the fact of the surrender, towards himself or party, he proceeded to search for his friend; but, to his surprise, his body was not to be seen. He could not be mistaken as to the spot where it had lain, close to Sergeant Nixon; but, though the latter was nearly in the same position in which he had fallen, the knife which he had used upon the throat of the Chippewa, and the imprint of his body upon the sand, deeply moistened with the blood of both, was the only indication of Ronayne's having been there. It was evident that he had been carried off by the strange party who had formed their escort, and that the cries of agony uttered by him had been produced by the torture of moving his broken limb. What the motive for this new outrage could have been, it was difficult to conjecture, unless it was to secure at their leisure, and before the other party of Indians came up to dispute possession of the spoils with them--not only his scalp, but the blood-stained colors which he bore--perhaps to sell the latter as a trophy to the British. Without condescending to bestow the slightest notice upon the officer, the Indians approached the bodies, and leisurely proceeded to strip them of their clothing. Their leader, uttering a yell of delight and surprise as he came near it, sprang upon the sergeant and secured the scalp, which Pee-to-tum had failed to take. This piece of good fortune led the others to hope for something similar, and they accordingly dispersed themselves rapidly over the scene of combat, examining every head and stripping everybody. All this was done without Lieut. Elmsley having the slightest power to interfere, for he knew that any attempt at remonstrance would only be to provoke a similar fate, and thus the party passed on, stripping every soldier to the skin. While he lingered hesitatingly near the spot whence his friend had been so singularly removed, waiting for the plunderers of the dead to depart before he should rejoin his men, his ears were suddenly assailed by a piercing shriek from the further extremity of the underwood in which the latter were digging, and which extended about two hundred yards on the left of the plain below. At once he knew the cry, and comprehended its cause; and rushing down the sandhill without thought of the new danger to which he might be exposed, turned the corner of the small wood, and stopping abruptly at a point where he could see without being noticed himself, beheld A sight as distressing as, a few moments before, it had been unexpected. With his uncovered head slightly raised, and reposing upon the projecting root of a tall tree that rose capriciously, yet majestically, amid the stunted growth around, lay the enfeebled and dying Ronayne extended upon a pile of clothing formed of the very dresses that had now been doffed for the purpose by his escort. By his side knelt his wife, disguised in the neat dress of one of Wau-nan-gee's sisters, and gazing into his pale face with a silent expression of agony which no language could render. But though his face was wan, and his eye gradually losing its lustre, the arm of the officer closely clasped around the waist of his wife, ever and anon strained her so passionately, so convulsively to his heart that a new fire seemed at these moments to be enkindled in both--and to prove all the intensity of the undiminished love he bore her. Neither spoke. Speech could not so well convey what was passing in their sad souls as could their looks, while the exhausted state of the wounded officer rendered exertion of any kind not merely painful but impossible. On the other side of the Virginian, who held his hand affectionately in his feeble grasp, stooped the young Indian already noticed, and standing grouped round, and gazing with evident sorrow on the scene, were his companions. The youth was Wau-nan-gee. His companions were his immediate and devoted friends--those who had sought to make the young officer a prisoner on a former occasion, when, had they succeeded, all this trial of the wife's agony might have been spared. On the first exit of the troops they had rushed into the fort on the pretence of plunder and excess, in the hope that their example would be imitated by many, and that thus the detachment might be left to pursue its route comparatively unharmed. And to a certain extent they succeeded, for many did follow them, and Pee-to-tum among the rest, whose absence in the first onset of the battle had dispirited the Indians, whom he had first excited, and given the Americans an advantage of which they never lost sight until the close. To have taken an active part in the defence, would have been not only impossible but impolitic, but in the course they had pursued they had no doubt saved such of the detachment as remained, for had all been engaged--had all borne a prominent share in the attack, the event, from the great disparity of numbers, could not have long been doubtful. When Wau-nan-gee, whose anxiety to know his fate had been great, first heard from his father of the wounded condition of Ronayne, he had proffered himself and friends as the escort of the detachment, intending to bear off the body, without being seen by the other Indians, to his mother's tent, where his wounds might be dressed and his life saved by the care and attention of his own wife. All these particulars Lieut. Elmsley subsequently ascertained from Winnebeg, for anxious as he was to take a last leave of his dying friend, and to express his joy at once again beholding, even under these disheartening circumstances, her for whom both himself and his wife had ever entertained the strongest friendship, the officer was afraid to move from the spot where, unseen himself, he had witnessed all, lest by suddenly exciting and agitating, he should abruptly destroy the life which was evidently fast drawing to a close. To have broken that solemn and silent communion of spirits, would, he felt, have been sacrilege, and he abstained; and yet, as if fascinated by the sight, he could not leave the spot--he could not abandon his dearest and best friends without lingering to know how far his services might yet be available to both or one. Apparently, Mrs. Ronayne had not uttered a sound since that piercing cry had escaped her which attested her first knowledge of the hopeless condition of her wounded husband. The attempt to carry him off the field, with the view not only of preventing him from being scalped, as he certainly would have been by the party then advancing, but of conveying him to the Indian camp of the women, had been productive of the greatest suffering; so much so that when he had gained the point where he now lay, and where his wife had first met him, he declared to Wau-nan-gee his utter inability to proceed further, and prevailed on him to place him on the ground that he might die in quiet. It was now near sunset, and the condition of the Virginian was momentarily becoming weaker. He suddenly made an attempt to rally, and for a moment or two raised himself upon the elbow of the hand that still encircled the waist of his wife. "Maria, my soul's adored!" he murmured, "I feel that I have not many moments left, and I should die in despair did I not know that there is one who will protect you while he has life. God knows what has been the fate of our poor companions, but even if living, they cannot shield you from danger. Wau-nan-gee," he said, turning faintly to the youth, "two things I am sure you will promise your friend--first, to conduct yourself in all things as my wife--your sister--desires; secondly, to conceal and guard these colors until you can deliver them up to the nearest American fort." Then, when the youth had solemnly promised, with tears filling his dark eyes, that he would faithfully execute the trust, he turned again to his wife, and said in a tone that marked increased exhaustion at the effort he had made, "Maria, sweet, it is hard to die thus--to leave you thus; but yet you will not be alone--Wau-nan-gee will love and protect you, obey your will: yet you need not now fear, I have avenged your wrong--that wrong of which the ruffian boasted when I slew him--tortured him--the monster. How different the gentle love of this affectionate boy! But I have not strength--oh, what sickly faintness comes over me! surely this must be ----." "Death!" he would have added, but silence had for ever sealed the lips that never more would speak his undying affection for his noble, graceful, and accomplished wife. For some moments the unhappy woman continued to gaze upon the still features of her husband as though unconscious of the extent of her great misery, and when the reaction came, it was not expressed in shrieks or lamentations, or strong outward manifestations of emotion, but in the calm, serene, condensed silence of the sorrow that stultifies and annihilates. Her cheek was pale as marble, and there was a fixedness of the eye almost alarming to behold, as she rose erect from her bending position, and said, with severity, "This and more have your cursed people done, Wau-nan-gee! I shall ever hate to look upon an Indian face again! Yet that body must be buried deep in the ground, and in a spot known only to us both, where none may violate the dead. You have promised to obey me in all things. This is the first charge upon you. Let us go--the night is fast approaching, and the place remains to be reached, and the grave is to be dug. By to-morrow's dawn we travel together and alone through the wilderness, in execution of the will of your friend and my husband. Mark that, Wau-nan-gee! It is his will that we travel together--that you shall be my guide and protector. See this dress, how well it disguises me. I shall be taken, as we journey, for your squaw. Ha! ha! That will be excellent, will it not? Maria Heywood--Ronayne's wife--the mistress of a fiend--then Wau-nan-gee's squaw--and not yet six weeks married to the first!" She suddenly paused, put her hand to her brow--seemed to reflect, and then turning to Wau-nan-gee, inquired why he lingered so long and wherefore he did not replace the body in the litter and depart. With a pensive and serious mien the youth, who had been still kneeling, absorbed in sorrow at the strange coldness of Mrs. Ronayne's manner, and afraid to disturb her in a distraction which he comprehended more from her looks and actions than her language, now rose, and saying something in a low tone to his companions, who had also regarded her throughout with silent surprise, the covering on which the body of the unfortunate officer reposed, was placed upon the blanket, which four of the party held extended, and at the direction of Wau-nan-gee the whole proceeded towards the forest. When this strange and dispiriting scene had terminated, Lieut. Elmsley, who felt at each moment in a greater degree the uselessness of any interference in his powerless position, was rejoiced that at least the last moments of his friend had been consoled by the presence of his wife; he was led to hope that it had been the result of a momentarily-disordered brain, on which despair had now wreaked its worst, and which, therefore, might be expected to regain a stronger if not its wonted tone when the bitterness of grief should have somewhat subsided. Proposing to prevail on Winnebeg to obtain for him a meeting with her on the morrow, when the remains of her husband should have been consigned to their rude resting-place, he returned towards his party, whom he found in the act of covering up the bodies which they had, unmolested by the Indians, brought in from the different points where they had fallen. The grave was soon filled up--a short and mournful prayer read by the officer from memory, and the party returned full of gloom, and with hearts bowed down by sorrow, to the dismantled and desolate-looking fort.	{ "id": "31745" }
26	None	"This act is an ancient tale twice told." --_King John. _ The wretchedness of that night who can tell! the despondency that filled the hearts of all, not so much in regard to the present as from apprehension for the future, who, untried in the same ordeal, can comprehend? but the feelings of the remnant of that little band, who were indebted for their safety to their own bravery, were not selfish. They lamented as deeply the fate of the fallen, as the dark and uncertain future that awaited themselves--uncertain because, although the chiefs had promised, and with sincerity, that they should be given up as prisoners of war at the nearest post, they had seen too much of the falsehood of the race generally to rely implicitly on its fulfilment by the warriors. Alas! where were their comrades--friends, nay, brothers of yesterday? Where was the brave, the noble-hearted Wells--where the once gay, ever high-spirited Ronayne--where poor Von Voltenberg--the manly Sergeant Nixon, a Virginian also--the faithful Corporal Green--and nearly two thirds of the privates of the detachment? The very fact of being in the fort again, and everywhere surrounded by objects rendering more striking the contrast between the past and the present, was agony in itself. There was scarcely a man among them who would not have preferred bivouacking, in the wild wood, amid storm and tempest, and the howling of beasts of prey, to resting that night within the polluted precincts of what had so recently been their safeguard and their pride. Fortunately, the two surviving officers were, in some measure, exempt from these mortifications. True to his word, Winnebeg had caused Mrs. Headley and Mrs. Elmsley to be conveyed undercover of the darkness from their place of concealment to the mansion of Mr. McKenzie, which, from the great popularity of the trader with the whole of the Indian tribes, had been left untouched--he himself having been looked upon as a non-combatant, and, therefore, spared from all personal outrage. The meeting between the husbands and their wives--both the former also slightly wounded during the day--was, as may be supposed, most affecting. Neither had ever expected, on parting in the morning, to behold each other; and now, although more or less injured, to find those who were preserved, as it were, by a miracle from a cruel death, with a prospect of future happiness, the past was for the moment forgotten, and gratitude to God for their preservation the dominant feeling of their souls. The examination of the wounds of the heroines was the next consideration. Most fortunate was it that of all the wounds received by the ladies--seven by Mrs. Headley and three by Mrs. Elmsley--not one was of a nature to disable or impede the motion of their lower limbs. A ball that had lodged in her arm, however, gave the former great pain; but, alas! there was no Von Voltenberg to cut it out. In this extremity, Winnebeg said he knew an Indian who was very expert at incision, and that he would procure his attendance. Meanwhile the party were enabled to partake of some refreshments which had been ordered on the departure of Winnebeg for his charge; and exhausted as all had been by intense anxiety and emotion, from the moment of their setting out almost to the present, this was truly acceptable, especially to the two officers. In the course of the repast, allusion was made to the gallantry and suffering of the unfortunate. Ronayne, when, on Captain Headley asking, for the first time, what had been done with the body, Lieut. Elmsley proceeded to relate all that he had heard and witnessed a few hours previously. This singular detail excited not only surprise but pain, especially in Mrs. Headley, whose deep friendship for, and interest in, both husband and wife had already been so strongly exhibited. It is not often that, in the hour of our keenest suffering, we have much sympathy to bestow upon others; but the noble woman had known the ill-fated Maria too intimately--known her too well--not to feel deep sorrow for the double affliction under which she labored. In the confession, if such it can be called, which he had committed to writing and subsequently transmitted by Wau-nan-gee, as well as in her wild and unconnected language on the day of the fatal occurrence itself, she had alluded to something terrible--an attempt at outrage, but in those vague terms of violated modesty which left the extent only to be surmised. No one of those who knew the contents of her communication, had suspected or presumed the worst, and had it not been for the avowal by Ronayne of his vengeance for the avowed fulfilment of the hellish and sacrilegious lust of the hideous monster, and the strange admission that fell in her despair from Mrs. Ronayne herself, the secret must have died with themselves. It was not exactly a subject for discussion, under ordinary circumstances, and before everyday women; but here not only were the parties cognizant few in number, but actuated by nobler motives than those which would have governed mere worldly and censuring people. Moreover, the nature of their connexion with each other, and with the victims themselves--for it was shown that Ronayne had received his mortal wound from the rifle of the Chippewa--even the atrocity complained of, connected as it was with all the horrors of the past day, not only justified but compelled it. "She must not be left where she is," gravely remarked Mrs. Headley, after some moments of reflection; "cannot Winnebeg, the good Winnebeg, whom, perhaps, we have taxed too much, be persuaded to bring her to us? Now that the worst has happened she will be far happier--more contented, by sharing our fortunes, whatever they may be, than remaining in the Indian encampment, cut off from every kindred association. What think you, Mrs. Elmsley?" "Oh, I shall be too delighted to see, and to soothe her sorrow. As a sister, I have ever loved her--as a sister, I love her still." "Then, assuredly," returned Mrs. Headley, "will she not hesitate to overcome her false delicacy, and to consider herself, what she really is, the victim of misfortune, and not of guilt, when a mother and a sister united look upon her as pure in thought as in the days of her unwedded innocence, and offer her what home may be preserved to themselves." "Generously, nobly said!" remarked Lieutenant Elmsley, pressing the hand of his wife and looking his feelings as he caught the eye of the last speaker. "I had intended to ask Winnebeg not to simply go himself, but to permit me to accompany him, that I might know her intention and offer her my aid. What I have now heard confirms me in my design. Early to-morrow morning, if he assents, we shall go over. But here he is himself, with the Indian who is to perform the operation on your arm, Mrs. Headley." The door opened, and Winnebeg entered, followed by a tall, powerful, good-looking Pottowatomie, who glanced inquisitively around the apartment with the air of one who expects an unpleasant recognition, nor was it apparently without reason, for the moment Mrs. Elmsley beheld him, she uttered an involuntary shriek, and drew back with every manifestation of disgust. The Indian remarked it, and sought to retire, but Mrs. Elmsley, suddenly recollecting herself, and fearing so to offend him as to prevent the aid he had come to render, rose and held out her hand to him, saying, with an attempt at a smile-- "Never mind--although we have fought a hard battle together to-day, it is all over now. Let us be friends. Winnebeg, explain this to him." Winnebeg did so, when, with a mingled look of astonishment and pleasure, the Pottowatomie warmly returned her pressure. It was the same warrior with whom she had grappled, in the desperation of a last hope, when so opportunely extricated from her perilous position by Black Partridge. As he had the reputation of much expertness in making incisions and removing balls lodged in the flesh, his attendance had been requested. Calm and composed, although evidently laboring under deep dejection for the loss of her uncle, the horrible mode of whose death had, however, been kept back from her, Mrs. Headley, dressed in the light-textured riding habit in which she had gone forth in the morning, and which, it has already been remarked, set off her finely moulded bust and waist to the best advantage, prepared to submit herself to the operation. As she raised herself up on the ottoman on which she reclined, Mrs. Elmsley cut open the sleeve to the shoulder, thus laying bare one of the most magnificent arms that ever was appended to a woman's body, the dazzling whiteness of whose contour was only dimmed in the fleshy part above, and in the immediate vicinity of the spot where the ball had entered. At a sign from Captain Headley, the Indian, who had been talking aside with his chief, now approached, but no sooner did he behold the uncovered limb, when, either dazzled by its brilliancy, which to him must have seemed in a great degree superhuman, or shocked that anything so beautiful should have been thus wounded, he suddenly stopped, and while his eyes were as if fascinated, the blood could be seen suddenly to recede from his dark cheek. "No, father," he said to Winnebeg, "I cannot do it. I cannot cut that arm open--the very thought makes me sick here"--and he pointed to his heart. "I cannot do it." Although this involuntary homage to the rich, full, and moulded beauty of a limb which was but a sample of the perfection of the whole person, and which in a woman seldom attains its fullest harmony of proportion before the mature age which Mrs. Headley had attained, was not exactly that of the porter who, at an earlier period, solicited the famous Duchess of Gordon to permit him to light his pipe at her ladyship's brilliant eyes, it was certainly conceived in much of a similar spirit, and Mrs. Headley could scarce herself suppress a smile when she remarked the effect upon the Indian. And yet this man had been one of the foremost in the attack, and at his waist, even then, dangled more scalps than had been taken by any other warrior during the day. "Well," said Mrs. Headley, on the Pottowatomie continuing resolute in his refusal to touch the wound--"somebody must do this act of charity, for the ball gives me much pain. Mr. McKenzie," she added, with that sort of smile that may be attributed to a person seeking to assume an air of unconcern even when most disheartened--"you have long been accustomed to use the dissecting knife on the buffalo and the bear: do you not think that you could find the courage necessary for the occasion!" "Most decidedly; I will make the attempt if you desire it," returned the trader; "but I fear that my surgical apparatus is Very limited indeed. Von Voltenberg having been stripped, all his instruments have, doubtless, been plundered, so it is no use to look for aid there; and the only thing with which I can try my skill is a common but very sharp penknife." "Try whatever you please," said Mrs. Headley; "only relieve me of this suffering; that which you may inflict cannot possibly be worse"--and unflinchingly extending her arm, she waited for him to begin. For the first time in his life Mr. McKenzie felt nervous. There was a greater amount of courage required to cut into the delicate flesh, of a woman than even to _kill_ a bear or a buffalo; but as he had promised, he summoned up his resolution and skill to the task. The Pottowatomie, bedizened with scalps as he was, had remained to witness the cutting out of the ball; and nothing could surpass the expression of surprise that pervaded his features, as he keenly watched the almost immovability of Mrs. Headley from the moment that the blade of the penknife, dexterously enough handled, entered into the flesh and effected the incision necessary to enable the ball to be removed. When the operation was finished, and the ball produced, he started suddenly to his feet, and uttered a sharp exclamation, denoting approbation of her wonderful courage. He asked, as a favor, to retain the ball as a testimony of her heroism; when Mrs. Headley presented it to him with her own hand. And with this he departed, exulting as though he had taken a new scalp. This incident, perhaps unimportant in itself, was not without some moment in the results to which it led. On the day following the fort was filled with Indians and their squaws not only endeavoring to assert their claims to individual prisoners, but infuriated at the losses, seeking a victim to the manes of their deceased relatives. Among others was an aged squaw, who had lost a favorite son in the battle, and who, having been told by a warrior that he had distinctly seen him killed by a shot from Mrs. Headley's rifle, repaired to the house of Mr. McKenzie, where she knew she then was, bent upon exciting the general sympathy of the warriors in her favor, and obtaining their assent that she should revenge his death upon the "white squaw." It happened, however, that the noble woman, feeling great relief from the abstraction of the ball from her left arm the preceding evening, and feeling secure in the pledge entered into by Winnebeg, and confirmed in a measure by his people, had fearlessly mounted her horse, which had been recovered for her, and ridden alone to the baggage wagons for the purpose of procuring some article which, at the moment, she much required. As she was returning, and when near the entrance to the fort, she was met by the vixen, furious with rage and disappointment at not having found her. Advancing with a cry that might be likened to that of a fiend, she seized the bridle of the horse, and attempted to drag his rider by her habit to the ground--shrieking forth at the same time her determination to have her life who had taken the life of her son. But Mrs. Headley was not one, as the reader of this by no means fictitious narrative already knows, to be thus intimidated. She possessed too much of the high spirit, the resolute nature of her unfortunate uncle to submit quietly to the outrage, and, moreover, she knew enough of the Indian character to be sensible that it was not by any manifestation of submission that she could hope to escape the threatened danger. Her course was at once taken. She struck the gaunt and shrivelled hag such a violent stroke over her shoulder with the horsewhip of cowhide she held, that the latter was compelled to release her hold; and, as she rushed into the fort, calling on the Indians to revenge her son and kill the white squaw, the latter followed her completely round the square, using her cowhide with a dexterity and an effect, as she leaned over her saddle, that drew bursts of laughter and approval from the warriors eagerly gazing on the scene. At one moment, there was a manifestation of a desire to carry out the wishes of the crone and kill Mrs. Headley, and several voices were loud in the expression, but suddenly then stood forth the Pottowatomie of the preceding evening, the antagonist of Mrs. Elmsley, who, from his commanding appearance, not less than by the prestige of his bravery imparted by the numerous fresh scalps at his side, soon made himself an object of attention. None of the chiefs were present. "The white squaw shall not be killed," he pronounced, as he held up his tomahawk authoritatively; "she is brave like a Pottowatomie warrior. See here," holding up first five and then two fingers--"so many balls have hit her, and yet she is here, on horseback, as if nothing had happened. What Indian would have courage to do that? Speak!" "Pwau-na-shig lies," returned the beldam, whom Mrs. Headley had now ceased to punish, yet who, panting from the speed she had used in her flight, was almost inarticulate, thereby provoking the greater mass of the Indians knowing its cause to increased mirth--"the white squaw has no wounds--where are they--she cannot show them. If she had wounds she could not sit on her horse; but she has killed my son, and I demand her blood. Let her be given up to my tomahawk." A loud and confused murmur burst from many of the group, influenced by the words of the last speaker. Mrs. Headley sat her horse with indifference, patting his head gently with the whip, yet looking earnestly towards Pwau-na-shig, upon whom she now altogether relied. "The mother of Tuh-qua-quod is a foolish old woman, and knows not what she says," vociferated the tall warrior; "do you doubt the word of Pwau-na-shig--see here," and he took from his pouch and held up to view between his finger and thumb the bullet which had been extracted the preceding evening. "That," he said, "I saw taken from her flesh with my own eyes--she did not move--she made no sign, of pain--she was like a warrior's wife; but you shall see what Pwau-na-shig says is true." He approached Mrs. Headley, who, comprehending his object, shifted her rein to the whip hand, and calmly extended her left arm. Where it had been cut open, the sleeve of her riding habit was fastened from the wrist to the shoulder by narrow dark ribbons, which had been sewn on the previous evening by Mrs. Elmsley, and these the Pottowatomie proceeded to untie; then turned back the sleeve, as well as the snow--white linen of the upper arm, soiled only with her own blood, until the whole was revealed. Apparently as much struck by the brilliancy and symmetry of the limb as Pwau-na-shig himself had been, the warriors--even those who had been most clamorous in support of the demand of the old squaw--were now unanimous in their low expressions of admiration; nor was this sentiment at all lessened when, following from the wrist the rich contour of the swelling arm, it finally rested upon the wound she herself had divested of its slight drapery. The incision made by the penknife of Mr. McKenzie, at least three, inches in length, had assumed a slight character of inflammation, and contrasting as it did with the astounding whiteness of every other portion of the limb, gave it the appearance of being much more severe than it really was. But it was not the wound alone that enlisted the feelings of the Indians in favor of Mrs. Headley. Connected with that was the coolness she had evinced throughout the whole affair from the persevering flogging of the harridan, who sought her scalp, to the graceful unconcern with which she sat her horse when she must have known that it was then a question under discussion whether her life should be taken or not. This, with the fact of the wound which they then saw, and their no longer doubt of the existence of many others, were undeniable evidences of her heroism, and at that moment Mrs. Headley was regarded by these wild people with a higher respect than she had ever commanded in the palmiest days of her husband's influence with the race. "No kill him," said Pwau-na-shig, exultingly, as he remarked the effect produced on his companions--"white chiefs wife good warrior." "No, no kill him," answered another voice, in broken English also. "Dam fine squaw--wish had him wife--get brave papoose." A general expression of assent came from the band, when Mrs. Headley, whose sleeve had again been rudely tied by Pwau-na-shig, fearing that if she remained longer another reaction might take place, pressed the hand of the Indian with a warmth of gratitude that brought the strong fire into his eye and the warm blood into his cheek, turned her horse's head, and cantered out of the fort, followed by the wild ravings of the beldam, who tore her long and matted grey hair and stamped her feet in fury at the disappointment. In a few minutes she was again at the door of Mr. McKenzie, and alighted in the arms of her husband, who, alarmed at her long absence, was in the act of leaving the house in search of her when she arrived. "There come Elmsley and Winnebeg, but unaccompanied," remarked Captain Headley, when, in reply to his inquiry as to the cause of her long absence, she said she would tell him later. "I fear that they have been unable to prevail upon Maria to leave the new home of her election." "I am sorry for it," gravely returned his wife. "I must say her choice is not exactly what I should have expected; but here they are--we shall soon know. Well, Mr. Elmsley," she added, as that officer ascended the veranda, followed by Winnebeg, "what news do you bring of the truant?" "I scarcely know whether to consider it good or bad," returned the lieutenant, with an air of disappointment; "but I have not seen Mrs. Ronayne. There seems to have been more method than madness in her language to Wau-nan-gee of yesterday, for this morning she departed with him to Detroit." "Indeed," remarked Mrs. Headley; "you surprise me, Mr. Elmsley; but does she perform that long journey on foot?" "No; Winnebeg ascertained from his wife that she was mounted on her own horse, and that Wau-nan-gee, having visited and returned from. Hardscrabble during the night with a couple of trunks, she had made up two large packages, which were tied to the back of her saddle, while the youth strapped two others similarly prepared with provisions, behind his own pony. Thus provided, and Wau-nan-gee with his rifle on his shoulder and otherwise well armed, they set out at daybreak. "Poor Maria! what your eventful destiny will be, heaven only knows," sighed Mrs. Headley; "for not only the road but the course you pursue is one beset with danger. But our lots are now cast in different channels, and we have need of attention to ourselves. Come in, Winnebeg, while I relate to you the somewhat narrow escape I have again had from the tomahawk since you left this morning." "Good God! what do you mean?" simultaneously exclaimed the two officers. Winnebeg stared and looked as if he did not fully comprehend. "Oh! quite an adventure, I can assure you; and who do you think was my devoted knight-errant?" "What a subject to jest about, Ellen!" remarked her husband, half reprovingly. "To whom do you allude?" "Only the tall warrior who tried so desperately to get your wife's scalp, Mr. Elmsley." "What, Pwau-na-shig?" "The same. You cannot imagine what a conquest I have made; but let us go in--the story is too good not to be told to all, and I presume both Mrs. Elmsley and her father are in." "They are," said Captain Headley, as the lieutenant gave his arm to conduct her into the house. ------ Little remains to be added to our tale. Of the incidents that occurred to Wau-nan-gee and his charge, after their departure from the camp of the Pottowatomies, we might, and may, speak hereafter; but, as it is not essential to our present design, and would necessarily occupy far more space than is consistent with the limits we have been compelled to prescribe to ourselves for the detail of the attack and partial massacre of the garrison of Fort Dearborn, we forbear. We had always intended the facts connected with the historical events of that period to be divided into a series of three, like the Guardsmen, Mousquetaires, and Twenty Years After, of Dumas. Two of these, embracing different epochs and circumstances, we have completed in "Hardscrabble" and "Wau-nan-gee;" and whether the third, on a different topic than that of war, and which, as we have just observed, is not necessary to the others, ever finds embodiment in the glowing language and thought of Nature, nursed and strengthened in Nature's solitude, will much depend on the interest with which its predecessors shall have been received. Yet, whether we do so or not, we trust the sweet, the gentle Maria Ronayne--the loadstone of attraction to all who knew her, will have excited sufficient interest in those of her own sex who have followed her in her hitherto chequered fate to induce in them a desire to know more of the destiny to which she seemed to have been born. Of the other characters, scarcely less interesting, we can speak with greater confidence. On the third day after the battle, the prisoners, including Mr. McKenzie and the members of his household, were removed from Chicago, and scattered about in small and separate parties, at various intervals of distance from Mackinaw, then in possession of the British. Here Mrs. Headley remained some time, in order that she might recover sufficiently from her troublesome wounds, when Winnebeg, in whose immediate charge she and her husband were, learning that his people manifested impatience at the indulgence shown to them, and with their usual fickleness and inconsistency, desired to have them given up to their own custody, paddled them, aided only by his squaw, from their village, a distance of three hundred miles along the shores of Lake Michigan to the post of Mackinaw, whence the prisoners, who had been received with all the courtesy the knowledge of their position and the fame of their deeds could not fail to inspire, by the gentlemanly commander of that post, were subsequently transferred to the general then commanding at Detroit. And great was the curiosity of the young British officers then in garrison at the latter post, to behold this noble and accomplished woman, the reputation of whose coolness and courage, under the most trying circumstances, had been widely circulated by her friend, Mrs. Elmsley, who, with her father and husband, had some weeks preceded her to the same quarter. Little did we at the time, as we shared in the general and sincere homage to her magnificence of person and brilliancy of character, dream that a day would arrive when we should be the chronicler of Mrs. Headley's glory, or have the pleasing task imposed upon us of re-embodying, after death, the inimitable grace and fulness of contour that then fired the glowing heart of the unformed boy of fifteen for the ripened and heroic, although by no means bold or masculine woman of forty. THE END.	{ "id": "31745" }
1	None	In the days of the Cæsars the country surrounding Rome vied in splendour and luxury with the capital itself. Throughout the whole region appeared the villas of Roman patricians, abodes of aristocratic comfort, where every artist, from the sculptor to the--cook, had done his utmost to render them attractive and beautiful. These noble patricians, many of whom had incomes of eight or nine millions, often found themselves in the unpleasant position of being obliged to avoid Rome. Weariness, wounded vanity, insurrections of the people and the prætorians, but especially distrust of the Cæsar, compelled them to turn their backs upon the imperial city and retire to their country estates. Thus, for several years, Mesembrius Vio, the oldest Senator--who since the death of Probus had not set foot in Rome nor given the Senate a glimpse of him--had resided on his estate at the mouth of the Tiber. True, he said it was on account of the gout and the cataracts from which his feet and his eyes suffered; and his visitors always found him sitting in his curule chair, with his ivory crutch in his hand and a broad green shade over his eyes. The old man had two daughters. One, Glyceria, had married when very young, thanks to the imperial favour, a great lord who had become a libertine; soon after the libertine lost his head, and his property, as well as the imperial favour, went to the beautiful widow, who in a short time had the reputation of being the Aspasia of the Roman capital. Of course, Mesembrius was not only blind, but deaf, when Glyceria was mentioned in his presence; he himself never permitted her name to cross his lips. His second daughter was Sophronia, who was always by the old man's side at his country estate. A beautiful and virtuous maiden, she seemed to unite the charms of three Greek goddesses: the graceful form of Venus, the noble beauty of Juno's countenance, and the purity of Psyche. Yet Sophronia owed no special gratitude to heathen goddesses; on the seashore nearby lived the wise Eusebius, the descendant of the apostle, and the beautiful girl had long attended the secret meetings where the holy man announced to the followers of Christ the doctrine of the one God who dwells in the soul. Old Mesembrius knew that his favourite daughter was secretly a proselyte of the new faith, and he did not oppose it; nay, he did not even let his daughter perceive that he had any idea of it. Young sons of patrician families often came from Rome, lured by the fame of the maiden's beauty, and all cherishing the hope of obtaining her hand and with it her millions. Mesembrius received them very kindly, arranged great banquets in their honour, and brought out wine a century old. The youths were soon intoxicated by the liquid fire, and after the last libation each one showed himself in his true colours and poured forth the most secret thoughts in his heart. Old Mesembrius listened and reflected. One unmasked himself as a profligate; another was free from such tastes, but developed great talent for being slave and despot in the same person; and even if an _omnibus numeris salutus_ was found, he showed, when the last subject--his opinion of Christianity--was introduced, like all the rest, that it was his conviction that the Christian religion was nothing more than a sect which denied the gods and, by withdrawing from the popular pleasures, games, and combats in the arena, embittered every joy by their obdurate melancholy and in their stead celebrated horrible rites in gloomy caverns, compelled their followers to pierce with their knives the heart of an infant rolled in flour, and to drink its blood; till the gods, in their wrath, visited the earth with floods, pestilences, earthquakes, and barbarians, and that consequently there could not be enough of these people boiled in oil, burned in pitch, torn by wild beasts, and buried alive to avert from the land the severe punishments sent by the wrathful gods. Mesembrius had heard enough, and gave his daughter to none of these youths. He honoured the martyrs, but did not wish to find Sophronia's name among them. Not one of the rejected suitors saw her face. One day a sun-burned youth entered Mesembrius's dwelling. The old man, who sat in the trichinum of his summer-house, saw him, and, in spite of the cataracts on his eyes, shouted: "Are you coming to see me, Manlius Sinister? Come, come, here I am." The old man could still see when he chose. The youth hastened up to him, embraced him, and pressed his hand. "How manly you have grown!" said Mesembrius, smiling; and, as if his eyes were not enough, he felt with his hands the youth's face, arms, and shoulders. "You have become a man indeed since you marched away with Probus. So you've come to ask me for my daughter's hand?" Manlius seemed disconcerted by this straightforward question. "I am not so selfish, Mesembrius. Our ancient friendship brought me to your house." "I know, I know. We are aware of the kind of friendship which exists between an old man and a young one, especially when the old man has a beautiful daughter. For my daughter is very beautiful, Manlius, very beautiful! If you could see her! Don't say that you saw her four years ago--what was that? You were then a child, and so was she; what did you know about it? But now! O Manlius! it would be a great mistake of yours if you did not fall in love with her." "What use would it be, old friend? You have refused so many suitors who were better, richer, and more powerful than I that I do not even venture to hope." "Why, Manlius? Cannot you, too, gain power and wealth? Is not your uncle, worthy Quaterquartus, the most famous augur in Rome, whose prophecies always prove true, who holds in his hands the future of the Cæsar and the state?" "That is all true." "Then you see you may yet become a great man. You need only seek the favour of Carinus a little, and win your uncle's good will. Surely it is easy?" "At least it is not difficult." "See! See! Who knows how far you may go? What will it cost Carinus to have a rich old Senator drowned, and give you his palaces and treasures? Then you, too, will own mansions and slaves, will bathe in rose-water and eat peacock's tongues. What bars your way? You can gain all these things, by cringing. Cringing, I say." Manlius let the old man talk on. "But stay with me as long as you feel inclined, and be of good cheer." In the evening a magnificent banquet was served in honour of Manlius; everything that could please the palate, eye, and heart appeared. The young man's face glowed with the fire of old Falernian wine, and he often struck the table with his clenched fist, entirely forgetting the respect due to his host. Mesembrius saw that the soul of his guest was beginning to open and, propping his cheek upon his hand, he commenced the examination. "Well, Manlius, how do you like the Falernian? Am I not right in saying that Italy is the bosom of the earth, for here are the breasts--namely, the mountains which produce this wine?" "Yet I have quaffed a more inspiring drink in my life-time." "A more inspiring drink, Manlius? At whose table?" "From the Euphrates." "What do you mean?" "It was after the battle of Ctesiphon. We had fought all day long, my arms were dripping with blood and my brow with sweat. In the evening the Persian army was scattered, and on that one day the Euphrates overflowed its banks." "And you drank from it?" "Yes. That water has an intoxicating effect." "Fame intoxicated you, Manlius. It was in that water." "I don't know what was in it; for when I raised my helmet, which I had filled with it, to my lips, I did not set it down until the last drop was drained." "And then other good things awaited you? You could indulge yourselves to your heart's content in conquered Ctesiphon. I can imagine how well you fared with the beautiful dark-eyed women whose husbands were obliged to abandon them, and the palaces and storehouses of which you took possession. Every soldier was swimming in milk and honey." "Well, we didn't do much of that sort of swimming, for we marched farther that very night; and as for the dark-eyed wives, all the leaders had issued strict orders that the captured women should not be insulted by the soldiers." "Well, well, such orders are not usually taken too strictly. We know that." "By Hercules! Then you know very little about it!" exclaimed Manlius furiously. "We took it so strictly that I had one of the soldiers in my legion, who abducted a maiden, bound by the feet to two trees which had been bent down and tore him asunder when they sprang back again." "Well, you won't tear me asunder on that account," laughed old Mesembrius, delighted with the noble indignation displayed by his guest. He beckoned as he spoke to a Numidian slave who stood near, holding a richly engraved silver basin: "Come, Ramon, fill my guest's goblet." "No," cried Manlius; "I can fill it myself. I need not be served like Carinus, who is too indolent to hold his goblet when he drinks, and is afraid of wearying himself if he lifts a fig from the dish to his lips with his own hands." "Ho! ho! Manlius Sinister! You are slandering the Cæsar!" " _Æcastor! _ It is no slander. Is it not well known that his feet never touch the earth, and that, even in his bathroom, he uses a wheel-chair? To-day he had a ring on his finger and, complaining that he could not endure the burden of its weight, ordered it to be drawn off. Recently he had a notorious forger of documents, who understands how to imitate other people's writing marvellously well, released from prison, and appointed him his private secretary, to be spared the trouble of inscribing his signature with his own hand. Now this cheat provides every document with the Cæsar's name." "O Manlius! You are saying a great deal about Carinus, who was once your schoolmate." "I have no inclination to boast of that. True, I often shared my bread with him when he had none, and exchanged his tattered pallium for mine, but I feel no desire that he should ever recognise me, since I might easily fare like the rest of his schoolmates who appeared before him to remind him of former days, and whom Carinus unceremoniously thrust into the 'Tower of Forgetfulness,' to rid himself of the uncomfortable feelings of the past." "Ah! Manlius, you are talking like Seneca. You will never rise high in Carinus's favour in this way." "When was that necessary for a free Roman?" cried the knight, raising his head proudly. "I have a sword and a brave heart; if these will not lead me to fame, I want no power which can be obtained by crawling in the dust. It suits only dogs and libertines." Mesembrius laughed and rubbed his hands in delight; then he urged the youth to drink more, and the wine began to restore to the face trained amid the corruption of Roman society to dissimulation, its real character. "Go on with your story, my good Manlius; we stopped at the battle of Ctesiphon. That is the enemy stopped there, while you went on as far as you could." "With all due respect to your grey beard, Senator, never say to me: as far as you could. For we might have gone to the Juxartes--there were none who could have opposed us. The flying Persians vainly destroyed everything before us: not even deserts and wildernesses can offer obstacles to the Roman legions; every soldier carried provisions enough for ten days on his back. I ought to add that, during the whole dreary campaign, we slept on the frozen ground in the severest winter weather. The Persians convinced themselves that they could not check our advance, and, when we reached a city whose barbarous name the gods cannot expect a Roman tongue to utter, we encamped there. As twilight closed in, the envoys of the Persian monarch--magnificently dressed men with braided hair, rouged, with black eyebrows and fingers laden with rings--came and asked to be led before the Augustus: I mean Carus, don't confound him with Carinus. They were conducted into the presence of a man who was sitting on the bare ground, with a yellow leather cap on his head, eating rancid bacon and raw beans. He had thrown over his shoulders a coarse, shabby purple mantle, which distinguished him from the others." "That was Carus; I recognise him," muttered the old Senator. "The Augustus did not even permit the entrance of the envoys to interrupt him in his meal, and while he was quietly crunching the beans with his strong teeth, they delivered, with theatrical pathos, their carefully prepared speeches, whose glittering promises and high-sounding threats harmonised ill with the raw lupines which the Cæsar was eating. When they finished at last, Carus took the yellow leather cap from his smooth bald head, and, pointing to it, said to the ambassadors: 'Look here, and heed my words. If your king does not acknowledge the supremacy of Rome and restore her provinces, I'll make your country as bare as my head.'" "I recognise Carus there, too." "The envoys went off in great alarm, and the legions struck up the war song, whose refrain is: _Mille, mille, mille occidit_." "It was composed in honor of Carus, who is said to have killed in many a battle more than a thousand foes." "Yes, yes, that's true." "His son would kill ten times as many, but of his own subjects. Never mind that, however. Go on, Manlius; tell me what else befell you. Every one has a different story about that whole campaign. One says you were attacked by the black legions, a second speaks of tumults, a third of miracles. This much is certain: instead of pressing onward, you suddenly turned back, although no one could resist you, you said." "And it is true; men could no longer resist us, but is there no mightier power on earth?" "Certainly; the Roman gods. But I hope you did not draw their wrath upon you, and that your augurs had favorable omens. Your uncle, the world-renowned Quaterquartus, was with you." "Yes, he was with us, and there was no lack of victims or of the entrails of beasts, and plenty of crows were caught." "Manlius, you speak of these sacred things in a very profane way." "I have every reason to do so. Our soldiers once captured a man clad partly in skins who, according to his statement, had retired into the wilderness to mortify his body in honor of an invisible God. He had built a pillar of stones, on whose top he had already spent thirty winters and summers, exposed to frost and scorching heat. There he stood all day long, with arms outstretched like a cross, bending forward and striking his head against his knees. Several legionaries were curious to learn the number of these bows, but when they had counted nineteen hundred they grew weary, dragged him from his pillar, and killed him." [1] [Footnote 1: Simeon the Stylite.] "And did you pity this Nazarene?" "Let us speak lower, Mesembrius. It is dangerous to utter and to hear my words. Do not think that I am intoxicated and invent this tale. I saw this man breathe his last; for I came too late to save him. He did not curse his murderers. An expression of supernatural bliss rested upon his face, he raised his eyes rapturously toward heaven, and died blessing those who slew him. I drove them away and, to relieve his suffering, gave him some cold water. He thanked me and, with his last strength, whispered in my ear: 'Roman! do not cross the Tigris, for there lies the Eden of the invisible God, who is not to be offended.' I repeated the warning to the Cæsar's younger son, Numerian, who was the friend of every good soldier, and he carried it to the Augustus, who, struck by the ascetic's words, asked Quaterquartus to hold an _augurium_. My uncle's skill in announcing oracles which no one can contradict is well known." "Your words are very bold, Sinister." "Thus he once predicted to Probus that, after a thousand years, his family would restore the ancient glory of Rome." "After a thousand years!" "At the end of a long mummery we learned from my uncle's muttering lips that God would fight in the next battle." "Without adding whether with or against us?" "The Imperator ordered us to march forward and, on the very same day, we crossed the Tigris. At sunset several of the men who had killed the martyr Simeon Stylites were suddenly filled with horror and cried out loudly; for lo! he stood before them on a hilltop with arms outstretched like a cross, while amid continual bowing he struck his knees with his head. And I had helped to bury the lifeless form! The night was dark; clouds, rising from all directions, covered the horizon; flashes of lightning darted to and fro in the distance as if they were fighting with one another. The pealing of thunder echoed nearer and nearer, the world was veiled in gloom, sounds never heard before began to roar about us, and when a vivid flash of lightning seemed to cleave the depths of the firmament, we imagined that we beheld countless shining forms gazing down at us. It appeared to every legion as though the other legions were engaged in a fierce, bloody conflict, the clashing of swords and lances echoed around us, but there was no fighting anywhere. In the darkness we thought that our whole army was transformed into a single vast, confused mass, in which man fought against man, the mounted cohorts trampled down the foot-soldiers, the tribunes rode at the head of the legions, and the troops met in desperate, destructive shocks. Only while the lightning glared did we see the legions standing in motionless squares in their places. Suddenly, amid a terrific peal of thunder, a quivering mass of fire crashed down amid our ranks, shaking the earth beneath and the air around us. Horror made us fall upon our knees, every animal hid its head in the earth, and the fearful tumult roared into our ears the judgment of a mighty God. When we ventured to look up again, a fire was blazing in the midst of our camp. The lightning had struck the tent of the Augustus. No one dared to extinguish it, though the Cæsar and the statues of the protecting gods of the army were within its walls. All were burned. Then who are the gods, if not they? O Mesembrius, is it true that above us dwells an invisible Being, who is the Lord of heaven and earth, and that the lifeless stone images which we worship are not even able to defend themselves?" Mesembrius pressed the youth's hand. He had heard enough. "We will say no more about it, Manlius. You shrank from the power that barred your way. It was God! How did the army behave later?" "The soldiers could not be induced to march forward; they walled up the place where Carus Augustus was helplessly burned with the protecting gods of Rome, and now there stands in the midst of the wilderness a building with neither doors nor windows, that no human foot may enter the spot which God has cursed. The troops chose Numerian for their commander, and demanded that he should lead them back to Illyria. I was commissioned to bear these tidings to Carinus; that is why I am here with you." "I hope you will do this often. It is a great pleasure to be able to live in Rome, is it not?" "No pleasure to me; I would rather go back to my legions." "Really? Then surely you have not yet seen Carinus' circus and the magnificent games which only Rome can offer; you have not visited the baths of Antonius, the warm baths scented with the fragrance of roses in walls adorned with gems--you have not yet found the woman you love in Rome, eh?" "I have seen all, without finding pleasure in it. What am I, a battle-scarred legionary, just from the rude land of Scythia, to admire in the bloody fool's-play of your arenas? Here they make a game of war; we make war a game. And I never cared for the thermæ; warm baths are only fit for _quirites_, not for soldiers. Blood can be washed off with cold water; true, a polluted man needs warm." "But you have not answered my third question. Have you found no fair woman in Rome? Yet why do I ask? They will find you, even if you do not seek them. Oh, the Roman beauties are neither proud nor arrogant. When you have once appeared in the Forum, and they have seen your stately, well-formed figure, I shall have to ask: Did they not drag you away with them? Did they not tear you to pieces as the Bacchantes did Orpheus?" "Oho! Mesembrius, the falcon is not caught with lime-twigs." "Go! go! Why should you be a falcon any more than the rest? As if the doves of Venus had not built their nests in the helmet of Mars! Go! Dissimulation does not suit your face. You flushed crimson and lowered your eyes. Why do you wish to deceive an old man like me? Or have the morals of Rome improved under the shadow of Carinus? And while formerly, when one of the Vestal Virgins died, a substitute could scarcely be found, have all who once worshipped Aphrodite become priestesses of Vesta?" "I did not say so, Mesembrius." "Then it is the other way. Come, don't deny that you have had an interesting adventure. Five or six women surrounded you at once, laying their hearts and fortunes at your feet, and you chose the fairest, the one whose embraces were most ardent, whose kisses were most glowing? Or you could not choose, and loved them all? One crowned you with garlands in the evening, another in the morning; you vowed fidelity to one by the sun, to another by the moon, and loyally kept your vow to every one? Very good, very noble! This is the joy of youth, Manlius! In my early years I was no better!" "But, Mesembrius, you gave me no time to speak; all that you are saying has nothing to do with me. I will frankly confess that during my one day's stay in Rome I had more to do with the slaves who were sent to me by their mistresses than with their husbands, to whom I had been sent; but it is not my habit to attribute any special importance to such matters. I am a member of the Manlius family, in which it is an ancient custom for the men to love only one woman, but faithfully and forever--to mourn her constantly if she dies, to kill her if she betrays him, and to avenge her if she is wronged." "These are fine words, Manlius, but I see a ring glittering on your finger of a style which men do not wear; I suppose it belongs to the woman you love." "You are not mistaken in one thing. The ring belongs to a lady, and I wear it solely on your account." "Mine, Manlius? What is the ring to me?" "When I left the Capitol yesterday evening a veiled matron slipped a thin roll of manuscript into my hand and vanished swiftly among the colonnades; the roll was passed through this ring. From curiosity I opened the parchment and read the following mysterious words: 'Manlius Sinister! You love a maiden whose father is your friend. This old man and his young daughter are threatened by a danger which, except by the gods and their foes, is known to me alone. If you wish to learn it, hasten to me. The bearer of this letter will wait for you at the _Pons Sacer_, night and day, until you come. If you show her this ring, she will lead you to me. Signed, A woman who has loved you from your childhood, and whom you have always scorned; who is hated by those whom she desires to save.'" "This is a strange occurrence, Manlius." "To me it is an incomprehensible mystery. Who has the power to look into the depths of my heart and read its feelings? Have my dreams betrayed me, that some one knows I love your daughter, whom I saw four years ago, and have been unable since to forget? And who can the woman be who seeks to save another woman whose love shuts out her own?" The old man's face darkened. The wine stood untouched a long time before the two who, during the conversation, had become perfectly sober. But their hearts, which the wine had opened, remained unveiled. "Let me look at the ring more closely," said Mesembrius in a low tone. Manlius held out his hand. The stone in the ring was a wonderfully carved cameo--the white bust of a beautiful woman, with Greek features, upon a purplish-yellow ground. Mesembrius frowned gloomily as he examined the cameo; he averted his head, again gazed fixedly at the ring, and at last with a gesture of loathing, thrust it from him and bowed his gray head despairingly on his breast. "Why do you look so sad?" asked Manlius. "Do you know this ring? Do you know its owner!" "I know her," replied the old man in a hollow tone. "Speak, who is it?" "Who is it?" repeated Mesembrius with flashing eyes. "Who is it? A shameless hetaira, a loathsome courtesan, whose breath brings pestilence and contagion to the inhabitants of Rome, whose existence is a blot upon the work of creation; who has been cursed by her father so many times that, if all his execrations were fulfilled, no grass would grow upon the earth where she sets her foot, and compassion itself would turn from her in abhorrence." The old man's last words were lost in a convulsive sob. "Who is this woman?" cried Manlius, springing from his chair. "This woman is my daughter," gasped Mesembrius. "Glyceria?" " _Abraxas! _" The old man fairly shouted the word used to ward off evil, and shuddered with loathing as he heard the name. Manlius drew the ring from his finger and went to the window, beneath which flowed the Tiber. Mesembrius guessed his intention. "Don't throw it into the water! A fish might swallow it, the fishermen catch it, and it would again see the light of day. It will poison the Tiber, and whoever drinks from it will go mad. Keep it. I have an idea, on account of which you must wear this ring. You said you had done so until now for my sake." "I kept it to save you, if need be." "I thank you, Sinister. So you love me and my daughter. I thank you again and again; we will be grateful. In return, I will give my age, she her youth. We have always held you dear, always regarded you as one of our family. If you wish to guard us from peril--keep this ring--go with it where you are led--seek her who sent it--and kill her." "Mesembrius! She is your daughter." "If the basilisk is the child of the bird in whose nest it was hatched." "But she desires to shield you from some unknown danger." "For me the world has no danger except she herself! What pestilence, earthquake, tempest, and scaffold mean to the dwellers upon earth, her name embodies to me! If I could approach her I would kill her." "She wishes to save you." "Do not believe her. Every word that falls from her lips is a lie; she has deceived her father, she deceives the gods. Her face looks as innocent as a sleeping babe's. When she speaks you are enchanted; if you should let her go on, she would draw the dagger from your hand, bewitch, ensnare you, melt your heart by her accursed magic arts till you were as cowardly as a scourged slave. She does not paint her face like other women, but her soul; now she is luring you to her by the pretext that she wants to save me and Sophronia, and if you go to her and do not thrust your sword into her heart, ere she can speak one word, she will persuade you to kill us." "Mesembrius, what has she done to you that you speak of her thus?" "What has she done? She buried me ere I was dead! She dragged my grey beard in the mire! She poisoned my heart, robbed me of my sight and my blood to paint obscene pictures with them upon the walls of the lenocinium." "Fury blinds you, Mesembrius." "Why should it not blind me? Has a Roman no right to curse when people say to him in the Forum: 'Dismount from your horse, for your daughter has lost her honour!' Can I show myself anywhere in Rome without witnessing my disgrace? Is not her name prostituted in all the shameless verses of an Ævius and Mavius? Did she not appear in the amphitheatre in a pantomime before the exulting, roaring populace? Does she not go in broad daylight, with her shameless train, clad in a _tunica vitrea_ or _ventus textilis_? Does she not allow herself to be painted as _Venus vulgivava_? And is there an orgy, a bacchanalian festival, in which she does not play the loathsome part of queen? Oh, Manlius, it is terrible when the hair is grey to be unable to look men in the face, to hear everywhere and be forced to read in the eyes of all: 'This is Mesembrius who corrupts Rome! This man gave life to the monster who daily consumes the bread and drinks the blood of a hundred thousand starving people. Let us beware of approaching him.' Oh, Manlius, believe me, you will yet kill this woman." "I have never killed a woman, and I never shall." "Remember my words. This Megæra loves you, and she knows full well that you love another. That this other is her sister will not trouble her; these satiated Messalinas are fastidious, even in blood. Ordinary blood no longer tickles their palates; that of their own kindred is sweetest." "Guard your tongue from omens!" "I feel what I say, Manlius. It would be better for you to slay this woman from caution than for vengeance. When you see a serpent, you crush it, do you not, without waiting till it strikes its fangs into your flesh, and gives you reason to destroy it?" "You are a father, Mesembrius. I understand your grief, but do not share it." "You will become a husband, and then you will share it." "How can you expect me to hate, old friend, after you have rendered me happy? You talk of your wrath to a sleeper dreaming of his bliss, while your furious words disturb the stillness of the night. From all you say I realize only that I shall possess Sophronia's love. This word, this thought inspirited me, even when the war cries of the fierce Sarmatians were thundering in my ears, even during the nocturnal attacks of the legions, and in the scorching sunshine of Persian battle-fields. I beheld her lovely face in the river which, swollen by streams of blood, overflowed its banks. It hovers before me now while you talk of blood, and amid your savage speech I hear but one thing--that she will be mine." "Now I perceive the truth of the words that love makes us blind." "And hate reckless, you must add." "May the gods grant that you are right; that some day the whole world may say: 'Mesembrius, the daughter whom you disowned is pure as Diana, and all you said of her was slander, blind imagination!' I--but even then I would say that you must kill her, Manlius, for she has deceived the whole world!" The old man's eyes were bloodshot; excitement had so wrought upon his whole nervous system that he trembled from head to foot, and when he rose from the triclinium he gripped the arm with such force that the ivory sphinx remained in his hand. "Slaves, bring torches!" he shouted loudly, forgetting that he usually spoke with asthmatic panting. "Let us go to rest, Manlius; it is long past midnight. May you dream of your love as I shall of my hate." He left the pavilion as he spoke, and moved firmly, with head erect, through the long garden to his villa, without remembering that he could not walk a step on account of his gout. The slaves pushed his empty chair behind him. Manlius remained a long time in the triclinium, lost in thought. Leaning over the sill of the window above the Tiber he gazed dreamily into the waves, flooded with silver by the rising moon. Black boats glittered in her rays along the shore, and the notes of a mournful hymn echoed from the distance through the still air. The outlines of a woman's white-robed figure were visible in one of the boats. Manlius was reflecting upon the emotions that filled his heart. He fancied he was dreaming, as we sometimes dream that we are awake, and now imagined that he was dreaming of Sophronia's gentle, musing face. He had no rest; some indescribable feeling oppressed his heart. His excited soul longed for the open air, and, taking his sword, he wrapped his _paludamentum_ around him, entered one of the skiffs fastened under the window, and, loosing it from the chain, rowed in the direction of the mysterious melody.	{ "id": "31942" }
2	None	What a wonderful phenomenon it was that truth should triumph over fiction, and the simple doctrines of the Cross should conquer delusive mythology! The religion of the poets, the dreamy groves, the flower-strewn shore, the chosen deities of the sunlit island worlds, who in the enthusiasm of this artistic nature rose from the foam of the sea, were pervaded by the fragrance of flowers, immortalized as stars. Warm ideal figures united with mankind by sweet love dalliance. How all this fabric vanished from the arms of its worshippers at one word from the mighty Being who, throned on a measureless height, is yet near to every human creature, whom no one can see, but everyone can feel, and who is the God of the stars as well as of the lilies of the field. How the altars of the Olympian gods gradually grew cold, how the rose garlands vanished from the golden plinths, how the people disappeared from the perfumed halls to hear beneath the open sky, illumined by glowing sunlight, the words of an invisible truth. This sky, this sunlit sky was the mystery of mysteries! The night-sky, with its thousand stars, was the mythological heaven; that of the day belonged to the faith of the truth indivisible. Neither the depth nor the height of the latter can be measured. We only feel the beneficent warmth, and from the infinite blue distance an eternal hope tells the heart that beyond this sky is another and a better world, of which this earth is only the shadow; and the darker, the more gloomy are the shadows here, the more radiant is the truth there. This was the idea which won the victory. Earth ceased to be a prison; death was no affliction, and the Cæsar was no longer omnipotent. In the time of Augustus Cæsar a poet said: "If Rome persecutes thee, whither wilt thou flee? Wherever thou mayst go, thou art everywhere in the power of Rome." The new faith offered every persecuted human being a place of refuge, and Rome vainly conquered all the known world. Another unknown world full of secret joys that increased in proportion was reserved for those who suffered here below, and the darker, the gloomier the shadows here, the more radiant would be the truth there. This faith which wiped the tears from the cheeks of those who wept could not fail to conquer. Soon persecutors and persecuted united in it, for it alone afforded comfort to him who suffered innocently, and forgiveness to him who acted unjustly. The persecutions of the Cæsars only increased the adherents of the new religion instead of lessening them. In the public streets in the midst of Rome appeared those chosen by the Holy Spirit to proclaim the doctrines of the omnipotent God, which they would deny neither on funeral pyres nor under the teeth of the wild beasts in the circus games; and the living torches which, covered with pitch, were kindled to light the imperial gardens, declared, even in the midst of the flames, that what was anguish and suffering here was salvation and joy there. In vain were they murdered. The blood of the slain merely sealed the doctrines which they attested; and whoever creates martyrs only gains implacable foes. But the Imperator Carinus invented a new species of martyrdom. The proselytes shrank neither from death nor from torture. What was anguish to others seemed bliss to them; and fragile girls, inspired by the Holy Ghost, sang hymns of praise in the midst of the flames. Carinus no longer had these sainted virgins dragged to blazing pyres, but gave them to his soldiers; and virtuous women who did not recoil from the most terrible death trembled in the presence of the shame which scorched the purity of their souls more fiercely than the flames of the burning oil. And while they entered the arena of the circus with brave faces, they thought with horror of the hidden dens of sin. It was a diabolical idea to punish those who, for the transparent purity of their souls, were ready to renounce all the pleasures and joys of earth, by the lowest form of these joys. And Carinus knew that his victims could not even escape this disgrace by death, since the religion of the Christians forbade suicide. Therefore during his reign believers met at the hour of midnight in secret places, subterranean caverns, and abandoned tombs, and dispersed again at dawn. The Roman augurs had been informed of these secret meetings; and, that the people might help in searching out the places, they spread the report that the Christians, after all the lights were extinguished, committed horrible deeds which could be done only in the deepest darkness. This was saying a great deal, since in Rome every possible atrocity was perpetrated in the brightest daylight. * * * * * Gliding along the shore in his boat, Manlius constantly drew nearer to the singing which so strangely thrilled his heart, and soon reached an arm of the Tiber, at whose mouth about twenty empty boats were rocking on the water. He looked around, and saw by the dim, uncertain moonlight, a large round, massive building, shaded by huge Italian pines, from whose interior the music seemed to issue. He walked around it. The moon was shining through the windows and colonnades, but no human being was visible. Manlius thought with a shudder of the tales of witches which he had heard in his childhood, of the Sabbath of wicked souls that met in invisible forms in places shunned by all men. His superstitious terror increased as he associated the vision of his dream with this tradition. He always saw before him the face of lovely, gentle Sophronia when he tried to think of these accursed sorcerers; and against the gloomy, horrible background her smiling countenance appeared. At last he summoned up his courage, and releasing his hand from his cloak, he strode resolutely into the vestibule of the building. As he entered, his thoughts, at the first glance, took a different direction; for in the centre of this vestibule a square stone had been raised from the floor, and through the opening thus formed, a subterranean hall could be seen, from which rose the singing. So this was the _Agapeia_ of the Christians. Concealed by the darkness and the shadow of a pillar Manlius saw before him two long rows of figures. The heads of the men were covered with hoods, the women were closely veiled. All were singing a gentle, mournful melody. The tones expressed self-sacrificing sorrow, a sublime, quiet suffering, blended with a strange suggestion of grief which sent a cold shiver through the nerves of the listening Roman. A few small oil lamps were burning at the end of the dimly lighted hall, by whose faint glimmer Manlius perceived a lifeless human form, whose feet and hands, stretched in the form of a cross, were pierced with nails, while a crown of thorns adorned the brow, and a freshly bleeding wound was visible in the side. "So these are the terrible people who under the shelter of night hold their abominable meetings," thought Manlius, panting for breath as his hand sought the hilt of his sword; while in his excitement he fancied he saw the head of the figure nailed to the cross sink lower and lower. The singing ceased, and after a long, soughing sound, which is the universal sigh of a devout assembly, an old man, whose snow-white beard floated far down on the breast of his black robe, came forward. Taking a cup which stood at the feet of the crucified form, he raised it to his lips and kissed it three times with devout fervour. But instead of devotion Manlius saw an expression of loathsome bloodthirstiness in the face of the grey-haired monster, while the penitent kneeling of the men and women seemed to him an evil, obscene movement; and the cup before which all bowed their heads, in his imagination, was filled with blood, the blood of a man murdered in a terrible manner. The old man in a trembling voice said: "In this cup is His blood, which was shed to bless us; this cup is the holy remembrance which effaces; this cup is the bond by which we shall be united! Worship this holy symbol, and be pure through the blood of the purest!" Shuddering, Manlius grasped his sword-hilt, and when he saw a tall female figure clad in white, with her veil partly thrown back, approach the old man and take the cup from his hand, he tore the blade from its sheath and, frantic with horror, sprang through the square opening into the midst of the hall. "Hold, accursed murderers!" he cried, blinded with rage. "You apostles of sin! What are you doing here?" Not a sound was heard in the assembly. It was prepared for such attacks. The old man answered quietly: "We are worshipping God!" "May you be accursed when you utter that word! You have committed deeds for which even the darkness of night is no protection. You disturb by your diabolical songs the dead resting beneath the earth; you kill human beings and force one another to drink their blood, and when your nerves are roused to execrable excitement by this blood, you extinguish your torches and commit sins whose bare thought inspires horror." "You will repent what you have said, Manlius Sinister!" cried the clear voice of a woman standing beside the greybeard. It was the one who had first taken the cup. Manlius started as he heard a familiar voice utter his own name, and when the lady now threw back her veil, he beheld in amazement Sophronia's gentle, innocent face, with its mild, calm eyes, divine smile, and the hallowed power of an almost supernatural firmness. "Sophronia!" groaned Manlius, and his drawn sword fell from his hand. Doubt took possession of his heart. He believed that he was still the sport of a terrible dream, and with heavy tongue faltered: "Gods of Olympus, let me wake!" "You are awake!" said Sophronia. "Look me in the face. I am Sophronia, the friend of your childhood." "But this cup of blood----" "Blood only for those who believe, the remembrance of blood for those who remember. Touch it with your lips." With ill-repressed loathing Manlius tried the contents of the cup and stammered in amazement: "This is wine." Then, in a low tone, seized by a fear hitherto unknown, he asked: "And that dying figure?" "Is the image of the crucified Saviour." Manlius perceived with astonishment that it was only a painted picture. "Do you worship a dead man?" "A god who became man to die." "That is impossible." "How often the gods of Olympus assumed human form in order to enjoy pleasures whose sweetness can be experienced only by human senses. The God of Love, our God, assumed human form in order to be able to feel the sorrows which torture mankind, misery, shame, persecution, and death. The gods of Olympus became human beings to show mortals the path to hell; the God of Love, our God, became a mortal to guide us into the way to heaven! The gods of Olympus are brilliant, royal forms, who demand sacrificed victims, gold, magnificent temples, bloody hecatombs, and promise in return long life, treasures, palaces, and blood-stained victories. The God of Love, our God, is a poor, dead form, who asks nothing except a pure heart, and promises nothing at all for this life; whose image is a symbol that, in this existence, we shall have only sorrow and suffering, but in another world joy and happiness await us----" While these words were uttered, all who were present involuntarily bared their heads. Manlius did the same, without knowing why. The others knelt down; he, too, fell on his knees. "I have persecuted you wrongfully," he faltered, extending his arms, "Take vengeance on me." "The God of Love commands us to forgive our persecutors. Leave this place in peace and confidence. Though you should betray us, torture us, slay us, we will pray for you." "May I be accursed if I do so. Never can I leave you calmly, for you have filled my heart with unrest. The terrible words of the avenging God arrested me in my path. I read in your face the words of the all-pardoning God. Oh, give me comfort. Must I lose two heavens: one above, the other in your heart?" "The heaven of love is closed against no one," said Sophronia, pointing upward with holy devotion. Manlius clasped the outstretched hand, and raising it to his lips, asked with tender emotion: "And your heart?" "The God of Love does not forbid earthly love," replied Sophronia, with a radiant smile. Manlius, his face glowing with happiness, sank at the young girl's feet, resting at her side like a tamed lion, while through the hall rang the hymn of joy which teaches rejoicing with those who rejoice. The grey-haired patriarch laid his hand upon the new catechumen's head, and the dying God looked in benediction upon them all.	{ "id": "31942" }
3	None	The next day it was old Mesembrius' first care to send for his daughter and speak to her of Manlius, whom, of course, he praised according to his deserts. The young girl's cheeks glowed during the conversation, and, as her face betrayed, she confessed to her father, with sincere joy, that she had long loved the young soldier. Mesembrius could not find words to express his pleasure. He embraced Sophronia again and again, and with tears of happiness placed her in the arms of Manlius, who entered at that moment. "My only blessing," he faltered, in tones trembling with emotion. "O my father," said Sophronia mournfully, "do not say your only blessing. You have another daughter." "May my curse rest upon her head. Hasten your marriage, and then go far, far away from here. So far that not even a cloud from this sky can follow you. This soil is already so laden with sins that it trembles every moment under them as if it could no longer bear the burden. Go hence, that you may not perish with the guilty. I only wish to live for the moment that I know you are happy and beyond the two seas; then, for aught I care, death or Carinus may come." That very hour Manlius returned to Rome to set his house in order, and when he had made all the preparations for the wedding, he again mounted his horse, and late in the evening rode to old Mesembrius' villa. It was already past midnight. The sky was covered with clouds. He could only move at a walk, when, on reaching a bridge, he saw a dark group of people coming from a side path. It seemed to be a band of prisoners guarded by soldiers. At that time of wars with the barbarians, robbers and thieves had increased so much that they gave the prætorians uninterrupted work. Manlius supposed that he had met such a company, and quietly returned the salute of the passing soldiers. Only one circumstance seemed strange--a woman's tall figure, with a long white mantle floating around it, rode at the end of the train. When she saw Manlius stop she stopped too, as if she expected something. They remained thus a short time, looking at each other; then they turned and rode on. It was impossible to distinguish any one's features in the darkness. Manlius paused again, glanced back, and considered whether to return and ask some question; he did not know himself what. But pleasanter thoughts soon occupied his mind, and as the clouds parted, allowing a silvery streak to glide over the Tiber, his spirits also brightened, and he dashed joyously forward to the beloved home of Sophronia. He could already see the colossal outlines of the Mesembrius villa, when he perceived in the road a magnificent _lectica_, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and hung with silk curtains, such as in those days only the most aristocratic women used in traveling. Two splendidly caparisoned sumpter mules were harnessed to the four poles, beside which marched two slaves. Therefore the young man's surprise was so much the greater when he saw a man's ugly, pock-marked face thrust out between the curtains, and instantly recognised Ævius, the base parasite, who was ready for half a sestertia to compose a panegyric upon the last gladiator, and had prepared for Carinus Cæsar's greyhound a genealogy, according to which, on the mother's side, it had descended directly from the she-wolf that suckled the twin brothers Romulus and Remus. Manlius could not repress a smile at the singular situation of the panegyrist. "Oho, Ævius, how long has the Cæsar had you carried about in a _lectica_ like an aristocratic courtesan?" "Be merciful, Manlius, and do not jeer at me. I am the most miserable writer of verse since Pegasus became the steed of poets. Just think what a favorable opportunity presented itself to secure immortality. Yesterday afternoon I learned that by the Cæsar's command a band of idol-worshipping Christians would be surprised at their meeting place on the Tiber; and I instantly hired a horse--a horse that exactly suited me, for I could not miss the chance of perpetuating so rare a spectacle by the power of my lyre for the benefit of posterity. There would be so many things priceless to us poets, such as killing, crucifixion, boiling in pitch, and similar matters. And now how have I fared! On the way the gods of Egypt threw me into the company of an accursedly charming woman who was being borne along in this superb traveling litter. First, this woman lured my secret from me, then she lured me off my horse to sit by her side in the _vehiculum_; and with Junonian perfidy to a heaven-aspiring Ixion, she sprang out on the other side, swung herself upon my horse, which she sat with the ease of an Amazon queen, and laughing merrily gave me the advice, if I was a poet, to use Pegasus, then dashed along the road I had pointed out, leaving me in this time-killing apparatus, which is more tiresome than the hour-glass. She probably reached the scene of the spectacle in season, while I, with these two mules and two asses, lost my way so completely that I am obliged to return to Rome." Manlius held his breath as he listened to the parasite's words. "Who was this woman?" he asked in a hollow tone. "Don't you know her _lectica_, Manlius? Ah, you are still a novice in Rome if you do not, and doubtless come from very distant lands where such things are not mentioned, _gelidis Scythiæ ab oris_. This is the _vehiculum_ of the unaccountable and indescribable Glyceria, and the woman who outwitted me was no other than the Circe who has turned goddess, is worshipped by every one, including myself and Carinus, and who thus maltreats every one and changes her adorers, including myself and Carinus, into calves and oxen." Manlius did not hear the poet's last words. When the name "Glyceria" reached him, he struck his heels into his horse's flanks, and as though he felt the scourge of the Furies upon him, dashed wildly into the courtyard of the Villa Mesembrius. The old man, without noticing the expression of rage, terror, and despair that darkened the knight's face, met him with a smile. "Is your daughter at home?" asked Manlius, trembling in every limb, and as the old man did not answer at once, he repeated anxiously: "Where is your daughter, Mesembrius?" The aged Senator drew the youth, who was impatiently awaiting his reply, aside, and whispered: "I will tell you the secret, but act as though you did not know it. She is in the habit of attending the meetings of the Christians. She has gone to one now, and has not yet returned." Manlius, trembling, raised both clenched hands heavenward, and shrieked: "Cursed be the heaven which permitted this to happen!" Mesembrius drew back in astonishment, asking in a tone of bewilderment: "What is the matter?" Manlius despairingly grasped the old man's hand. "You have been robbed of your daughter." Mesembrius' face blanched, and sinking back into his chair he faltered with fixed eyes, "Glyceria!" "Yes, you are right; she has robbed you of her. And I, blind fool, met them, and these eyes did not recognize her in the darkness; this pitiable heart did not feel that, five steps off, she was being borne away from me. If it could happen that the sister dragged the sister to death before the lover's eyes, what means your sovereignty, Jupiter, Ormuzd, Zeus, Zebaoth, and the rest of ye chosen kings of destiny? Fiends rule the earth, and fate is an evil omen! But I, too, will be no better. Old man, gather all your curses, begin to pour them forth at dawn, and do not cease till nightfall. Meanwhile I will act. May Dira aid me." The old man, as though stricken by palsy, repeated: "My daughter; oh, my daughter--" Manlius compressed his lips; a bloody mist flickered before his eyes. "Your daughter? I will avenge one and kill the other! May Ate be with us both. [2]" [Footnote 2: The goddess who avenged evil deeds.] As he spoke he swung himself upon his horse, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, galloped back at frantic speed to Rome.	{ "id": "31942" }
4	None	_Panem et circenses! _ was the watchword of the Roman populace when hungry or wearied. The nation was really in a most admirable situation. It never knew the prosaic occupation of labour. The Cæsars distributed gratis bread, wine, and oil, which were sent by the conquered provinces as tribute; and as for the games in the circus, the sovereigns strove to surpass one another in the magnificence of these entertainments. Carinus excelled all the others by the great variety in these shows, and the reckless, extravagant splendour of their arrangement. One day the whole arena was strewn with gold dust, so that the dust clouds whirled aloft by the hoofs of the trampling horses glittered in the sunlight; and the quirites, whose garments were covered with it, went home actually gilded. The next day the circus, as if by magic, was transformed into a primeval forest. Giant oaks which had been brought with their roots from the mountains, leafy palms conveyed in huge casks from the coast of Africa, had been planted in the midst of the huge space, and the staring populace, who had just seen a desert covered with gold dust, had now come to admire, in the same spot, a great forest, beneath whose shade appeared the rarest animals of the South and East, from the graceful giraffe to the shapeless hippopotamus--a perfect Paradise, with trees ripening golden fruit, in whose foliage birds carolled, amid whose branches serpents twined, and beneath which wild peacocks and tame ostrichs preened their plumage. When the people grew weary of gazing archers came and shot the beautiful creatures. Then the forest was removed, and the next day the populace beheld in its place a sea on which whole navies fought bloody battles. Again, in midsummer, when everyone, languishing under the scorching sunbeams, sought shelter in the shade, the people summoned to the circus saw, with surprise bordering upon terror, a winter scene. The circus was covered with snow, which had been brought in ships and carts from the icy peaks of Noricum and Gallia, and over which hundreds of pretty sledges were gliding amid the clear ringing of little bells--a sight never before witnessed by the Romans. In the midst of the arena icebergs towered aloft, on which lay strangely formed seals, and over the surface of a round pond, where polished glass took the place of ice, skilful skaters displayed their arts. The shivering Romans wrapped their cloaks around them, wholly forgetting that drops of perspiration were trickling down their brows from the heat; and while the skaters pelted the spectators with snowballs, the audience, shouting in delight, enthusiastically cheered the Imperator who so generously provided for the amusement of his subjects. * * * * * Let us now seek Carinus in his own palace. We will walk through the enormous building, which with its extensive gardens occupies the space of a whole quarter of the city. Gilded doors lead into corridors like streets, which end in a peristyle supported by pillars. In the atrium the whole court moves to and fro, slaves playing master and grooms playing senator; and the entrance to the magnificent apartments of Carinus is guarded by a brown-skinned Thracian giant. Happy are those who can enter there! For here man no longer walks on earth. These magnificent oval halls allow admittance neither to the light of day nor to the season of the year. Here there is neither winter nor summer, day nor night. The apartment has no windows; lamps, perpetually burning behind transparent curtains, diffuse a light whose steady glow is midway between that of the sun and moonbeams. Here the best of every season of the year is represented: the warmth of summer, which is conducted hither by invisible pipes, the ice of winter, the flowers of spring, and the fruit of autumn. Carinus never knows whether it is dawn or twilight, whether it rains or snows--with him pleasure is eternal. There he lies among the cushions of his couch; before him is a table laden with choice viands; around him a mob of sycophants, dancers, hetæræ, eunuchs, singing women, parrots, and poets. His face is that of a youth satiated with every pleasure, pallid and disfigured by large red freckles; his features express the weariness of exhaustion. Only a few hairs are visible on his lips and his chin. Two eunuchs are alternately lifting food to the Cæsar's lips, food which has already caused a violent headache, amid which a single dish has perhaps cost hundreds of thousands, yet charms the palate solely by its rarity. Carinus does not lift a finger; the corners of his mouth droop sullenly, and a motion of his eyes commands the food-bearers to eat the expensive viands themselves. Now ideally beautiful female slaves again lift golden goblets to his mouth; but he leaves them, too, untouched till at last a Phrygian takes a sip of the spicy Cyprian wine and offers the intoxicating liquor in her rosy lips. This stirs the torpid nerves of the Cæsar, and drawing the slave toward him, he drinks from her coral mouth. "I will marry this girl," he says, turning to one of the courtiers. "You wedded the daughter of a proconsul yesterday, O my lord." "I will divorce her to-day. Who is this slave's father?" "A carpenter at the court." "I will appoint him proconsul." "This will be your ninth wife within four months." Carinus drew the Phrygian down beside him and laid his head in her lap. Singing and dancing were going on around him, and Ævius, paying no heed to either, was declaiming before him. His iambics extolled with shameless flattery all the qualities which Carinus did not possess, his roseate complexion, his bold, fearless soul. He described the games with the utmost detail, and spared neither Jupiter nor Apollo, that he might laud Carinus above them. "Alas, something oppresses and disturbs me. I don't know what it is," whined Carinus. Instantly two or three slaves were at his side, straightening his cushions, arranging his hair, loosening his garments. "Oh, it oppresses and disturbs me still." "Perhaps Ævius's iambics trouble you," said Marcius, the Imperator's barber. "Perhaps so. Stop, Ævius." The poet bowed with an humble look, though secretly bursting with rage. The barber had interrupted his finest verses. "What is it that disturbs me still?" groaned Carinus wrathfully. "Guess! Must I think instead of you? Something irritates, something vexes me! I should like to be angry." "I have guessed it," said the barber. "These few hairs of your beard which disfigure your glorious face and insolently tickle your majestic nose and lips are annoying you. O Carinus, have them removed! Your face is so feminine in its beauty, and would be fairer still were it not injured by these ugly signs of manhood!" "You may be right, Marcius," replied the youth, and allowed the hairs to be plucked out, which operation was performed by the barber with such skill that, at its close, the Cæsar appointed him prefect. At the same moment a noise was heard outside the door. Several recognized the voice of old Mesembrius, who was trying to force his way into the imperial apartments. Galga, the gigantic Thracian doorkeeper, held the old man back, and told him to come the next day. Carinus was asleep. "This is the tenth time I have come here!" shouted the old man. "Once you said he was sleeping, again he was eating, the third time he was bathing, and the fourth he was not at leisure. But I _will_ speak to him." It cost Galga a hard struggle before he could force the aged Senator out of the atrium, and then it needed two or three slaves to push him through the door. Carinus was much pleased with Galga. "Since you know how to guard my door so well, you deserve to be made Chancellor of Rome." "And I? Do I deserve nothing, my lord?" asked Ævius in alarm. "To you, Ævius, I will have a temple erected, in which every poet shall lay his verses upon your altar." "I thank you, O Augustus, for the temple and the verses of beginners; but my Tusculum?" "Surely you know on what condition I promised it." "If by the power of my eloquence, the honey of my tongue, and the magic of my poetry, I induced that earthly goddess, Glyceria, to render you happy by her favor. Did I not bring her to you?" "You brought her, doubtless; but what did it avail? After this bewitching phantom had kindled my love to the utmost by the sight of her charms, and lured my secrets from me, she suddenly laughed at me, thrust me from her, and left me, while I have longed for her possession a hundred times more." "Did you not have the power to detain by force the fair demon who had entered the snare?" "Ask my slaves what she did to them? When I commanded them to stop the accursed enchantress she seized a goblet filled with wine, muttered a few strange words of incantation, and smoke and flames instantly rose from the cup. Then, with a face that inspired terror, she turned to the slaves, crying in a ringing voice: 'Whoever does not throw himself on the floor, and remain there motionless, will be instantly transformed into a hog.' The dolts flung themselves down, and the bold sorceress walked over their heads to the door, where she blinded Galga so that he did not recover his sight for three days. But, O Ævius, why do you compel me to talk so much? Why do you weary my thoughts and rob my tongue of its rest?" Ævius probably thought that his own tongue was not so valuable, and began to babble: "Glorious Carinus! That woman is not worthy of your love, but of your contempt. I have discovered a far more precious treasure, beside whom Glyceria is a pebblestone beside the diamond, a shooting star beside the sun, common wine beside nectar." "Who is it?" "The former is a virgin, the latter already a widow. The former has not yet loved at all; the latter has learned to hate love, and the former's beauty is still more marvellous. She is a Christian maiden, who was captured a short time ago, thrown by your order, with her companions, to the lions, and lo! the starved beasts were tamed by her glance, crouched caressingly at her feet, and licked her hands. I witnessed this with my own eyes, O Augustus, and was amazed. The guards of the animal cages took the girl from the midst of the lions, and gave her to the fiercest Illyrian legionaries. And what happened? An hour after these very soldiers were seen kneeling before her, listening with devout fervour to the words of magical power which fell from her lips; and when the tribunes attempted to take her away to deliver her to others, they defended her, and allowed themselves to be slain for her to the last man." Carinus started from his pillows in great excitement; an unwonted fire glowed in his eyes. He pushed his last wife away from him and beckoned to Ævius: "Let this girl be brought before me!" The poet received the Cæsar's command with deep satisfaction, and, provided with his seal ring, hastened directly to the prison.	{ "id": "31942" }
5	None	Sophronia had been locked in a separate cell, where she was entirely alone. The sun could reach her only through a small round window, and when it shone upon the head of the kneeling maiden, the halo of martyrdom seemed to hover around it. A snow-white robe, fair and pure as her soul, floated around her. Her face wore an expression of supernatural repose, in which the impress of resolution alone betrayed the mortal. The door of the dungeon opened and a tall, stately woman entered, slipping a purse of gold into the jailer's hand as he left it ajar behind her. She was clad in a heavy silk _himation_, fastened on the shoulders by diamond mounted fibulas; a costly anadem confined her wealth of curls, and the golden veil hanging below, in spite of the delicacy of its texture, completely shrouded her features. The draping of the folds of her robe showed refined taste, and the heavy pearls which held down the ends and corners indicated the high rank of the wearer. Sophronia looked up as she heard the rustling of the silk, and seeing the stranger standing before her, asked in surprise: "What do you seek here, Roman?" The lady raised her veil, revealing a face which recalled the sublime goddesses of ancient times; a lofty brow, beautiful lips, cheeks in whose dimples Cupids were playing, and dark eyes with the deep, indescribable expression that seems to conceal all the enigmas of feeling, alluring charm and repellent sadness in every feature--a wonderful play of sorrow and sunshine which in the sky is called a rainbow, in the human face passion. At the first moment Sophronia shrank back at the sight of this countenance, but she instantly held out her hand with a lovely smile, saying kindly: "Sister Glyceria!" "Do not give me your hand," said the lady sadly. "Do not embrace me. At the first instant of recognition you started back. You were afraid of this face, and you may be right. It is four years since we have seen each other, four years during which you have heard so many curses heaped upon me by revered lips that you did not tremble without cause when you saw my features." "I have never ceased to love you." "I will gladly believe it, but let us not speak of that. Your new faith teaches you to love even your enemies. Fate has taught me to renounce all whom I have loved. But that is well; we have no time to indulge in lamentations now. I have learned that the games in the circus to-morrow will be closed by the martyrdom of the Christians who are sentenced to death." "Then let God's will be done," said Sophronia, clasping her hands on her bosom. "No, this shall not be done! Twice already I have tried to release you, but I came too late; to-day I am in time. Change clothes with me; put on my veil. Your figure is like mine; no one will notice the difference. A trustworthy slave is waiting outside with horses. In an hour you can be clasped in the arms of your father and your lover." Glyceria closed her eyes sadly, crushing hot tears with their lids, as if she had said: "My father, my lover!" "And you?" asked Sophronia. "I shall stay here." "And the games in the circus to-morrow?" "Will be closed with me." "Never!" said Sophronia, filled with lofty self-sacrifice. "Why never? Those who hate _me_ love _you_, and how gladly I would give years of my life to win a smile from their lips. If one of us must die, why should it be you, whose loss will plunge them into despair? Why not rather I, whose death they would bless? You will preserve a happy life for others; I shall cast from me a wretched one." Sophronia clasped her sister's hands in both her own, and gazed with her pure eyes deep into Glyceria's troubled, sorrowful ones. "You were the woman who, on the night I was captured, offered me her horse to escape?" "Why do you speak of that?" "Do you remember my answer?" "You said that a Christian ought not to fly from danger." "Since then I have seen death in many forms, and I repeat it. If it is God's will that His name shall be praised by my martyrdom, let His will be done. I will accept with rapture the crown of thorns that encircled the Saviour's brow, and bless the hand which opens the door of salvation to me. Oh, death means no torture to those whose joys begin after it is over." "But those whom you would leave behind?" "They will see me again beyond the grave." "To which despair will bring them. O Sophronia, listen. Two human beings who execrate me are now praying for you. If you die this terrible death, you will not meet them in the other world, for the horrors of life will hunt them down to Hades. Oh, let me die, let me be forgotten, wept by no one, blessed by no one, missed by no one. Let your grey-haired father have two joys in a single day--my death and your life." "A heart so embittered is not fit for death, O Glyceria!" "Do you suppose I could not look it calmly in the face?" "But not rapturously. To the Christian death is a new world; to the unbeliever an eternal darkness." "May this darkness embrace me. Life only oppresses me like a burden. I do not desire to live again, but wish to pass away, to be forgotten, to rest undisturbed in a silent grave. I want to leave this brilliant chaos, whose sole reality is pain. But may you lead a long and happy life." "O Glyceria, why should your face become so gloomy?" "Is it not true that once there was not so great a difference between us? My soul was as radiant, my face as bright as yours. We were so much alike that even our father could scarcely distinguish us. Nay, the object of our love was the same, and we did not conceal this from each other, but agreed that if he chose one, the other would silently resign him." "Ah, if he had only taken you! Then we might both be happy." "It was not my fate, O sister! The gods had not so decreed. Unknown, mysterious hands tangle the threads of human destiny, and guide them harshly through life. So who ought to be called to account for the soul? The man whose wife I became was a pitiful libertine, who appeared just at the time Manlius decided in your favour, and by producing a document which contained proof that our father was connected with a conspiracy against Carinus, forced me to become his wife." "And therefore my father cursed you." "May he never recall his curse. It has been fulfilled. This venal slave lost his head when the Cæsar saw me. From that moment my life was a perpetual warfare, whose weapons were flattery and seduction. I had to defend my father constantly. All the men who breathe here are his foes! The Cæsar hates him because he will not flatter him; the courtiers hate him because he is a man of honour; the people hate him because he is rich; every criminal hates him because here virtue is considered a conspiracy against sin. I was forced to conquer all Rome, from the Cæsar to the plebeian, that I might save the grey hairs on my father's head. I attended the Imperator's orgies. I allowed myself to be applauded in the amphitheatre by the dregs of the people, and to be flattered by base courtiers. And how often I have torn up Mesembrius's death sentence after I succeeded, half by cajolery, half by force, in wresting it from the hands of spies, demagogues, senators, lictors, and even those of the Cæsar himself!" "And this brought you my father's curses." "He was right. It was contemptible in the daughter of a Roman patrician. Oh, he must never know it. If he should learn that he lived at such a cost, he would kill himself." "You also discovered that the hiding place of my fellow-believers was betrayed, and hastened there in advance of the others?" "I informed Manlius of it two days before, but he shrank from entering my house. Now there is no other way of escape save the one I offer, and thus fate will be best satisfied. She who merits death and desires it will die, and those who enjoy life and deserve it will be happy. That is right. Return to your father and to Manlius, Sophronia, and then go far, far away from here."	{ "id": "31942" }
6	None	Sophronia, sobbing, threw her arms around her sister's neck. In rapid alternations of feeling the shining vision of a happy life passed before her mind. She saw her loving old father who guarded her so anxiously from every breath of air; she saw the youth whose pure love promised her long years of joy in the future. The girl's strength of mind vanished before this alluring picture, and she sank on the bosom of her sister, who, with a brave though sad face, clasped her in her arms as a mythological goddess of war would embrace an angel that belonged to the realms of another deity. "Hasten hence," she said, throwing her ample _himation_ around her sister's shoulders, and fastening the golden _balteus_ about her hips. "You can follow my slave safely. No one will notice the exchange, especially amid the noisy tumult of the circus." "No, I cannot accept this sacrifice," cried Sophronia, struggling with her own heart. "God forbids it." "Your God is the God of Love," said Glyceria. "If on account of this God of Love you will not save yourself, I swear that this day shall long be mentioned by the world as a day of horrors. I know all the formulas, before which the beings of darkness tremble, at whose utterance the solid earth is shaken and blazing comets dash across the sky, sending down pestilences upon the living. If you sacrifice yourself to your God, I will sacrifice Rome to mine, and will destroy it so utterly that the centuries will find only fragments of its royal purple." The pallid girl trembled in her frowning sister's arms. The latter now quietly fastened the anadem she had taken from her head in her sister's hair, and drew her veil over her face. "There, now you are safe. If you are asked who rescued you, say that it was a stranger. I wish to cause no one sorrow. Never mention my name." The weeping girl embraced her sister, from whom she could not bear to part. Glyceria herself urged her away: "Go, hasten. Do not kiss me; it is not well to kiss me. Destruction is on my lips." Yet Sophronia did kiss her, and at the same instant Ævius entered with the guards who accompanied him. "We are betrayed!" shrieked Glyceria, placing herself before her sister to protect her. Then, with savage fury, she cried: "Who sent you to this place, miserable sycophant? You have made a mistake; this is a prison, not a bacchanalian revel." "It is a golden cage, in which I find two doves instead of one." "Put your insipid jests into rhyme, but spare me their tasteless folly. And now, go!" "Very willingly if you will come with me; but the Augustus sent me here." Glyceria hastily whispered to Sophronia: "Do not betray that you are my sister, or our father is lost, too." Then she turned to the soldiers. "Insolent knaves! Do you know me? I am the terrible Glyceria who sends down a rain of fire upon you when you are in camp, who makes the rivers overflow their banks before you, and in the midst of summer brings winter upon your bands so that you are swept away like flies? Do you no longer remember Trivius, whom in my wrath I transformed into a stag, and did not restore his human form until the hounds had torn him? Did you see before my palace the flesh-colored caryatides, who keep guard before my door and seem to follow every passer-by with their eyes? They were slaves who disobeyed me, and whom with a single breath I transformed to stone. Do you wish to be fixed to these walls as statues, or changed into wild beasts to rend one another to-morrow in the amphitheatre? Which of you dares to raise his hand; which of you will bar my way?" The soldiers shrank back in superstitious terror. Ævius alone stepped before her. "Divinely beautiful woman, it would be useless trouble to transform these fellows to brutes. You ought rather to change my heart into stone, that it may have no feeling for you. But now permit me to conduct this Christian maiden to the Cæsar, who will gladly see you the next time, but now desires to behold her. Though you should vouchsafe to wreak your utmost wrath upon my innocent head, I can do nothing else. My head and my heart are at your service, but Carinus has commanded my hands to bring this maiden before him." Glyceria whispered impetuously to her pale-faced sister: "Now a greater horror than death awaits you. But be strong. Under the _balteus_ which I fastened around you is a sharp dagger. You are a Roman; I need say no more." She pressed Sophronia's hand as she spoke, and without vouchsafing Ævius another glance, hastened through the ranks of the soldiers, who swiftly made way for her.	{ "id": "31942" }
7	None	Trembling with horror, Sophronia stood on the threshold of Carinus' apartment. The spectacle before her seemed to her eyes more terrible than the torture chambers of the prison and the dens of the wild beasts. Drunken slaves lay on the floor, singing and touching goblets with drunken senators; men, rouged and clad in women's garments, were singing to the accompaniment of harps indecent dithyrambics, while they had twined the feminine anadem upon their heads with oak leaves, the simple ornament of civic virtue. The most prominent magistrates, consuls, prefects, tribunes, disguised as fauns and satyrs, were dancing with girls robed in transparent tissues, whose cheeks and eyes were glowing with the unholy fires of sensual passion; and in the midst of this diabolical revel lay Carinus, himself the greatest disgrace of his own imperial purple. The effect of the wine and the emotions roused by the scenes of this orgy were visible on his face; his hair was dripping with the perfumed salves that had been rubbed into it. Sophronia shuddered at this scene, which, wherever she turned her eyes, showed the same figures; and for the first time in her life she forgot to call upon the name of God, who is always nearest when the danger is greatest. But who could think of God's presence where the devil's altars are erected? In trembling terror the Christian maiden seized her gold _balteus_, as it were from instinct, without remembering her sister's hint. But no sooner did she feel the hilt of the dagger in her hand than she regained her strength of soul. In an instant she was once more the brave, resolute Roman, and without waiting to be led, she passed boldly through the circling dancers, and with her tall figure drawn up to its full height, stood proudly before Carinus. "Is it you whom they call in Rome the Augustus?" she asked with infinite contempt. Carinus, smiling, raised himself on his couch, and motioned to the noisy revellers to be quiet. "Since when has the word 'Augustus' in the Roman tongue meant shame and loathsomeness?" Sophronia boldly continued, gazing defiantly at Carinus. "What accursed destiny sent you to Rome to gather around you everything that is abominable, everything that is accursed, and bring to sovereignty the sins transmitted to you from the temples of your gods? Do you not feel the trembling of the earthquake under your feet; do you not hear the muttering of heaven's thunder? Does not the roar of millions of approaching barbarians rouse you from your slumber, that you may learn that you are not the lord, but only dust upon the earth, which at a single breath of God will pass away and become the dust which buries you?" Carinus turned to Ævius, saying: "By Paphia, you did not deceive me. This is a wonderful creature. There, there, beautiful maiden, rage on, be wrathful; upbraiding only heightens your beauty, and the more you reproach me the more ardent my love becomes." "You will repent some day amid eternal flames! Above you is throned an invisible God, who reads the thoughts of your heart; and as you now see laughing faces around you, you will behold on the Day of Judgment features tortured and distorted by pain, and you yourself will not be otherwise." "By the Pantheon! This figure is still lacking in the ranks of the gods. Ævius, bring a sculptor. Build a temple, place the statue of this goddess in it, and call her _Venus bellatrix_." An artist belonging to the court instantly pressed forward, seized a stylus and waxed paper, and Sophronia, with chaste indignation, perceived that while Ævius was turning her indignant words into rhyme, the sculptor was trying to catch the movements of her superb figure. The young girl instantly stopped speaking; not another word did she utter, not a feature of her face moved. "Hasten your work, Sextus, if you wish to sketch the _Venus bellatrix_," said Carinus. "In an hour this figure will be _Venus victa_." As he spoke, he glided nearer to the girl like a hungry serpent, and fixed his eyes greedily upon her face. Sophronia stood cold and motionless as a statue. "Well, why do you not continue to rage? Be furious! It increases the rapture that fills my heart a hundredfold; rave, curse, blaspheme. I will kiss and embrace you, and be frantic with bliss." The patrician's daughter made no reply; not a feature stirred. "Ah, do you seek to chill me by the coldness of your face? You doubtless perceived that the flush of shame which crimsoned it, the flames of your wrath were joy to me, and now, merely to rob me of my sweetest pleasure, you choose to behave as if shame and anger had vanished from your cheeks? Slaves, tear the garments from her limbs!" Sophronia silently drew the dagger from beneath her girdle, and looked fearlessly around the circle of faces. Carinus remained fixed in the attitude in which this unexpected movement had surprised him. Every one stood still as if spellbound. Ævius alone did not lose his presence of mind. With a smooth smile on his false lips, he glided nearer to the maiden. "Fairest virgin, do not forget that you are a Christian. Your God punishes sternly those who open the gates of death by force; and your religion regards it a sin to kill yourself or any other mortal, while it requires you to endure whatever God has decreed, whether it be death by torture or an hour of bliss in the arms of the Cæsar. Do not forget that you are a Christian, and that many Christian women have borne this form of martyrdom before you." The drawn dagger trembled in Sophronia's hand. Ævius moved a step nearer. "Remember that you are a Christian," he said, casting a swift glance at the dagger to wrest it by a bold spring from the maiden's hand. "But I am also a Roman!" cried Sophronia, as she recalled her sister's words; and with the speed of lightning she buried the steel in her heart. The blow was dealt with a sure hand, and the blade pierced the strong heart to its hilt. The Roman prized her honour more than her salvation. The next instant she sank dying on the floor, composing the folds of her garments with her last strength, that even in death she might not betray the grace of her figure to unholy eyes.	{ "id": "31942" }
8	None	Meanwhile the father and the betrothed husband vainly sought the maiden. They could search only in secret: open protection, undisguised defense could not be given to Sophronia. Old Mesembrius had not been seen in Rome for a long time, and therefore every one was surprised when the distinguished patrician again appeared in the Forum, leaning on his ivory crutches and pausing at every step. "Ah, worthy Senator, you rarely show yourself in Rome," said a perfumed patrician dandy. "Since the death of Probus we have not seen you even once." "I am old and feeble, my good Pompeius. My feet will scarcely carry me, and I should not have recognised you had you not spoken to me, for my eyes are almost blind." "But why do you not live in Rome?" "If you should see the splendid turnips I raise in my garden, you surely would not summon me to Rome. An old man like me interests himself only in his apricot slips." At this moment a messenger from the Capitol whispered to Pompeius: "Carinus has laid aside the purple in favor of his brother Numerian." Mesembrius sometimes heard so well that he caught the faintest murmur. "What did you say?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Carinus has abdicated, and Numerian will be Imperator? Huzza! Huzza!" "Do you know Numerian? What kind of a man is he?" asked the courtiers anxiously. "What kind of a man? He is a hero, a Roman, under whose rule Rome's golden age will begin again and the sun of fame will again shine upon us. The glorious battles which Rome fought against half the world Numerian will continue. We will all share them. A new and radiant epoch is dawning. I will swing myself upon my charger and be where every man of honour must appear. I am not yet too old to die in battle!" The old man, frantic with joy, was gesticulating enthusiastically, without thinking of his crutches, and recognised an acquaintance coming from the direction of the Capitol at a distance of a hundred paces. This was Quaterquartus, the augur. "You are from the Capitol, Quaterquartus? Well! Well! What is the news?" "What I predicted," replied the augur with dignity. "The Senate would not accept the abdication, and compelled the immortal Carinus to continue to wear the purple." Mesembrius was obliged to lean on his crutches again. "Oh, my poor feet! Oh, this terrible gout in my knees! Foolish old man that I am; what have I been saying? I swing myself on a horse? If I could at least sit comfortably in my wheel-chair! Such a foolish old fellow! How could I go to war when I see so badly that I cannot distinguish friend from foe? Laugh at me, my dear friends; laugh at such a silly old man. Oh, my feet----" And, groaning painfully, he dragged himself forward. Then Manlius met him. "Have you learned anything?" he asked. "To-morrow I will force myself into Carinus's presence. And you?" "I will seek Glyceria." "That you may kill her ere she can speak." "Have no anxiety. Even if she could use magic arts, she would die. We will meet in Carinus's atrium to-morrow. Be provided with a good sword." * * * * * Manlius went to the _Pons Sacer_. Before the statue of Triton sat the old woman who had given him the ring. When she saw Manlius she rose and went to meet him. "Have you the ring with you, my lord?" she asked. "Look at it." "Will you go with me?" "That is the purpose of my coming here." "I have waited for you four days. Why did you not appear sooner?" "Pleasure never comes too late," replied Manlius bitterly, and allowed himself to be conducted through gardens, byways, and covered passages till his guide opened a small bronze gate, and taking him by the hand, led him through a dark corridor into a circular hall, adorned with pillars and lighted by a single round window above. Here the old woman left him and went to summon her mistress. Manlius looked around him. He had imagined the apartment of a Roman lady an entirely different room. He had expected to see jasper columns, garlanded with climbing plants, fountains perfumed with rose water, representations of frivolous love scenes, an atmosphere saturated with heavy fragrance, purple couches, and silver mirrors, and instead he found himself in a lofty, noble, temple-like hall, whose walls were adorned with masterly pictures of battles and heroes, while in the centre stood the marble bust of a bald-headed old man. "Perhaps Glyceria does not even live here," he thought, and just at that moment heard his name uttered behind him. He turned. Before him stood a pale, slender woman, in a simple snow-white robe, whose folds concealed her figure up to her chin and covered her arms to the wrists. This was not the alluring costume that suited a love adventure. The face was still less seductive. Deep, despairing, consuming grief, that blight of beauty, was expressed in every feature. Manlius recognised Glyceria. His blood rushed feverishly to his temples, and he convulsively clutched the hilt of his sword. Yet he did not wish to kill her thus. He thought that this, too, was only a new variety of the arts of temptation in which women are such adepts. When a libertine is to be attracted, the graces are called to aid; if it is a hero, Minerva must be summoned to help. Clothes, moods, will correspond with the character of the chosen individual; nay, even the features will be altered so that they will appear different to every one. He could not kill her while she looked so sad; he must await the moment when she began to speak to him of her love to thrust his sword into her heart at the first yearning smile. Pausing with drooping head, three paces from Manlius, the lady faltered almost too low for him to hear: "You have come late. Very late." Manlius, with suppressed fury, answered: "Is love a fruit that becomes overripe if it waits long?" Glyceria looked at Manlius in horror. "What is the matter with you that you speak to me of love?" "Did you not summon me that we might whisper together of rapture, bliss, and sweet delights?" "Once your words would have given me pleasure; now horror seizes me when you speak in this way." "Are you not convinced that your beauty has such magic power that every man who beholds you forgets every woman he has ever seen?" replied Manlius, half drawing his sword from its sheath. Glyceria looked into the youth's face as though she were gazing into impenetrable darkness, and asked: "Even the one who is lying dead at this moment?" Manlius started back, his breath failed, his face grew corpselike in its pallor. He strove to pronounce Sophronia's name, but his lips would not form the word, and staggering back, he was obliged to lean against a pillar. Glyceria went toward him, her staring eyes fixed upon his face as if she wished to read his inmost soul. "Manlius Sinister!" she said calmly. "My dreams have told me that you will kill me, and I know that the hand beneath your chlamys is clutching your sword-hilt. That will be no grief to me. My anguish is that you see in me your promised wife's murderess." Manlius sighed heavily, and a secret shudder shook his whole frame. In a voice that seemed to come from the grave, he asked: "How was she killed? Was she torn by wild beasts? Or did greedy flames devour her tender body? Speak, Hetæra. Tell me clearly and minutely how she was tortured to death. I _will_ hear." "She was not dragged to the scenes of torture, but to Carinus' orgies." "Ah!" shrieked Manlius in unutterable fury, covering his face. Then, removing his hands, he said quietly: "Go on; omit nothing. Describe step by step the outrage, and in what way my idol was dragged through the mire. Speak!" "Nothing of that kind happened. A Roman woman, who wished to rescue her, exchanged garments with her in the prison; and when this plan was baffled, she concealed a dagger in Sophronia's girdle and the girl killed herself before any man's hand touched her." Tears streamed from the young soldier's eyes; his sword fell from his hand. "Ye gods, bless that Roman woman for the sake of the dagger. Do you not know who it was?" "She does not wish you to be told." Manlius drew a long breath, as if relieved from a heavy burden. "I thank you for these tidings." There was something terrible in this gratitude. "The danger is not yet over," Glyceria began again. "Carinus, whose pallid face was sprinkled with the martyr's blood, sank back upon his couch half fainting, and through his trembling soul flashed the thought: If a woman could die in this way, how will her father or her promised husband--kill! No one knew Sophronia; but my father's presence in Rome has already attracted attention, and although he makes no public search, people are beginning to suspect that the dead girl was his daughter. You will both be summoned before Carinus to-morrow; he will ask if you can recognise a dead woman who was found murdered in the Christians' prison, and Sophronia will be shown to you. Be hard-hearted at that moment, Manlius; let no tears fill your eyes when you behold this corpse. Say that you do not know it, wear an indifferent face; for if you betray yourself, you will lose your head." "I am to wear an indifferent face," said Manlius, with dilated eyes, "and not recognise her when she lies dead before me? I am to say that I have never seen her?" "Do you imagine that Carinus would suffer a man to live whose promised wife had killed herself on the Cæsar's account?" "You are right," said the knight, bitterly. "Manlius will learn to dissimulate." He burst into a terrible laugh. Glyceria sank on her knees before him, and offering him her beautiful bosom, stammered, sighing: "And now--take your sword--begin with me." Manlius smiled. "So your dreams have predicted that I shall kill you? You are beautiful, Glyceria; really marvellously beautiful. Is it true, as people say, that Carinus loves you ardently?" "Still more ardently do I hate him. Why do you ask?" "Because I should like to know whether you have ever rendered Carinus happy by your favour?" "Never even with a smile." "And yet he would gladly give years of his life for a single night with you." "Ah, by Styx! If I should grant him a night, it would be an eternal one!" cried Glyceria, drawing herself to her full height while her face crimsoned. Manlius went up to her and clasped her hand. "Now you see, Glyceria, that your dreams deceived you, for I shall not kill you. No, I shall not kill you, but will make you my wife." Glyceria drew back her hand in horror. "Manlius, this is mockery, and bitterer than death." "No, it is only love. I love you." "Manlius, do not kill me thus, not thus. Rather with the sharp sword." "I love you. If I loved your sister, I now see her features in your face; and when grief for her loss tortures me, I must fly to you to find consolation. I do not believe aught of all the world says of you; I will take the past from you and make you what your sister has been. I will lead you back to your father, and he will bestow upon you the blessing he gave your sister. I will endow you with everything that was her property. You will wear her simple garments and even assume her name, and I will call you my Sophronia." Glyceria, trembling violently, escaped from the youth's arms as he drew her toward him with gentle violence, and with glowing cheeks and panting bosom, fled without answering these bewildering words. Manlius, looking after her, muttered under his breath: "Cannot I play the hypocrite too?"	{ "id": "31942" }
9	None	As Glyceria had learned through her spies, Manlius was summoned by the lictors to Carinus' presence that very day. But instead of waiting for the command, he went to the palace before he received it. Instead of his plain military costume he had donned the ample flowered silk toga worn by the fashionable dandies of the time, rubbed his hair with perfumed ointments, loaded his fingers with gems, adorned his ankles with circlets, and even ornamented his toes with rings which glittered between the thongs of his sandals, while he had scattered little red spots over his face till it looked as freckled as the Cæsar's. So, with an indolent, loitering step and a coquettish carriage of the head, he entered the vestibule of the imperial palace, which was already swarming with courtiers similarly attired, who gazed enviously at the youth's unusually magnificent costume--only they could not understand why he had painted freckles on his face. Manlius bowed to the floor before Carinus--a form of salutation which had been transplanted to Rome from the Persian court. Even Ævius was forced to admit that no one understood how to bow with so much humility as Manlius. Then, seizing a corner of the imperial mantle, he kissed it with the devout fervour which only the most pious Jews show in kissing the thora. Carinus wished to appear stern. "You have already been in Rome four days, and this is the first time you have come to me," he said reproachfully. "O glorious Augustus," replied Manlius in an inimitably sweet tone; "I have already been ten times in your atrium to deliver the news I bring from Asia, but I learned as often that you were enjoying the delights envied by the gods, and I am not one of those rude soldiers who recklessly force their way in with their messages of supposed importance, and rob you of hours of bliss which can never be regained." "Good. You are a man of worth; but what tidings do you bring from Persia?" "There is no life anywhere in the world, O Augustus, except where you are. All the lands of the earth exist only to make the contrast between them and Rome the sharper. I will not weary you with tiresome tales of war and battles. Wars merely serve to lessen the number of dissatisfied people, so why should I disturb your repose with my descriptions?" "You are right, Manlius. Speak of other things." "My experiences are at your command. I saw the marvels of Barbarian lands, and always thought of you. In Africa I saw horses whose shining skins were streaked with stripes, animals whose like no Imperator has ever shown in our circus games. I left orders with the commandant of Alexandria to send several of them to you. In the Indian seas a kind of snail was discovered, which fastened itself to the rocks by means of threads as fine as a cobweb. From these threads the people there manufacture a fabric even more brilliant than _sericum_, and I brought a _velamen_ of it for you, such as only the princes of that country wear." As he spoke, Manlius gave the Imperator a superb textile which he had brought with him from India in the hope that it would be Sophronia's bridal veil. The Cæsar was filled with admiration at the sight of the unusually brilliant, delicate texture. "Manlius, I appoint you Senator." The courtiers began to stare enviously at Manlius. As the barber, who was the most jealous of any sign of favour from the Cæsar, could find no fault with the _velamen_, he vented his anger upon Manlius' face. "Where did you get those freckles, Manlius? You look as if the flies had played an evil trick with your features." "You are a barber, Marcius. I painted these freckles. It is a very aristocratic fashion which I learned at the court of Persia." "Is it the fashion there to wear freckles?" asked Carinus, whose cheeks Marcius was in the habit of painting white and pink. "Only among the aristocrats. It is the distinguishing mark between the dignitaries of the kingdom and the common people. True, it requires a more refined taste than yours, Marcius, to appreciate this; one must understand, too, why and in what degree these freckles embellish the face. The empty, smooth face, like yours, for instance, which, when one looks at it, shows only white and pink, is the beauty of the plebeian; Apollo's countenance is freckled." Manlius knew that Carinus liked to be called Apollo. The courtiers were horrified at this bold assertion. "I repeat that Apollo's face is adorned with freckles. For Apollo's image is the sun, and is not the sun itself full of spots? Is not the sky strewn with stars, and are not the stars the freckles of the sky, as freckles are the stars of the human face? Therefore, O Marcius, do not censure this magnificent taste of mine." Carinus motioned to his barber to remove the paint from his face. "Divine countenance!" cried Manlius rapturously. "O you profaners of the sanctuary, who conceal the freckles which the graces have scattered with lavish generosity over these features. Come, friends, let this face be the model of ours." And the courtiers instantly sat down in turn before Marcius and had freckles painted on their faces that they might resemble Carinus. From that moment it was the fashion in Rome to have freckles painted on the face. "Manlius," said the Cæsar, "I appoint you Prefect of Rome." All the imperial favourites were supplanted by the young Tribune. Ævius was in despair. "To what shall I henceforth compare the Cæsar in my poems, since roses and lilies are no longer beautiful?" he wailed. "Compare him to the royal panther," Manlius advised. And the poet was content. At this moment Mesembrius arrived, and hearing in the atrium that Manlius had already entered, hastened after him. On the threshold he caught a glimpse of the young soldier and started back. "Is that actor Manlius?" he asked himself, gazing at his silk toga and freckled face. "Have you seen Glyceria?" he whispered. "Yes," replied Manlius. "Have you killed her?" "No." "Then I understand the change. Hitherto only caterpillars became butterflies; in you a lion has undergone the change. I pity you." The old Senator, as he spoke, moved forward with dignified bearing and, leaning on his crutches, stood before the Augustus. "Augustus Carinus, I have come to bring a charge, or, if it pleases you better, to beseech a favour. I had an only daughter----" "You have another," interrupted Ævius. "I say I had an only daughter. She was the joy of my life, the prop of my old age. Allured by a new religion, this girl and her companions were captured at the meeting place of the Christians. I will not argue with you over matters of belief, Carinus, but I entreat you to listen to the petition of a man who has grown grey in the service of Rome, and restore my only child." Carinus raised himself indolently from his _lectisternium_ and whispered a few words to his eunuch. Then he turned to Mesembrius. "Senator, we do not know whether your daughter is among the captured Christians; had we been aware of it we should have delivered her up to you long ago. She was beautiful, you said?" "I did not say so, O Lord." "I have so understood. But unfortunately I must inform you that a beautiful girl in this band of Christians killed herself last night in prison." "That was not my daughter. Sophronia could not forget her grey-haired father, whom her loss would drive to despair." "Look at the corpse, Senator, and if it is not your daughter, which from my heart I hope, I will have her brought here at once and she can then return with you." Mesembrius was so startled by this unexpected favour that he forgot to express his thanks for it. The eunuch returned, followed by two slaves, who bore on a bier a corpse covered with a large pall. Ævius drew it from the body. Mesembrius pressed his hand upon his heart; the blood rushed to his temples; his breath failed; he could not move; he stood motionless for a time, then, with a wild cry of anguish, flung himself upon the lifeless form. "My child! My dear, dear child!" "So I have him to fear, too," murmured Carinus. Sobbing aloud, Mesembrius embraced the beautiful, beloved body. Death had restored to the face the repose, the supernatural loveliness which had been peculiar to it in life. It seemed as though she were sleeping and at a call would wake. "Oh, my dear, sweet child," sobbed the old man; "why must you leave me here? If you were resolved to die, why did you not appear to me in a dream, that I might have followed you? What have I to love in this world now that you are no more? What is to become of me, an old withered tree, whose only blossoming branch has been cut off? Have you no longer one word, one smile for me? Once you were so gay, so full of cheerful converse--oh, why must I endure this?" The father turned neither to the Cæsar nor to the courtiers; he gave free course to his tears, burying his face in his dead daughter's winding-sheet. But gradually he seemed to realise that he was weeping alone, and his dim eyes wandered around the apartment with a vague consciousness that there must be some one else here who owed to Sophronia's manes the tribute of tears. There stood Manlius, with a cold, unsympathising face, talking to Carinus. Not a feature betrayed the slightest sorrow. Mesembrius indignantly grasped the youth's arm. "And have _your_ eyes no tears, when your bride lies murdered before you?" Seized with suspicion Carinus suddenly looked at Manlius; the courtiers, with malicious pleasure, turned toward him. "My bride?" asked Manlius, in a tone of astonishment. "Your mind is wandering, old Mesembrius." "Have the Furies robbed you of your reason that you no longer remember that, but three days ago, you asked for my daughter's hand and I gave it to you?" "Your daughter's hand, certainly," replied Manlius, with unshaken calmness. "Not this daughter's here, however, but Glyceria's." "May you be accursed!" shouted Mesembrius, with savage fury, and without heeding the Cæsar, his dead daughter, or the danger threatening him, he rushed out of the hall like a madman. This very thing saved him. "Follow him, Galga!" shouted Carinus. "Seize him. This man's head must be laid at my feet." Meanwhile Mesembrius rushed through the palace. The throng of slaves shrank back in terror at the sight of his agitated face, and allowed him to reach the open air. His frantic words instantly gathered a crowd around him, and by the time Galga, at the head of a troop of mounted prætorians, went in pursuit of him, the mob had attained threatening proportions. But the Thracian giant dashed recklessly through the masses of people. As he stretched his arm from the saddle to seize the old man's head and sever it from the trunk with a single stroke of his sword, the Roman, with strength wholly unexpected in a man of his age, dealt the brown-skinned colossus such a blow with his heavy crutch that he fell from his horse with a shattered skull. Mesembrius swung himself into the saddle at a bound, and led the infuriated populace against the armed cohort, which was scattered in a moment, and before reinforcements arrived to quell the tumult, the old patrician had disappeared and was never found.	{ "id": "31942" }
10	None	Manlius remained with Carinus to amuse him; he taught the dancing girls the dazzling arts of the Indian bayaderes, and conquered Ævius by producing on every occasion, and at every toast, distiches more apt and beautiful than the court poet could fabricate. During a single evening Carinus gave the now universally envied favourite a hundred thousand sestertiæ, and, when he learned from him that the Teutonic women, by means of a special kind of soap, dyed their hair amber-yellow, he promised Manlius to appoint him Governor of Gallia that he might send him some of this soap which turned the hair yellow--at that period a hue ridiculously fashionable in the aristocratic society of Rome. The banquet lasted a long time. True, it was only afternoon out of doors, but any one who did not know that the feast had begun in the morning would have supposed it was already midnight. Carinus poured the wine that remained in the drinking horn upon the floor, in token that he drank some one's health, and then handed it to Manlius. "To the health of the beautiful Glyceria!" "And to yours, Carinus," replied Manlius, giving his own in exchange. "Manlius," said Carinus, the blood mounting to his face, "do you know that I have already had one husband of Glyceria slain?" "You did well, Carinus; but for that I could not become the second." "Do you know why I had him killed?" "Because he concealed his wife from you. Fool! Have the gods created a sun that some one may take possession of it and allow others no share in its light? Those who snatch a beautiful woman from the world, and then demand that she shall be loved by no one else, are thieves and robbers!" "It might seem strange to you, Manlius, if I should take you at your word. You must know that I love your wife madly." "That is your affair, Carinus. I do not keep her locked up. The way to her is open to every one." "It is easy for you to play the magnanimous. She herself secludes herself sufficiently. While hundreds of thousands of men tremble at a wave of my hand, all my power cannot win the love of this one woman." "And how Glyceria _can_ love! Ah, Carinus, I know that when, in the evening, the door opens to me which you always find closed, you would joyfully permit me to occupy your throne and reign in your stead so long as you fill my place as bridegroom." Carinus sprang up as if an electric spark had thrilled him. " _Hecatæa! _ I will take you at your word! Take my throne, command my slaves, my empire in my name, have my favourites killed, make the lowest in Rome the highest, empty my treasure-houses, and, for all this, merely give me the key of your bridal-chamber." "The bargain is made; here is my hand. Give me the parchment and stylus. Listen to what I write to Glyceria, and send it to her dwelling: 'Goddess of my love! I shall spend the hours between evening and morning with you. My heart longs for your words of consolation. The cypress-branch has wounded my brow; your rose-wreath may subdue its flames. When the evening star, the lamp of lovers, begins to shine, extinguish yours that, if tears should dim my eyes, you may not see them, but only feel my kisses. Until dawn I shall be with you, and in possession of my happiness. Your languishing husband, Manlius Sinister.' Send this letter by a slave, and put on this ring, which you must show at the door. Then you will be admitted, and Glyceria's women will conduct you where she awaits you." Carinus listened greedily to every word from Manlius, who coolly handed him the ring and the letter. Trembling in every limb, he could not speak, but motioned to a slave to deliver Manlius' letter to Glyceria. The courtiers whispered together in astonishment. "What a fortunate man you are," Ævius whispered in the ear of the new favourite. "Why did not I have the good luck to possess Glyceria's love, that I might cast it from me with the same indifference?" The slave soon returned with a letter from Glyceria to Manlius. The latter handed it to the Cæsar: "It is yours; read it!" Carinus, with trembling hands, unrolled the parchment; his eyes sparkled as he read: "Manlius! Your lines quiver in my hand. A thousand emotions are raging in my heart; fear, longing, holy horrour, and wild love. I am under the ban of an irresistible spell. I wish you might not come, but if you do, I shall be unable to resist you. I feel within my breast the power and the desire to destroy the whole world, but at a breath from you all my strength fails; I am nothing more than a weak, loving woman, who loses her reason in her love. Oh, do not come! Glyceria." "That means: 'Oh, come!'" said Manlius laughing, propping himself carelessly on one elbow upon his couch. Carinus ordered his _lectica_ to be brought, and had himself lifted into it. "No man has ever done that," whispered the barber, filled with envy; "given up his own bride to another." "Meanwhile you are the ruler of Rome," said Carinus to Manlius. "Let the fellow who writes my name come. Whatever you command, I command. Reign over my kingdom." "And you over my heaven." The slaves closed the purple curtains of the _lectica_, raised it on their shoulders, and withdrew with the Cæsar. The trembling courtiers, with humble faces, gathered around the youth whom the Imperator's crazy whim had made for an hour the master of the world. Manlius stretched himself comfortably upon the cushions of the imperial couch, sought among the throng of courtiers the man who was trembling most violently, and beckoned to him. It was Marcius, the barber; by virtue of imperial favour, Præfectus Prætorio. "You are the commander of the prætorians?" asked Manlius. "Yes, my imperial master," stammered the barber, rolling his eyes. Manlius laughed. "So you really consider me the Cæsar? If I _were_ the Imperator, I would have you beheaded because you mocked at my face; but call me your friend. I know your merits." "O my Lord!" "I know, and will reward them. You are accustomed to bleed people, so you will make a good soldier; you are skilled in arranging the hair, which indicates your talent for commander-in-chief; and understand how to pluck out hairs coolly, from which I perceive that you are stern and impartial. I am not satisfied with the leaders of the army in the East, Numerian and Diocletian, and I therefore appoint you general of these troops. You will set out at once for Thrace. Honourable _Defraudator_! Sign our name to the document." Marcius's brain fairly reeled under the burden of his new dignities. The courtiers were rigid with astonishment, and calculated that if Manlius began to reward thus those who had mocked him, he would perhaps raise to the very heavens those who had looked at him with smiles. The appointment was made out. The secretary signed the Cæsar's name, and Marcius, with a very important face, retired at once, carrying his commission. Urged by envy and jealousy, Ævius pressed forward to Manlius. The latter saw his struggle and beckoned to him. "You will be Præfectus Prætorio in Marcius's place, and distribute four thousand talents among this valiant band, whose sole duty consists in guarding our person. To be able to reward these men richly continually, we will lessen the numbers of the outside army. Why should we keep foreign countries garrisoned with our legions, pay Roman gold for Roman steel, and give the leaders opportunity to rebel against us? In an hour you will depart for Thrace, bearing our command to Numerian and Diocletian to dismiss half the army at once, and the sum thus saved I place at your free disposal, my noble friends. Write down my words, honourable _Defraudator_!" A frantic shout of joy greeted Manlius' speech. The courtiers rushed to him, raised him on their shoulders, and amid the accompaniment of music and thundering cheers, bore him around the room. The fury of intoxication had risen to madness, Senators were no longer to be distinguished from actors, dancers and hetæræ, slaves and bacchantes mingled in the hall, wine flowed from the skins upon the floor, the lamps were extinguished with it, and darkness covered the foul scene. The only window in the apartment was a round one in the ceiling which admitted the fresh air. When the last lamp was extinguished, the senseless revellers saw with terror that the window above their heads now gave light. What if the sky had kindled into terrible flames to illumine with its awful glare the hell beneath! The horrible tumult of the orgy ceased as if by magic, and through the doors, suddenly flung wide open, rushed a slave, calling in a trembling voice the message of terror: "Save yourselves! Rome is burning!" Through the round window the crimson glow shone like the flames of the Day of Judgment upon the evil beings caught in the midst of their sins. * * * * * When Carinus showed the ring, he was conducted without delay to Glyceria's apartments. The palace already stood wrapped in silence and darkness. Carinus felt rustling garments brush him in the corridors, soft hands guided him and, amid low laughter, led him through quiet rooms until at last he clasped a hand at whose electric pressure his blood began to seethe, and a familiar voice faltered with a tenderness never heard before: "Manlius! So you came?" It was Glyceria--cruelly deceived Glyceria. "I expected you, and yet I hoped you would not come," she whispered softly. "Do you feel the tremour of my hand in your clasp? It is quivering with love and fear. Love robbed me of my senses. One word of tenderness from your lips made my soul your slave--all that, during my whole life, I had concentrated in a single thought, the goal of my longing which I had never hoped to possess, the joy of which I had always dreamed, but never hoped would be mine--I now embrace! I do not understand it. This is not the day or the hour in which we ought to speak of love, but you mentioned it, and can the woman who loves choose the hour for answering the question?" Carinus stole the caresses of the loving woman. "Yet, O Manlius! I trembled lest you might come only to mock me, only to play a cruel game with me, obtain the deepest secrets of my heart and then jeer at me for them. No. You cannot do that. You cannot trample in the dust the only feeling which I have kept unsullied amid the ruin of my life. Can you hate me because I love you? And if you hate me, would you not slay, rather than mock me?" Carinus silently drew the trembling figure toward him and covered her cheeks and lips with fervent kisses. Glyceria, in blissful delusion, yielded to his embrace, and in her happiness had almost silenced the warning voice in her heart, when Carinus' cheek suddenly touched hers, and she discovered that his face was beardless. The most terrible thought darted through Glyceria's brain. "Ha! Who are you? You are not Manlius. Be accursed! You are Carinus." And, wresting herself with the strength of despair from the Cæsar's arms, she rushed toward the opposite side of the room and disappeared behind the curtains of the niche which concealed her couch, drawing the heavy folds together and hastily fastening the cords. "You will not escape me!" shrieked Carinus, dashing in the fury of his passion toward the curtains, and tearing them down, while he tore apart the knot which confined the cords with his teeth. But these few seconds had sufficed for Glyceria to light a vessel filled with some inflammable fluid and, at the instant Carinus succeeded in forcing the curtains apart, she poured the flaming contents over her couch and, while the blaze caught the light draperies, she herself sprang with a single bound upon the bed, now burning around her, whence like a terrible, destroying vision she shouted to the terror-stricken Augustus: "Now, come!" The next moment the hall was wrapped in flames. Like the fiend who gained an entrance into Heaven and was forced to fly thence, Carinus fled from the destroying fire, while Glyceria, seizing a burning coverlet, rushed from room to room, setting fire to each, and, dragging costly garments into the main hall, kindled those too. In a few minutes the whole palace was in flames and, at the end of an hour, a sea of fire was rolling through Rome. Carinus had been borne back to his palace senseless. Glyceria fled that same night to the temple of Cybele.	{ "id": "31942" }
11	None	While in Rome pleasures alternated with horrors the troops commanded by Numerian marched over rough roads, amid severe privations, to the Bosporus. Here they were joined by the fugitive Mesembrius who, when he left Rome, fled directly to Numerian. No one had been able to see this noble Cæsar for several weeks. He suffered severe pain in his eyes, and did not leave his tent. Mesembrius made his complaint to the leaders next in command. One, Diocletian, promised to avenge him, while the second, Aper, referred to Numerian and refrained from giving any opinion of his own. "Then let me go to Numerian; if I speak to him, he will be the first to draw his sword against his brother," urged the Senator. "You cannot see him," replied Aper, placing himself before the entrance to Numerian's tent. "No one except myself is allowed to speak to him during his illness. He even gives his orders to the army through me alone." Mesembrius sniffed the air suspiciously. "Why does so strong a smell of musk and amber come from this tent?" "Why?" repeated Aper, his face blanching. "Why do you desire to know, Senator?" "What?" retorted Mesembrius; "because you lie, Aper, when you say that Numerian issues his orders through you." "What? What do you mean?" shouted the soldiers who had gathered around the two. "I mean that Numerian is no longer living!" cried Mesembrius in ringing tones. "No, no, the strong odour of amber issuing from his tent is only to disguise the scent of corruption, and Aper has long taken advantage of you by issuing orders in Numerian's name." The soldiers forced their way into Numerian's tent and found the old man's words confirmed. Numerian had lain dead a long time; his body was far advanced in decomposition. Aper was instantly put in chains by the soldiers on account of this deception; in the afternoon an empty throne was erected in the open fields for the election of a new Imperator. Mesembrius walked through the ranks of the legions, recommending Diocletian, whom the soldiers fairly forced to take his seat upon the throne. Then Aper was brought forward. "I charge you, publicly and plainly," said Mesembrius, "with having murdered Numerian and betrayed us to Carinus." "And we condemn you," roared the army with one voice. "And I execute the sentence," said Diocletian, stabbing with his own hand the prisoner sentenced by the troops. In the midst of this wrathful mood Marcius arrived with the order given to him by Manlius and, without knowing what had happened, he delivered his appointment to the new Cæsar. "Who is this?" asked Diocletian, turning to Mesembrius. "The Cæsar's barber." Diocletian turned smiling to the soldiers. "Friends! Carinus provided for our beards and sent us a barber with the rank of an Imperator; pray sit down before him and have yourselves shaved. But do you take care not to cut my soldiers' faces, my little friend, for if they should try their big razors on you, you would fare ill." The soldiers, amid loud shouts of laughter, dragged Marcius off with them, and made him shave their bristling beards. Scarcely an hour later Ævius arrived with the command to dismiss half the army at once. This enraged the Cæsar and the whole body of troops. To assail their interests so boldly was presumptuous even from the Imperator. "To the funeral pyre with the messenger and his message!" cried Diocletian, and the poet had already been bound to the huge pile of logs when he sighed bitterly: "O ye gods, must I, while still living, witness my own apotheosis?" Diocletian laughed at the idea and ordered the poet to be brought down from the funeral pyre, contenting himself with putting him in the pillory, after which he sent him back to Rome with a message declaring war against Carinus. * * * * * The thunderstorm was rising, though as yet it sent forth no lightning. In Rome it was openly stated that the army sent to the West, filled with mortal hatred of Carinus, had already reached the Ister, only nothing was said of it in the Cæsar's palace. There revelry was perpetual and if, from time to time, any one alluded to Diocletian's approach, he was pitilessly derided. "Who is this peasant?" asked Manlius. "Who ever heard his name among the patricians of Rome? Who knew his father? His mother, on the contrary, was known by many. She was a slave in the house of Senator Anulinus. Anulinus has a right to demand him as a fruit of his household." The courtiers laughed at the jest. "You must know him, Manlius?" "I have never seen him. I used to be where danger threatened, and I never saw Diocletian. I know him because I was told that he always led the rearguard when we were marching forward, and the vanguard when we were retiring." Peals of laughter greeted the words. "And what is the character of his army?" he was asked. "It is a valiant, obedient body. It has killed three of its Imperators. As for its courage and fearlessness, it is peerless in those qualities, for it retreated from the banks of the Tigris without having seen an enemy. When I tell you that I myself was the greatest hero among them, you can judge of the rest." "And your news of victories?" "Were two-thirds inventions. Although we sometimes gained one, we owed it to our superior numbers; but the army must now be greatly reduced by desertion and disease." This sycophantic nation liked nothing better than to hear the soldiers slandered, and therefore Manlius even slandered himself. When Diocletian's army approached so close, however, that there could no longer be any doubt as to the danger, the imperial generals urgently pressed the Imperator to prepare for war, and Carinus gathered his troops from the European provinces. Suddenly the rumour spread that Carinus would command his army in person. He could be seen at two military exercises, the reviews of the troops. Manlius was always at his side, constantly stimulating his vanity or his jealousy by entreating him not to leave the victories to his leaders or commit the course of the campaign to their knowledge and prudence. "The victorious general is a new foe," Manlius was in the habit of saying, and the Imperator assumed the chief command of the assembled forces, and produced no bad effect mounted on his grey charger and clad in a suit of gold armour, with a purple striped violet mantle floating around his shoulders. On the day before the departure of the army, the leaders went to all the temples in turn, offering sacrifices everywhere, even on the altars of the Egyptian gods. Manlius assisted in bringing the animals selected for victims to the haruspex. The populace listened in solemn devotion to the augur's words. Quaterquartus extended his arms and, with closed eyes, said, in deep tones: "This battle will ruin the enemy of Rome." True, he did not say whom he considered the enemy of Rome--whether Diocletian or Carinus. At last the imperial procession reached Cybele's temple. Amid a deafening uproar of drums and blaring trumpets, the frantic priestesses were dancing in the open portico, stabbing their bodies with knives, muttering with foaming lips incomprehensible words, and whirling around till, overcome by giddiness, they fell to the floor. Suddenly a shriek, shriller, more terrible than any other sound in this inharmonious uproar, rang above the din; a shriek so piercing, so heart-rending, that every one gazed trembling in the direction of the sound. A woman's tall figure stood beneath the pillars; a long white mantle, which she clutched with both hands, floated from her head to her feet. "Woe betide thee, Rome! Woe betide ye, Roman people! Woe betide thee, Imperator of Rome!" The woman came out into the portico and, as she fixed her cold, expressionless eyes upon the throng, Carinus, seized with horror, grasped the hand of Manlius, who stood by his side. "That is Glyceria." Manlius also shrank back in terror. The madwoman, with the face of a prophetess, stood upon the steps of the temple. "Woe to those born on Roman soil, the children who must atone for the sins of the fathers, and the fathers upon whom the curse of their children falls. O Roma! The stars of ruin will appear in thy sky, and the earth will tremble beneath thee! Horror will dwell within thy walls, and peace will remain far distant. Foes will trample thee under their feet, foreign nations will show thee thy banners which they have wrested from thee, thou wilt beseech Barbarian enemies to grant thee the bare gift of life, and thy greatest foes will dwell within thy walls, for they are thine own emperors! The air, corrupted by the curses uttered, will bring the plague upon ye, miserable mortals! Those whom famine spares will perish in battle; those whom the sea rejects the earth will swallow! O Rome, thou queen of nations, thou wilt be orphaned; thou wilt vanish like the star that falls into the waves; nothing will be left of thee save the memory of thy sins, and the grass which will grow over thy palaces; even thy gods will disappear from thy temples so that, in thy despair, thou canst pray to no one!" A tribune bent forward to kiss the maniac's hand, and ask in a timid voice: "What result dost thou predict for the battle to which Carinus is just marching?" Glyceria heard the question, and looked gloomily at the soldiers. "Fear nothing! Destroy, set brother against brother, whoever may conquer--Rome has lost. If Carinus is victor, he will uproot half Rome; if Diocletian conquers, he will destroy the other half, and both are well deserved. March to battle, mad nation; shed thy blood, kill thy sons, let them die in tortures and remain unburied. When their souls flutter away in the autumn mist, they will be forgotten. Men, behold your wives clasped in the arms of others, your houses burned, your children dragged to slavery, and know that there is no world where ye can find compensation. Go! Die accursed and despairing!" Amid terrible convulsions, she sank down on the steps of the temple and, with outstretched arms, cursed the Roman people even while her lips were almost incapable of speech. "Take back your curse!" shouted the flamen Dialis, rushing up to her and seizing her hand. With her last strength Glyceria raised herself, her eyes rolled wildly over the throng and, once more summoning all the bitterness of her heart, she raised both hands and extending them over the multitude shrieked: "Be accursed!" With these words she fell back lifeless, her staring eyes, even in death, fixed upon Manlius.	{ "id": "31942" }
12	None	The armies of the imperial rivals met between Belgrade and Szeudrö. The Imperator Carinus' troops were perfectly fresh; Diocletian's legions were wearied by fatiguing marches. Carinus ordered his tent to be pitched on the top of a hill, whence, at Manlius's side, he watched the conflict. The result was for a long time doubtful. Diocletian's skill and experience as a general held the superior numbers of the foe in check. "Your leaders are good for nothing," cried Manlius; "Diocletian's centre might be broken by a general, resolute assault, for his weakest legions are stationed there, and then half his wing would be lost." "Make the necessary arrangements yourself," said Carinus. "Forward with the reserve, tribunes!" shouted Manlius. "The foreign legions must be sacrificed; let them be hewn down, and then on with the Triarians. Send against the Phrygian cavalry the German bands, who must hamstring the horses with their long swords. Let no one remain here. March forward with all your men. I alone can guard the Cæsar." The result of these orders was an immediate change in the tide of battle. Diocletian perceived that a skilled commander, who knew the weaknesses of his army, was opposing him; he hastily gave the signal for retreat to save his force from destruction. Standing in the entrance of his tent Carinus watched the progress of the conflict. His troops were everywhere driving the enemy before them, his cavalry was pressing onward. The flush of triumph glowed upon his face, every feature was radiant with the pride of victory, his heart throbbed with joy. "I have conquered!" he exclaimed, wild with delight, clapping his hands. "But I, too, have conquered," said a bitter, terrible voice behind him, and the Cæsar felt an iron hand seize his arm and drag him into the tent. Carinus, startled, glanced back and saw the gloomy face of Manlius, who was crushing his arm with one hand, and in the other held a drawn sword. "What do you want?" asked the Imperator in alarm. "Do you remember, Carinus, the girl who killed herself before your eyes to escape your embrace? That girl was my promised wife. Do you know what I want now?" "Manlius, you are jesting. What do you want of me? Why do you terrify me?" "I could have killed you often when, overpowered by drunkenness, you lay in a sound sleep, in the intoxication of your crimes, but I wished to await the moment when you were happy, when you had reached the summit of your renown, before I slew you." "Mercy! Help!" "No one can hear your call; the shouts of joy drown your whimpering. Do you hear the cries of triumph and the glorification of your name rising on all sides? Do you hear the universal cheer: 'Long live Carinus?' --Now, _die_, Carinus!" The next moment another horseman rode among the exulting troops; his right hand waved a lance from whose point gazed down the head of the conquering Imperator. The victorious troops surrendered to Diocletian. THE END.	{ "id": "31942" }
1	BADEN OUT OF SEASON.	A THEATRE by daylight, a great historical picture in the process of cleaning, a ballet-dancer of a wet day hastening to rehearsal, the favorite for the Oaks dead-lame in a straw-yard, are scarcely more stripped of their legitimate illusions than is a fashionable watering-place on the approach of winter. The gay shops and stalls of flaunting wares are closed; the promenades, lately kept in trimmest order, are weed-grown and neglected; the “sear and yellow leaves” are fluttering and rustling along the alleys where “Beauty's step was wont to tread.” Both music and fountains have ceased to play; the very statues are putting on great overcoats of snow, while the orange-trees file off like a sad funeral procession to hide themselves in dusky sheds till the coming spring. You see as you look around you that nature has been as unreal as art itself, and that all the bright hues of foliage and flower, all the odors that floated from bed and parterre, all the rippling flow of stream and fountain, have been just as artistically devised, and as much “got up,” as the transparencies or the Tyrolese singers, the fireworks or the fancy fair, or any other of those ingenious “spectacles” which amuse the grown children of fashion. The few who yet linger seem to have undergone a strange transmutation. The smiling landlord of the “Adler” we refer particularly to Germany as the very land of watering-places is a half-sulky, farmer-looking personage, busily engaged in storing up his Indian corn and his firewood and his forage, against the season of snows. The bland “croupier,” on whose impassive countenance no shade of fortune was able to mark even a passing emotion, is now seen higgling with a peasant for a sack of charcoal, in all the eagerness of avarice. The trim maiden, whose golden locks and soft blue eyes made the bouquets she sold seem fairer to look on, is a stout wench, whose uncouth fur cap and wooden shoes are the very antidotes to romance. All the transformations take the same sad colors. It is a pantomime read backwards. Such was Baden-Baden in the November of 182-. Some weeks of bad and broken weather had scattered and dispersed all the gay company. The hotels and assembly-rooms were closed for the winter. The ball-room, which so lately was alight with a thousand tapers, was now barricaded like a jail. The very post-office, around which each morning an eager and pressing crowd used to gather, was shut up, one small aperture alone remaining, as if to show to what a fraction all correspondence had been reduced. The Hotel de Russie was the only house open in the little town; but although the door lay ajar, no busy throng of waiters, no lamps, invited the traveller to believe a hospitable reception might await him within. A very brief glance inside would soon have dispelled any such illusion, had it ever existed. The wide staircase, formerly lined with orange-trees and camellias, was stripped of all its bright foliage; the marble statues were removed; the great thermometer, whose crystal decorations had arrested many a passing look, was now encased within a wooden box, as if its tell-tale face might reveal unpleasant truths, if left exposed. The spacious “Saal,” where some eighty guests assembled every day, was denuded of all its furniture, mirrors, and lustres; bronzes and pictures were gone, and nothing remained but a huge earthenware stove, within whose grating a faded nosegay left there in summer defied all speculations as to a fire. In this comfortless chamber three persons now paraded with that quick step and brisk motion that bespeak a walk for warmth and exercise; for dismal as it was within doors, it was still preferable to the scene without, where a cold incessant rain was falling, that, on the hills around, took the form of snow. The last lingerers at a watering-place, like those who cling on to a wreck, have usually something peculiarly sad in their aspect. Unable, as it were, to brave the waves like strong swimmers, they hold on to the last with some vague hope of escape, and, like a shipwrecked crew, drawing closer to each other in adversity than in more prosperous times, they condescend now to acquaintance, and even intimacy, where, before, a mere nod of recognition was alone interchanged. Such were the three who now, buttoned up to the chin, and with hands deeply thrust into side-pockets, paced backwards and forwards, sometimes exchanging a few words, but in that broken and discursive fashion that showed that no tie of mutual taste or companionship had bound them together. The youngest of the party was a small and very slightly made man of about five or six-and-twenty, whose face, voice, and figure were almost feminine, and, only for a very slight line of black moustache, might have warranted the suspicion of a disguise. His lacquered boots and spotless yellow gloves appeared somewhat out of season, as well as the very light textured coat which he wore; but Mr. Albert Jekyl had been accidentally detained at Baden, waiting for that cruel remittance which, whether the sin be that of agent or relative, is ever so slow of coming. That he bore the inconvenience admirably (and without the slightest show of impatience) it is but fair to confess; and whatever chagrin either the detention, the bad weather, or the solitude may have occasioned, no vestige of discontent appeared upon features where a look of practised courtesy, and a most bland smile, gave the predominant expression. “Who he was,” or, in other words, whence he came, of what family, with what fortune, pursuits, or expectations, we are not ashamed to confess our utter ignorance, seeing that it was shared by all those that tarried that season at Baden, with whom, however, he lived on terms of easy and familiar intercourse. The next to him was a bilious-looking man, somewhat past the middle of life, with that hard and severe cast of features that rather repels than invites intimacy. In figure he was compactly and stoutly built, his step as he walked, and his air as he stood, showed one whose military training had given the whole tone to his character. Certain strong lines about the mouth, and a peculiar puckering of the angles of the eyes, boded a turn for sarcasm, which all his instincts, and they were Scotch ones, could not completely repress. His voice was loud, sharp, and ringing, the voice of a man who, when he said a thing, would not brook being asked to repeat it. That Colonel Haggerstone knew how to be sapling as well as oak, was a tradition among those who had served with him; still it is right to add, that his more congenial mood was the imperative, and that which he usually practised. The accidental lameness of one of his horses had detained him some weeks at Baden, a durance which assuredly appeared to push his temper to its very last intrenchments. The third representative of forlorn humanity was a very tall, muscular man, whose jockey-cut green coat and wide-brimmed hat contrasted oddly with a pair of huge white moustaches, that would have done credit to a captain of the Old Guard. On features, originally handsome, time, poverty, and dissipation had left many a mark; but still the half-droll, half-truculent twinkle of his clear gray eyes showed him one whom no turn of fortune could thoroughly subdue, and who, even in the very hardest of his trials, could find heart to indulge his humor for Peter Dalton was an Irishman; and although many years an absentee, held the dear island and its prejudices as green in his memory as though he had left it but a week before. Such were the three, who, without one sympathy in common, without a point of contact in character, were now drawn into a chance acquaintance by the mere accident of bad weather. Their conversation if such it could be called showed how little progress could be made in intimacy by those whose roads in life lie apart. The bygone season, the company, the play-table and its adventures, were all discussed so often, that nothing remained but the weather. That topic, so inexhaustible to Englishmen, however, offered little variety now, for it had been uniformly bad for some weeks past. “Where do you propose to pass the winter, sir?” said Haggerstone to Jekyl, after a somewhat lengthy lamentation over the probable condition of all the Alpine passes. “I 've scarcely thought of it yet,” simpered out the other, with his habitual smile. “There's no saying where one ought to pitch his tent till the Carnival opens.” “And you, sir?” asked Haggerstone of his companion on the other side. “Upon my honor, I don't know then,” said Dalton; “but I would n't wonder if I stayed here, or hereabouts.” “Here! why, this is Tobolsk, sir! You surely couldn't mean to pass a winter here?” “I once knew a man who did it,” interposed Jekyl, blandly. “They cleaned him out at 'the tables;' and so he had nothing for it but to remain. He made rather a good thing of it, too; for it seems these worthy people, however conversant with the great arts of ruin, had never seen the royal game of thimble-rig; and Frank Mathews walked into them all, and contrived to keep himself in beet-root and boiled beef by his little talents.” “Was n't that the fellow who was broke at Kilmagund?” croaked Haggerstone. “Something happened to him in India; I never well knew what,” simpered Jekyl. “Some said he had caught the cholera; others, that he had got into the Company's service.” “By way of a mishap, sir, I suppose,” said the Colonel, tartly. “He would n't have minded it, in the least. For certain,” resumed the other, coolly, “he was a sharp-witted fellow; always ready to take the tone of any society.” The Colonel's cheek grew yellower, and his eyes sparkled with an angrier lustre; but he made no rejoinder. “That's the place to make a fortune, I'm told,” said Dalton. “I hear there's not the like of it all the world over.” “Or to spend one,” added Haggerstone, curtly. “Well, and why not?” replied Dalton. “I 'm sure it 's as pleasant as saving barring a man 's a Scotchman.” “And if he should be, sir? and if he were one that now stands before you?” said Haggerstone, drawing himself proudly up, and looking the other sternly in the face. “No offence no offence in life. I did n't mean to hurt your feelings. Sure, a man can't help where he 's going to be born.” “I fancy we'd all have booked ourselves for a cradle in Buckingham Palace,” interposed Jekyl, “if the matter were optional.” “Faith! I don't think so,” broke in Dalton. “Give me back Corrig-O'Neal, as my grandfather Pearce had it, with the whole barony of Kilmurray-O'Mahon, two packs of hounds, and the first cellar in the county, and to the devil I'd fling all the royal residences ever I seen.” “The sentiment is scarcely a loyal one, sir,” said Haggerstone, “and, as one wearing his Majesty's cloth, I beg to take the liberty of reminding you of it.” “Maybe it isn't; and what then?” said Dalton, over whose good-natured countenance a passing cloud of displeasure lowered. “Simply, sir, that it shouldn't be uttered in my presence,” said Haggerstone. “Phew!” said Dalton, with a long whistle, “is that what you 're at? See, now” here he turned fully round, so as to face the Colonel “see, now, I 'm the dullest fellow in the world at what is called 'taking a thing up;' but make it clear for me let me only see what is pleasing to the company, and it is n't Peter Dalton will balk your fancy.” “May I venture to remark,” said Jekyl, blandly, “that you are both in error, and however I may (the cold of the season being considered) envy your warmth, it is after all only so much caloric needlessly expended.” “I was n't choleric at all,” broke in Dalton, mistaking the word, and thus happily, by the hearty laugh his blunder created, bringing the silly altercation to an end. “Well,” said Haggerstone, “since we are all so perfectly agreed in our sentiments, we could n't do better than dine together, and have a bumper to the King's health.” “I always dine at two, or half-past,” simpered Jekyl; “besides, I'm on a regimen, and never drink wine.” “There 's nobody likes a bit of conviviality better than myself,” said Dal ton; “but I 've a kind of engagement, a promise I made this morning.” There was an evident confusion in the way these words were uttered, which did not escape either of the others, who exchanged the most significant glances as he spoke. “What have we here?” cried Jekyl, as he sprang to the window and looked out. “A courier, by all that's muddy! Who could have expected such an apparition at this time?” “What can bring people here now?” said Haggerstone, as with his glass to his eye he surveyed the little well-fed figure, who, in his tawdry jacket all slashed with gold, and heavy jack-boots, was closely locked in the embraces of the landlord. Jekyl at once issued forth to learn the news, and, although not fully three minutes absent, returned to his companions with a full account of the expected arrivals. “It's that rich banker, Sir Stafford Onslow, with his family. They were on their way to Italy, and made a mess of it somehow in the Black Forest they got swept away by a torrent, or crushed by an avalanche, or something of the kind, and Sir Stafford was seized with the gout, and so they 've put back, glad even to make such a port as Baden.” “If it's the gout's the matter with him,” said Dalton, “I 've the finest receipt in the world. Take a pint of spirits poteen if you can get it beat up two eggs and a pat of butter in it; throw in a clove of garlic and a few scrapings of horseradish, let it simmer over the fire for a minute or two, stir it with a sprig of rosemary to give it a flavor, and then drink it off.” “Gracious Heaven! what a dose!” exclaimed Jekyl, in horror. “Well, then, I never knew it fail. My father took it for forty years, and there wasn't a haler man in the country. If it was n't that he gave up the horseradish for he did n't like the taste of it he 'd, maybe, be alive at this hour.” “The cure was rather slow of operation,” said Haggerstone, with a sneer. “'Twas only the more like all remedies for Irish grievances, then,” observed Dal ton, and his face grew a shade graver as he spoke. “Who was it this Onslow married?” said the Colonel, turning to Jekyl. “One of the Headworths, I think.” “Ah, to be sure; Lady Hester. She was a handsome woman when I saw her first, but she fell off sadly; and indeed, if she had not, she 'd scarcely have condescended to an alliance with a man in trade, even though he were Sir Gilbert Stafford.” “Sir Gilbert Stafford!” repeated Dalton. “Yes, sir; and now Sir Gilbert Stafford Onslow. He took the name from that estate in Warwickshire; Skepton Park, I believe they call it.” “By my conscience, I wish that was the only thing he took,” ejaculated Dalton, with a degree of fervor that astonished the others, “for he took an elegant estate that belonged by right to my wife. Maybe you have heard tell of Corrig-O'Neal?” Haggerstone shook his head, while with his elbow he nudged his companion, to intimate his total disbelief in the whole narrative. “Surely you must have heard of the murder of Arthur Godfrey, of Corrig-O'Neal; was n't the whole world ringing with it?” Another negative sign answered this appeal. “Well, well, that beats all ever I heard! but so it is, sorrow bit they care in England if we all murdered each other! Arthur Godfrey, as I was saying, was my wife's brother, there were just the two of them, Arthur and Jane; she was my wife.” “Ah! here they come!” exclaimed Jekyl, not sorry for the event which so opportunely interrupted Dalton's unpromising history. And now a heavy travelling-carriage, loaded with imperials and beset with boxes, was dragged up to the door by six smoking horses. The courier and the landlord were immediately in attendance, and after a brief delay the steps were lowered, and a short, stout man, with a very red face and a very yellow wig, descended, and assisted a lady to alight. She was a tall woman, whose figure and carriage were characterized by an air of fashion. After her came a younger lady; and lastly, moving with great difficulty, and showing by his worn looks and enfeebled frame the suffering he had endured, came a very thin, mild-looking man of about sixty. Leaning upon the arm of the courier at one side, and of his stout companion, whom he called Doctor, at the other, he slowly followed the ladies into the house. They had scarcely disappeared when a caleche, drawn by three horses at a sharp gallop, drew up, and a young fellow sprang out, whose easy gestures and active movements showed that all the enjoyments of wealth and all the blandishments of fashion had not undermined the elastic vigor of body which young Englishmen owe to the practice of field sports. “This place quite deserted, I suppose,” cried he, addressing the landlord. “No one here?” “No one, sir. All gone,” was the reply. Haggerstone's head shook with a movement of impatience as he heard this remark, disparaging as it was, to his own importance; but he said nothing, and resumed his walk as before. “Our Irish friend is gone away, I perceive,” said Jekyl, as he looked around in vain for Dalton. “Do you believe all that story of the estate he told us?” “Not a syllable of it, sir. I never yet met an Irishman and it has been my lot to know some scores of them who had not been cheated out of a magnificent property, and was not related to half the peerage to boot. Now, I take it that our highly connected friend is rather out at elbows!” And he laughed his own peculiar hard laugh, as though the mere fancy of another man's poverty was something inconceivably pleasant and amusing. “Dinner, sir,” said the waiter, entering and addressing the Colonel. “Glad of it,” cried he; “it's the only way to kill time in this cursed place;” and so saying, and without the ceremony of a good-bye to his companion, the Colonel bustled out of the room with a step intended to represent extreme youth and activity. “That gentleman dines at two?” asked he of the waiter, as he followed him up the stairs. “He has not dined at all, sir, for some days back,” said the waiter. “A cup of coffee in the morning, and a biscuit, are all that he takes.” The Colonel made an expressive gesture by turning out the lining of his pocket. “Yes, sir,” replied the other, significantly; “very much that way, I believe.” And with that he uncovered the soup, and the Colonel arranged his napkin and prepared to dine.	{ "id": "32061" }
2	AN HUMBLE INTERIOR	WHEN Dalton parted from his companions at the “Russie,” it was to proceed by many an intricate and narrow passage to a remote part of the upper town, where close to the garden wall of the Ducal Palace stood, and still stands, a little solitary two-storied house, framed in wood, and the partitions displaying some very faded traces of fresco painting. Here was the well-known shop of a toy-maker; and although now closely barred and shuttered, in summer many a gay and merry troop of children devoured with eager eyes the treasures of Hans Roeckle. Entering a dark and narrow passage beside the shop, Dalton ascended the little creaking stairs which led to the second story. The landing place was covered with firewood, great branches of newly-hewn beech and oak, in the midst of which stood a youth, hatchet in hand, busily engaged in chopping and splitting the heavy masses around him. The flush of exercise upon his cheek suited well the character of a figure which, clothed only in shirt and trousers, presented a perfect picture of youthful health and symmetry. “Tired, Frank?” asked the old man, as he came up. “Tired, father! not a bit of it. I only wish I had as much more to split for you, since the winter will be a cold one.” “Come in and sit down, boy, now,” said the father, with a slight tremor as he spoke. “We cannot have many more opportunities of talking together. To-morrow is the 28th of November.” “Yes; and I must be in Vienna by the fourth, so Uncle Stephen writes.” “You must not call him uncle, Frank, he forbids it himself; besides, he is my uncle, and not yours. My father and he were brothers, but never saw each other after fifteen years of age, when the Count that 's what we always called him entered the Austrian service, so that we are all strangers to each other.” “His letter does n't show any lively desire for a closer intimacy,” said the boy, laughing. “A droll composition it is, spelling and all.” “He left Ireland when he was a child, and lucky he was to do so,” sighed Dalton, heavily. “I wish I had done the same.” The chamber into which they entered was, although scrupulously clean and neat, marked by every sign of poverty. The furniture was scanty and of the humblest kind; the table linen, such as used by the peasantry, while the great jug of water that stood on the board seemed the very climax of narrow fortune in a land where the very poorest are wine-drinkers. A small knapsack with a light travelling-cap on it, and a staff beside it, seemed to attract Dalton's eyes as he sat down. “It is but a poor equipment, that yonder. Frank,” said he at last, with a forced smile. “The easier carried,” replied the lad, gayly. “Very true,” sighed the other. “You must make the journey on foot.” “And why not, father? Of what use all this good blood, of which I have been told so often and so much, if it will not enable a man to compete with the low-born peasant. And see how well this knapsack sits,” cried he, as he threw it on his shoulder. “I doubt if the Emperor's pack will be as pleasant to carry.” “So long as you haven't to carry a heavy heart, boy,” said Dalton, with deep emotion, “I believe no load is too much.” “If it were not for leaving you and the girls, I never could be happier, never more full of hope, father. Why should not _I_ win my way upward as Count Stephen has done? Loyalty and courage are not the birthright of only one of our name!” “Bad luck was all the birthright ever I inherited,” said the old man, passionately; “bad luck in everything I touched through life! Where others grew rich, I became a beggar; where they found happiness, _I_ met misery and ruin! But it's not of this I ought to be thinking now,” cried he, changing his tone. “Let us see, where are the girls?” And so saying, he entered a little kitchen which adjoined the room, and where, engaged in the task of preparing the dinner, was a girl, who, though several years older, bore a striking resemblance to the boy. Over features that must once have been the very type of buoyant gayety, years of sorrow and suffering had left their deep traces, and the dark circles around the eyes betrayed how deeply she had known affliction. Ellen Dalton's figure was faulty for want of height in proportion to her size, but had another and more grievous defect in a lameness, which made her walk with the greatest difficulty. This was the consequence of an accident when riding, a horse having fallen upon her and fractured the hip-bone. It was said, too, that she had been engaged to be married at the time, but that her lover, shocked by the disfigurement, had broken off the match, and thus made this calamity the sorrow of a life long. “Where's Kate?” said the father, as he cast a glance around the chamber. Ellen drew near, and whispered a few words in his ear. “Not in this dreadful weather; surely, Ellen, you didn't let her go out in such a night as this?” “Hush!” murmured she, “Frank will hear you; and remember, father, it is his last night with us.” “Could n't old Andy have found the place?” asked Daiton; and as he spoke, he turned his eyes to a corner of the kitchen, where a little old man sat in a straw chair peeling turnips, while he croned a ditty to himself in a low singsong tone; his thin, wizened features, browned by years and smoke, his small scratch wig, and the remains of an old scarlet hunting-coat that he wore, giving him the strongest resemblance to one of the monkeys one sees in a street exhibition. “Poor Andy!” cried Ellen, “he'd have lost his way twenty times before he got to the bridge.” “Faith, then, he must be greatly altered,” said Dalton, “for I 've seen him track a fox for twenty miles of ground, when not a dog of the pack could come on the trace. Eh, Andy!” cried he, aloud, and stooping down so as to be heard by the old man, “do you remember the cover at Corralin?” “Don't ask him, father,” said Ellen, eagerly; “he cannot sleep for the whole night after his old memories have been awakened.” The spell, however, had begun to work; and the old man, letting fall both knife and turnip, placed his hands on his knees, and in a weak, reedy treble began a strange, monotonous kind of air, as if to remind himself of the words, which, after a minute or two, he remembered thus. “There was old Tom Whaley, And Anthony Baillie, And Fitzgerald, the Knight of Glynn, And Father Clare, On his big brown mare, That moruin' at Corralin!” “Well done, Andy! well done!” exclaimed Dalton. “You 're as fresh as a four-year-old.” “Iss!” said Andy, and went on with his song. “And Miles O'Shea, On his cropped tail bay, Was soon seen ridin' in. He was vexed and crossed At the light hoar frost, That mornin' at Corralin.” “Go on, Andy! go on, my boy!” exclaimed Dalton, in a rapture at the words that reminded him of many a day in the field and many a night's carouse. “What comes next?” “Ay!” cried Andy. “Says he, 'When the wind Laves no scent behind, To keep the dogs out 's a sin; I 'll be d--d if I stay, To lose my day, This mornin' at Corralin.'” But ye see he was out in his reck'nin'!” cried Andy; “for, as if “To give him the lie, There rose a cry, As the hounds came yelpin' in; And from every throat There swelled one note, That moruin' at Corralin.” A fit of coughing, brought on by a vigorous attempt to imitate the cry of a pack, here closed Andy's minstrelsy; and Ellen, who seemed to have anticipated some such catastrophe, now induced her father to return to the sitting-room, while she proceeded to use those principles of domestic medicine clapping on the back and cold water usually deemed of efficacy in like cases. “There now, no more singing, but take up your knife and do what I bade you,” said she, affecting an air of rebuke; while the old man, whose perceptions did not rise above those of a spaniel, hung down his head in silence. At the same moment the outer door of the kitchen opened, and Kate Dalton entered. Taller and several years younger than her sister, she was in the full pride of that beauty of which blue eyes and dark hair are the chief characteristics, and is deemed by many as peculiarly Irish. Delicately fair, and with features regular as a Grecian model, there was a look of brilliant, almost of haughty, defiance about her, to which her gait and carriage seemed to contribute; nor could the humble character of her dress, where strictest poverty declared itself, disguise the sentiment. “How soon you're back, dearest!” said Ellen, as she took off the dripping cloak from her sister's shoulders. “And only think, Ellen, I was obliged to go to Lichtenthal, where little Hans spends all his evenings in the winter season, at the 'Hahn!' And just fancy his gallantry! He would see me home, and would hold up the umbrella, too, over my head, although it kept his own arm at full stretch; while, by the pace we walked, I did as much for his legs. It is very ungrateful to laugh at him, for he said a hundred pretty things to me, about my courage to venture out in such weather, about my accent as I spoke German, and lastly, in praise of my skill as a sculptor. Only fancy, Ellen, what a humiliation for me to confess that these pretty devices were yours, and not mine; and that my craft went no further than seeking for the material which your genius was to fashion.” “Genius, Kate!” exclaimed Ellen, laughing. “Has Master Hans been giving you a lesson in flattery; but tell me of your success which has he taken?” “All everything!” cried Kate; “for although at the beginning the little fellow would select one figure and then change it for another, it was easy to see that he could not bring himself to part with any of them: now sitting down in rapture before the 'Travelling Student,' now gazing delightedly at the 'Charcoal-Burners,' but all his warmest enthusiasm bursting forth as I produced the 'Forest Maiden at the Well.' He did, indeed, think the 'Pedler' too handsome, but he found no such fault with the Maiden: and here, dearest, here are the proceeds, for I told him that we must have ducats in shining gold for Frank's new crimson purse; and here they are;” and she held up a purse of gay colors, through whose meshes the bright metal glittered. “Poor Hans!” said Ellen, feelingly. “It is seldom that so humble an artist meets so generous a patron.” “He's coming to-night,” said Kate, as she smoothed down the braids of her glossy hair before a little glass, “he's coming to say good-bye to Frank.” “He is so fond of Frank.” “And of Frank's sister Nelly; nay, no blushing, dearest; for myself, I am free to own admiration never comes amiss, even when offered by as humble a creature as the dwarf, Hans Roeckle.” “For shame, Kate, for shame! It is this idle vanity that stifles honest pride, as rank weeds destroy the soil for wholesome plants to live in.” “It is very well for you, Nelly, to talk of pride, but poor things like myself are fain to content themselves with the baser metal, and even put up with vanity! There, now, no sermons, no seriousness; I'll listen to nothing to-day that savors of sadness, and, as I hear pa and Frank laughing, I'll be of the party.” The glance of affection and admiration which Ellen bestowed upon her sister was not unmixed with an expression of painful anxiety, and the sigh that escaped her told with what tender interest she watched over her. The little dinner, prepared with more than usual care, at length appeared, and the family sat around the humble board with a sense of happiness dashed by one only reflection, that on the morrow Frank's place would be vacant. Still each exerted himself to overcome the sadness of that thought, or even to dally with it, as one suggestive of pleasure; and when Ellen placed unexpectedly a great flask of Margraer before them to drink the young soldier's health, the zest and merriment rose to the highest. Nor was old Andy forgotten in the general joy. A large bumper of wine was put before him, and the door of the sitting-room left open, as if to let him participate in the merry noises that prevailed there. How naturally, and instinctively, too, their hopes gave color to all they said, as they told each other that the occasion was a happy one! that dear Frank would soon be an officer, and of course distinguished by the favor of some one high in power; and lastly, they dwelt with such complacency on the affectionate regard and influence of “Count Stephen” as certain to secure the youth's advancement. They had often heard of the Count's great military fame, and the esteem in which he was held by the Court of Vienna; and now they speculated on the delight it would afford the old warrior who had never been married himself to have one like Frank, to assist by his patronage, and promote by his influence, and with such enthusiasm did they discuss the point, that at last they actually persuaded themselves that Frank's entering the service was a species of devotion to his relative's interest, by affording him an object worthy of his regard and affection. While Ellen loved to dwell upon the great advantages of one who should be like a father to the boy, aiding him by wise counsel, and guiding him in every difficulty, Kate preferred to fancy the Count introducing Frank into all the brilliant society of the splendid capital, presenting him to those whose acquaintance was distinction, and at once launching him into the world of fashion and enjoyment. The promptitude with which he acceded to their father's application on Frank's behalf, was constantly referred to as the evidence of his affectionate feeling for the family; and if his one solitary letter was of the very briefest and driest of all epistolary essays, they accounted for this very naturally by the length of time which had elapsed since he had either spoken or written his native language. In the midst of these self-gratulations and pleasant fancies the door opened, and Hans Roeckle appeared, covered from head to foot by a light hoar-frost, that made him look like the figure with which an ingenious confectioner sometimes decorates a cake. The dwarf stood staring at the signs of a conviviality so new and unexpected. “Is this Christmas time, or Holy Monday, or the Three Kings' festival, or what is it, that I see you all feasting?” cried Hans, shaking the snow off his hat, and proceeding to remove a cloak which he had draped over his shoulder in most artistic folds. “We were drinking Frank's health, Master Hans,” said Dalton, “before he leaves us. Come over and pledge him too, and wish him all success, and that he may live to be a good and valued soldier of the Emperor.” Hans had by this time taken off his cloak, which, by mounting on a chair, he contrived to hang up, and now approached the table with great solemnity, a pair of immense boots of Russian leather, that reached to his hips, giving him a peculiarly cumbrous and heavy gait; but these, as well as a long vest of rabbit skins that buttoned close to the neck, made his invariable costume in the winter. “I drink,” said the dwarf, as, filling a bumper, he turned to each of the company severally “I drink to the venerable father and the fair maidens, and the promising youth of this good family, and I wish them every blessing good Christians ought to ask for; but as for killing and slaying, for burning villages and laying waste cities, I 've no sympathy with these.” “But you are speaking of barbarous times, Master Hans,” said Kate, whose cheek mantled into scarlet as she spoke, “when to be strong was to be cruel, and when ill-disciplined hordes tyrannized over good citizens.” [Illustration: 040] “I am talking of soldiers, such as the world has ever seen them,” cried Hans, passionately; but of whose military experiences, it is but fair to say, his own little toyshop supplied all the source. “What are they?” cried he, “but toys that never last, whether he who plays with them be child or kaiser! always getting smashed, heads knocked off here, arms and legs astray there; ay, and strangest of all, thought most of when most disabled! and then at last packed up in a box or a barrack, it matters not which, to be forgotten and seen no more! Hadst thou thought of something useful, boy some good craft, a Jager with a corkscrew inside of him, a tailor that turns into a pair of snuffers, a Dutch lady that makes a pin-cushion, these are toys people don't weary of but a soldier! to stand ever thus” and Hans shouldered the fire-shovel, and stood “at the present.” “To wheel about so walk ten steps here ten back there never so much as a glance at the pretty girl who is passing close beside you.” Here he gave a look of such indescribable tenderness towards Kate, that the whole party burst into a fit of laughter. “They would have drawn me for the conscription,” said Hans, proudly, “but I was the only son of a widow, and they could not.” “And are you never grieved to think what glorious opportunities of distinction have been thus lost to you?” said Kate, who, notwithstanding Ellen's imploring looks, could not resist the temptation of amusing herself with the dwarf's vanity. “I have never suffered that thought to weigh upon me,” cried Hans, with the most unsuspecting simplicity. “It is true, I might have risen to rank and honors; but how would they have suited me, or I them? Or how should I have made those dearest to me sharers in a fortune so unbecoming to us? Think of poor Hans's old mother, if her son were to ask her blessing with a coat all glittering with stars and crosses; and then think of her as I have seen her, when I go, as I do every year, to visit her in the Bregentzer Wald, when she comes out to meet me with our whole village, proud of her son, and yet not ashamed of herself. That is glory that is distinction enough for Hans Roeckle.” The earnestness of his voice, and the honest manliness of his sentiments, were more than enough to cover the venial errors of a vanity that was all simplicity. It is true that Hans saw the world only through the medium of his own calling, and that not a very exalted one; but still there went through all the narrowness of his views a tone of kindliness a hearty spirit of benevolence, that made his simplicity at times rise into something almost akin to wisdom. He had known the Dal tons as his tenants, and soon perceived that they were not like those rich English, from whom his countrymen derive such abundant gains. He saw them arrive at a season when all others were taking their departure, and detected in all their efforts at economy, not alone that they were poor, but, sadder still, that they were of those who seem never to accustom themselves to the privations of narrow fortune; for, while some submit in patience to their humble lot, with others life is one long and hard-fought struggle, wherein health, hope, and temper are expended in vain. That the Daltons maintained a distance and reserve towards others of like fortune did, indeed, puzzle honest Hans, perhaps it displeased him, too, for he thought it might be pride; but then their treatment of himself disarmed that suspicion, for they not only received him ever cordially, but with every sign of real affection; and what was he to expect such? Nor were these the only traits that fascinated him; for all the rugged shell the kernel was a heart as tender, as warm, and as full of generous emotions as ever beat within an ampler breast. The two sisters, in Hans's eyes, were alike beautiful; each had some grace or charm that he had never met with before, nor could he ever satisfy himself whether his fancy was more taken by Kate's wit or by Ellen's gentleness. If anything were needed to complete the measure of his admiration, their skill in carving those wooden figures, which he sold, would have been sufficient. These were in his eyes nor was he a mean connoisseur high efforts of genius; and Hans saw in them a poetry and a truthfulness to nature that such productions rarely, if ever, possess. To sell, such things as mere toys, he regarded as little short of a sacrilege, while even to part with them at all cost him a pang like that the gold-worker of Florence experienced when he saw some treasure of Benvenuto's chisel leave his possession. Not, indeed, that honest Hans had to struggle against that criminal passion which prompted the jeweller, even by deeds of assassination, to repossess himself of the coveted objects; nay, on the contrary, he felt a kindness and a degree of interest towards those in whose keeping they were, as if some secret sympathy united them to each other. Is it any wonder if poor Hans forgot himself in such pleasant company, and sat a full hour and a half longer than he ought? To him the little intervals of silence that were occasionally suffered to intervene were but moments of dreamy and delicious revery, wherein his fancy wandered away in a thousand pleasant paths; and when at last the watchman for remember, good reader, they were in that primitive Germany where customs change not too abruptly announced two o'clock, little Hans did not vouchsafe a grateful response to the quaint old rhyme that was chanted beneath the window. “That little chap would sit to the day of judgment, and never ask to wet his lips,” said Dal ton, as Frank accompanied the dwarf downstairs to the street door. “I believe he not only forgot the hour, but where he was, and everything else,” said Kate. “And poor Frank! who should have been in bed some hours ago,” sighed Nelly. “Gone at last, girls!” exclaimed Frank, as he entered, laughing. “If it hadn't been a gust of wind that caught him at the door, and carried him clean away, our leave-taking might have lasted till morning. Poor fellow! he had so many cautions to give me, such mountains of good counsel; and see, here is a holy medal he made me accept. He told me the 'Swedes' would never harm me so long as I wore it; he still fancies that we are in the Thirty Years' War.” In a hearty laugh over Hans Roeckle's political knowledge, they wished each other an affectionate good-night, and separated. Frank was to have his breakfast by daybreak, and each sister affected to leave the care of that meal to the other, secretly resolving to be up and stirring first. Save old Andy, there was not one disposed to sleep that night. All were too full of their own cares. Even Dalton himself, blunted as were his feelings by a long life of suffering, his mind was tortured by anxieties; and one sad question arose again and again before him, without an answer ever occurring: “What is to become of the girls when I am gone? Without a home, they will soon be without a protector!” The bright fancies, the hopeful visions in which the evening had been passed, made the revulsion to these gloomy thoughts the darker. He lay with his hands pressed upon his face, while the hot tears gushed from eyes that never before knew weeping. At moments he half resolved not to let Frank depart, but an instant's thought showed him how futile would be the change. It would be but leaving him to share the poverty, to depend upon the scanty pittance already too little for themselves. “Would Count Stephen befriend the poor girls?” he asked himself over and over; and in his difficulty he turned to the strange epistle in which the old general announced Frank's appointment as a cadet. The paper, the square folding, the straight, stiff letters, well suited a style which plainly proclaimed how many years his English had lain at rest. The note ran thus: GRABEN-WIEN, Octobre 9, 18-- WORTHY SIR AND NEPHEW, Your kindly greeting, but long-time on-the-road-coming letter is in my hands. It is to me pleasure that I announce the appointment of your son as a Cadet in the seventh battalion of the Carl-Franz Infanterie. So with, let him in all speed of time report himself here at Wien, before the War's Minister, bringing his Tauf schein Baptism's sign as proof of Individualism. I am yours, well to command, and much-loving kinsman, GRAF DALTON VON AUERSBERG, Lieut.-General and Feldzeugmeister, K.K.A. To the high and well-born, the Freiherr v. Dalton, in Baden Baden.	{ "id": "32061" }
3	THE FOREST ROAD.	THIS dry epistle Dalton read and re-read, trying, if not to discover some touch of kindliness or interest, to detect, at least, some clew to its writer's nature; but to no use, its quaint formalism baffled all speculation, and he gave up the pursuit in despair. That “the Count” was his father's only brother, and a “Dalton,” were the only grains of comfort he could extract from his meditations; but he had lived long enough in the world to know how little binding were the ties of kindred when once slackened by years and distance. The Count might, therefore, regard them in the light of intruders, and feel the very reverse of pleasure at the revival of a relationship which had slept for more than half a century. Dalton's pride or what he thought his pride revolted against this thought; for, although this same pride would not have withheld him from asking a favor of the Count, it would have assumed a most indignant attitude if refused, or even grudgingly accorded. When the thought first occurred to him of applying to his uncle in Frank's behalf, he never hesitated about the propriety of addressing a request to one with whom he had never interchanged a line in all his life; and now he was quite ready to take offence, if all the warmth of blood relationship should not fill the heart of him who had been an exile from home and family since his earliest boyhood. An easy, indolent selfishness had been the spirit of Dalton's whole life. He liked to keep a good house, and to see company about him; and this obtained for him the reputation of hospitality. He disliked unpopularity, and dreaded the “bad word” of the people; and hence he suffered his tenantry to fall into arrears and his estate into ruin. A vain rivalry with wealthier neighbors prevented retrenchment when his means were lessened. The unthinking selfishness of his nature was apparent even in his marriage, since it was in obedience to an old pledge extracted years before that Miss Godfrey accepted him, and parted in anger with her brother, who had ever loved her with the warmest affection. Mr. Godfrey never forgave his sister; and at his death, the mysterious' circumstances of which were never cleared up, his estate passed to a distant relative, the rick Sir Gilbert Stafford. Dalton, who long cherished the hope of a reconciliation, saw all prospect vanish when his wife died, which she did, it was said, of a broken heart. His debts were already considerable, and all the resources of borrowing and mortgage had been long since exhausted; nothing was then left for him but an arrangement with his creditors, which, giving him a pittance scarcely above the very closest poverty, enabled him to drag out life in the cheap places of the Continent; and thus, for nigh twenty years, had he wandered about from Dieppe to Ostend, to Bruges, to Dusseldorf, to Coblentz, and so on, among the small Ducal cities, till, with still failing fortune, he was fain to seek a residence for the winter in Baden, where house-rent, at least, would be almost saved to him. The same apathy that had brought on his ruin enabled him to bear it. Nothing has such a mock resemblance to wisdom as utter heartlessness; with all the seeming of true philosophy, it assumes a port and bearing above the trials of the world; holds on “the even tenor of its way,” undeterred by the reverses which overwhelm others, and even meets the sternest frowns of fortune with the bland smile of equanimity. In this way Dalton had deceived many who had known him in better days, and who now saw him, even in his adversity, with the same careless, good-natured look, as when he took the field with his own hounds, or passed round the claret at his own table. Even his own children were sharers in this delusion, and heard him with wondering admiration, as he told of the life he used to lead, and the style he once kept up at Mount Dalton. These were his favorite topics; and, as he grew older, he seemed to find a kind of consolation in contrasting all the hard rubs of present adversity with his once splendor. Upon Ellen Dalton, who had known and could still remember her mother, these recitals produced an impression of profound grief, associated as they were with the sufferings of a sick-bed and the closing sorrows of a life; while, in the others, they served to keep up a species of pride of birth, and an assumption of superiority to others of like fortune, which their father gloried in, representing, as he used to say, “the old spirit of the Dal tons.” As for Kate, she felt it a compensation for present poverty to know that they were of gentle blood, and that if fortune, at some distant future, would deal kindly by them, to think that they should not obtrude themselves like upstarts on the world, but resume, as it were, the place that was long their own. In Frank the evil had taken a deeper root. Taught from his earliest infancy to believe himself the heir of an ancient house, pride of birth and station instilled into his mind by old Andy, the huntsman, the only dependant, whom, with characteristic wisdom, they had carried with them from Ireland, he never ceased to ponder on the subject, and wonder within himself if he should live to have “his own” again. Such a hold had this passion taken of him, that, even as a child, he would wander away for days long into lonely and unfrequented spots, thinking over the stories he had heard, and trying to conjure up before his eyes some resemblance to that ancient house and venerable domain which had been so long in his family. It was no part of his teaching to know by what spendthrift and reckless waste, by what a long career of folly, extravagance, and dissipation, the fortune of his family had been wrecked; or rather, many vague and shadowy suspicions had been left to fester in his mind of wrongs and injuries done them; of severe laws imposed by English ignorance or cruelty; of injustice, on this hand heartless indifference of friends on the other; the unrelenting anger of his uncle Godfrey filling up the measure of their calamities. Frank Dalton's education went very little further than this; but, bad as it was, its effect was blunted by the natural frankness and generosity of his character, its worst fruits being an over-estimate of himself and his pretensions, errors which the world has always the watchful kindness to correct in those who wear threadbare coats and patched boots. He was warmly and devotedly attached to his father and sisters, and whatever bitterness found its way into his heart was from seeing them enduring the many trials of poverty. All his enthusiasm for the service in which he was about to enter was, therefore, barely sufficient to overcome the sorrow of parting with those, whom alone of all the world he loved; and when the moment drew nigh for his departure, he forgot the bright illusions by which he had so often fed his hopes, and could only think of the grief of separation. His candle had burned down nearly to the socket, when he arose and looked at his watch. It was all dark as midnight without, although nigh six o'clock. He opened the window, and a thin snowdrift came slanting in, borne on a cutting north wind; he closed it hastily, and shuddered as he thought of the long and lonely march before him. All was silent in the house as he dressed himself and prepared for the road. With noiseless step he drew near his father's door and listened; everything was still. He could not bring himself to disturb him, so he passed on to the room where his sisters slept. The door lay ajar, and a candle was burning on the table. Frank entered on tiptoe and drew near the bed, but it was empty and had not been lain in. As he turned round he beheld Kate asleep in a chair, dressed as he had last seen her. She had never lain down, and the prayer-book, which had dropped from her hand, told how her last waking moments were passed. He kissed her twice, but even the hot tears that fell from his eyes upon her cheek did not break her slumber. He looked about him for some token to leave, that might tell he had been there, but there was nothing, and, with a low sigh, he stole from the room. As he passed out into the kitchen, Ellen was there. She had already prepared his breakfast, and was spreading the table when he entered. “How good of you how kind, Ellen,” said he, as he passed his arm around her neck. “Hush, Frank, they are both sleeping. Poor papa never closed his eyes till half an hour ago, and Kate was fairly overcome ere she yielded.” “You will say that I kissed them, Nelly, kissed them twice,” said he, in a low, broken voice, “and that I could n't bear to awake them. Leave-taking is so sorrowful. Oh, Ellen, if I knew that you were all happy, that there were no hardships before you, when I 'm away!” “And why should we not, Frank?” said she, firmly. “There is no dishonor in this poverty, so long as there are no straits to make it seem other than it is. Let us rather pray for the spirit that may befit any lot we are thrown in, than for a fortune to which we might be unsuited.” “Would you forget who we are, Ellen?” said he, half reproachfully. “I would remember it, Frank, in a temper less of pride than humility.” “I do not see much of the family spirit in all this,” rejoined he, almost angrily. “The family spirit,” echoed she, feelingly. “What has it ever done for us, save injury? Has it suggested a high=bearing courage against the ills of narrow fortune? Has it told us how to bear poverty with dignity, or taught us one single lesson of patience and submission? Or has it, on the contrary, been ever present to whisper the changes in our condition how altered our lot making us ashamed of that companionship which our station rendered possible for us, and leaving us in the isolation of friendlessness for the sake of I blush to abuse the word our Pride! Oh, Frank, my dear, dear brother, take it not ill of me, that in our last moments together, perhaps for years, I speak what may jar upon your ears to hear; but remember that I am much older, that I have seen far more of the world, at least of its sorrows and cares, than you have. I have indeed known affliction in many ways, but have never found a poorer comforter in its troubles than what we call our Pride!” “You would have me forget I am a Dalton, then?” said the boy, in a tone of sorrowful meaning. “Never! when the recollection could prompt a generous or a noble action, a manly ambition, or a high-hearted thought; but the name will have no spell in it, if used to instil an imperious, discontented spirit, a regretful contrast of what we are, with what we might have been, or what, in a worldly sense, is more destructive still, a false reliance on the distinction of a family to which we have contributed nothing.” [Illustration: 050] “You do not know, Nelly dearest, of what a comfort you have robbed me,” said Frank, sorrowfully. “Do not say so, my dearest brother,” cried she, passing her arm around him; “a deception, a mere illusion, is unworthy of that name. Look above the gratification of mere vanity, and you will become steeled against the many wounds self-love is sure to receive in intercourse with the world. I cannot tell how, or with what associates, you are about to live, but I feel certain that in every station a man of truth and honor will make himself respected. Be such, dearest Frank. If family pride if the name of Dalton have value in your eyes, remember that upon you it rests to assert its right to distinction. If, as I would fondly hope, your heart dwells here with us, bethink ye what joy what holy gratitude you will diffuse around our humble hearth to know that our brother is a good man.” It was some moments ere either could speak again. Emotions, very different ones, perhaps, filled their hearts, and each was too deeply moved for words. Frank's eyes were full of tears, and his cheek quivering, as he threw his knapsack on his shoulder. “You will write from Innspruck, Frank; but how many days will it take ere you reach that city?” “Twelve or fourteen at least, if I go on foot. There, Nelly, do not help me, dearest; I shall not have you tomorrow to fasten these straps.” “This is not to be forgotten, Frank; it's Kate's present. How sorry she will be not to have given it with her own hands!” And so saying, she gave him the purse her sister had worked. “But there is gold in it,” said the boy, growing pale with emotion. “Very little, Frank dearest,” replied she, smiling. “A cadet must always have gold in his purse, so little Hans tells us; and you know how wise he is in all these matters.” “And is it from a home like this that I am to take gold away!” cried he, passionately. “Nay, Frank, you must not persuade us that we are so very poor. I will not consent to any sense of martyrdom, I promise you.” It was not without difficulty she could overcome his scruples; nor, perhaps, had she succeeded at all, if his thoughts had not been diverted into another channel by a light tapping at the door. It was Hans Roeckle come to awake him. Again and again the brother and sister embraced; and in a very agony of tears Frank tore himself away, and hastened down the stairs. The next moment the heavy house door banged loudly, and he was gone. Oh, the loneliness of mind in which he threaded his way through the dark and narrow streets, where the snow already lay deeply! With what sinking of the heart he turned to look for the last time at the window where the light the only one to be seen still glimmered. How little could all the promptings of hope suffice against the sad and dark reality that he was leaving all he loved, and all who loved him, to adventure upon a world where all was bleak and friendless! But not all his dark forebodings could equal hers from whom he had just parted. Loving her brother with an affection more like that of mother than sister, she had often thought over the traits of his character, where, with many a noble gift, the evil seeds of wrong teaching had left, like tall weeds among flowers, the baneful errors of inordinate self-esteem and pride. Ignorant of the career on which he was about to enter, Ellen could but speculate vaguely how such a character would be esteemed, and whether his native frankness and generosity would cover over, or make appear as foibles, these graver faults. Their own narrow fortunes, the very straits and privations of poverty, with all their cruel wounds to honest pride, and all their sore trials of temper, she could bear up against with an undaunted courage. She had learned her lesson in the only school wherein it is taught, and daily habit had instilled its own powers of endurance; but, for Frank, her ambition hoped a higher and brighter destiny, and now, in her solitude, and with a swelling heart, she knelt down and prayed for him. And, oh! if the utter ings of such devotion never rise to Heaven or meet acceptance there, they at least bring balm to the spirit of him who syllables them, building up a hope whose foundations are above the casualties of humanity, and giving a courage that mere self-reliance never gave. Little Hans not only came to awaken Frank, but to give him companionship for some miles of his way, a thoughtful kindness, for which the youth's deep preoccupation seemed to offer but a poor return. Indeed, Frank scarcely knew that he was not travelling in utter solitude, and all the skilful devices of the worthy dwarf to turn the channel of his thoughts were fruitless. Had there been sufficient light to have surveyed the equipment of his companion, it is more than probable that the sight would have done more to produce this diversion of gloom than any arguments which could have been used. Master Roeckle, whose mind was a perfect storehouse of German horrors, earthly and unearthly, and who imagined that a great majority of the human population of the globe were either bandits or witches, had surrounded himself with a whole museum of amulets and charms of various kinds. In his cap he wore the tail of a black squirrel, as a safeguard against the “Forest Imp;” a large dried toad hung around his neck, like an order, to protect him from the evil eye; a duck's foot was fastened to the tassel of his boot, as a talisman against drowning; while strings of medals, coins, precious stones, blessed beads, and dried insects, hung round and about him in every direction. Of all the portions of his equipment, however, what seemed the most absurd was a huge pole-axe of the fifteenth century, and which he carried as a defence against mere mortal foes, but which, from its weight and size, appeared far more likely to lay its bearer low than inflict injury upon others. It had been originally stored up in the Rust Kammer, at Prague, and was said to be the identical weapon with which Conrad slew the giant at Leutmeritz, a fact which warranted Hans in expending two hundred florins in purchasing it; as, to use his own emphatic words, “it was not every day one knew where to find the weapon to bring down a giant.” As Hans, encumbered by his various adjuncts, trotted along beside his stalwart companion, he soon discovered that all his conversational ability to exert which cost him so dearly was utterly unattended to; he fell into a moody silence, and thus they journeyed for miles of way without interchanging a word. At last they came in sight of the little village of Hernitz Kretschen, whence by a by road Frank was to reach the regular line that leads through the Hohlen Thai to the Lake of Constance, and where they were to part. “I feel as though I could almost go all the way with you,” said Hans, as they stopped to gaze upon the little valley where lay the village, and beyond which stretched a deep forest of dark pine-trees, traversed by a single road. “Nay, Hans,” said Frank, smiling, as for the first time he beheld the strange figure beside him; “you must go back to your pleasant little village and live happily, to do many a kindness to others, as you have done to me to-day!” “I would like to take service with the Empress myself,” said Hans, “if it were for some good and great cause, like the defence of the Church against the Turks, or the extermination of the race of dragons that infest the Lower Danube.” “But you forget, Hans, it is an Emperor, rules over Austria now,” said Frank, preferring to offer a correction to the less startling of his hallucinations. “No, no, Master Frank, they have not deposed the good Maria Teresa, they would never do that. I saw her picture over the doorway of the Burgermeister the last time I went to visit my mother in the Bregertzer Wald, and by the same token her crown and sceptre were just newly gilt, a thing they would not have done if she were not on the throne.” “What if she were dead, and her son too?” said Frank; but his words were scarce uttered when he regretted to have said them, so striking was the change that came over the dwarf's features. “If that were indeed true, Heaven have mercy on us!” exclaimed he, piously. “Old Frederick will have but little pity for good Catholics! But no, Master Frank, this cannot be. The last time I received soldiers from Nuremberg they wore the same uniforms as ever, and the 'Moriamur pro Rege nostro, M. T.' was in gold letters on every banner as before.” Frank was in no humor to disturb so innocent and so pleasing a delusion, and he gave no further opposition; and now they both descended the path which led to the little inn of the village. Here Hans insisted on performing the part of host, and soon the table was covered with brown bread and hard eggs, and those great massive sausages which Germans love, together with various flasks of Margrafler and other “Badisch” wines. “Who knows,” said Hans, as he pledged his guest by ringing his wine-glass against the other's, “if, when we meet again, thou wouldst sit down at the table with such as me?” “How so, Hanserl?” asked the boy, in astonishment. “I mean, Master Franz, that you may become a colonel, or perhaps a general, with, mayhap, the 'St. Joseph' at your button-hole, or the 'Maria Teresa' around your neck; and if so, how could you take your place at the board with the poor toy-maker?” “I am not ashamed to do so now,” said Frank, haughtily; “and the Emperor cannot make me more a gentleman than my birth has done. Were I to be ashamed of those who befriended me, I should both disgrace my rank and name together.” “These are good words, albeit too proud ones,” said Hans, thoughtfully. “As a guide through life, pride will do well enough when the roads are good and your equipage costly; but when you come upon mountain-paths and stony tracts, with many a wild torrent to cross, and many a dark glen to traverse, humility even a child's humility will give better teaching.” “I have no right to be other than humble!” said the boy; but the flashing brightness of his eyes, and the heightened color of his cheek, seemed to contradict his words. For a while the conversation flagged, or was maintained in short and broken sentences, when at length Frank said, “You will often go to see them, Hanserl, won't you? You'll sit with them, too, of an evening? for they will feel lonely now; and my father will like to tell you his stories about home, as he calls it still.” “That will I,” said Hans; “they are the happiest hours of my life when I sit beside that hearth.” Frank drew his hand across his eyes, and his lips quivered as he tried to speak. “You'll be kind to poor Ellen, too; she is so timid, Hans. You cannot believe how anxious she is, lest her little carvings should be thought unworthy of praise.” “They are gems! they are treasures of art!” cried Hans, enthusiastically. “And my sweet Kate!” cried the boy, as his eyes ran over, while a throng of emotions seemed to stop his utterance. “She is so beautiful!” exclaimed Hans, fervently. “Except the Blessed Maria at the Holy Cross, I never beheld such loveliness. There is the Angelus ringing; let us pray a blessing on them;” and they both knelt down in deep devotion. Frank's lips never moved, but with swelling heart and clasped hands he remained fixed as a statue; while Hanserl in some quaint old rhyme uttered his devotions. “And yonder is the dog-star, bright and splendid,” said Hans, as he arose. “There never was a happier omen for the beginning of a journey. You 'll be lucky, boy; there is the earnest of good fortune. That same star was shining along the path as I entered Baden, eighteen years ago; and see what a lucky life has mine been!” Frank could not but smile at the poor dwarf's appreciation of his fortune; but Hanserl's features wore a look that betokened a happy and contented nature. “And yours has been a lucky life, Hanserl?” said he, half in question. “Lucky? ay, that has it. I was a poor boy, barefooted and hungry in my native forest deformed, and stunted, too a thing to pity too weak to work, and with none to teach me, and yet even I was not forgotten by Him who made the world so fair and beautiful; but in my heart was planted a desire to be something to do something, that others might benefit by. The children used to mock me as I passed along the road; but a voice whispered within me, 'Be of courage, Hanserl, they will bless thee yet, they will greet thee with many a merry laugh and joyous cry, and call thee their own kind Hanserl:' and so have I lived to see it! My name is far and wide over Germany. Little boys and girls know and speak of me amongst the first words they syllable; and from the palace to the bauer's hut, Hans Roeckle has his friends; and who knows that when this poor clay is mingled with the earth, but that my spirit will hover around the Christmas-tree when glad voices call upon me! I often think it will be so.” Frank's eyes glistened as he gazed upon the dwarf, who spoke with a degree of emotion and feeling very different from his wont. “So you see, Master Franz,” said he, smiling, “there are ambitions of every hue, and this of mine you may deem of the very faintest, but it is enough for me. Had I been a great painter, or a poet, I would have revelled in the thought that my genius adorned the walls of many a noble palace, and that my verses kindled emotions in many a heart that felt like my own; but as one whom nature has not gifted, poor, ignoble, and unlettered, am I not lucky to have found a little world of joyous hearts and merry voices, who care for me % and speak of me, ay, and who would give me a higher place in their esteem than to Jean Paul, or Goethe himself?” The friends had but time to pledge each other in a parting glass, when the stage drove up by which Hans was to return to Baden. A few hurried words, half cheering, half sorrowful, a close embrace, one long and lingering squeeze of the hand, “Farewell, kind Hanserl!” “God guide thee, Franz!” and they parted. Frank stood in the little “Platz,” where the crowd yet lingered, watching the retiring “Post,” uncertain which, way to turn him. He dreaded to find himself all alone, and yet he shrank from new companionship. The newly risen moon and the calm air invited him to pursue his road; so he set out once more, the very exercise being a relief against his sad thoughts. Few words are more easily spoken than “He went to seek his fortune;” and what a whole world lies within the narrow compass! A world of high-hearted hopes and doubting fear, of noble ambition to be won, and glorious paths to be trod, mingled with tender thoughts of home and those who made it such. What sustaining courage must be his who dares this course and braves that terrible conflict the toughest that ever man fought between his own bright coloring of life and the stern reality of the world! How many hopes has he to abandon, how many illusions to give up! How often is his faith to be falsified and his trustfulness betrayed; and, worst of all, what a fatal change do these trials impress upon himself, how different is he from what he had been! Young and untried as Frank Dalton was in life, he was not altogether unprepared for the vicissitudes that awaited him; his sister Nelly's teachings had done much to temper the over-buoyant spirit of his nature, and make him feel that he must draw upon that same courage to sustain the present, rather than to gild the future. His heart was sorrowful, too, at leaving a home where unitedly they had, perhaps, borne up better against poverty. He felt for his own heart revealed it how much can be endured in companionship, and how the burden of misfortune like every other load is light when many bear it. Now thinking of these things, now fancying the kind of life that might lie before him, he marched along. Then he wondered whether the Count would resemble his father. The Daltons were remarkable for strong traits of family likeness, not alone in feature, but in character; and what a comfort Frank felt in fancying that the old general would be a thorough Dalton in frankness and kindliness of nature, easy in disposition, with all the careless freedom of his own father! How he should love him, as one of themselves! It is a well-known fact, that certain families are remarkable above others for the importance that they attach to the ties of kindred, making the boast of relationship always superior to the claims of self-formed friendships. This is perhaps more peculiarly the case among those who live little in the world, and whose daily sayings and doings are chiefly confined to the narrow circle of home. But yet it is singular how long this prejudice for perhaps it deserves no better name can stand the conflict of actual life. The Daltons were a special instance of what we mean. Certain characteristics of look and feature distinguished them all, and they all agreed in maintaining the claim of relationship as the strongest bond of union; and it was strange into how many minor channels this stream meandered. Every old ruin, every monument, every fragment of armor, or ancient volume associated with their name, assumed a kind of religious value in their eyes, and the word Dalton was a talisman to exalt the veriest trifle into the rank of relic. From his earliest infancy Frank had been taught these lessons. They were the traditions of the parlor and the kitchen, and by the mere force of repetition became a part of his very nature. Corrig-O'Neal was the theme of every story. The ancient house of the family, and which, although by time's changes it had fallen into the hands of the Godfreys from whom his mother came was yet regarded with all the feelings of ancient pride. Over and over again was he told of the once princely state that his ancestors held there, the troops of retainers, the mounted followers that ever accompanied them. The old house itself was exalted to the rank of a palace, and its wide-spreading but neglected grounds spoken of like the park of royalty. To see this old house of his fathers, to behold with his own eyes the seat of their once greatness, became the passion of the boy's heart. Never did the Bedouin of the Desert long after Mecca with more heart-straining desire. To such a pitch had this passion gained on him, that, unable any longer to resist an impulse that neither left his thoughts by day nor his dreams by night, he fled from his school at Bruges, and when only ten years old made his way to Ostend, and under pretence of seeking a return to his family, persuaded the skipper of a trading-vessel to give him a passage to Limerick. It would take us too far from our road already a long one were we to follow his wanderings and tell of all the difficulties that beset the little fellow on his lonely journey. Enough that we say, he did at last reach the goal, of his hopes, and, after a journey of eight long days, find himself at the ancient gate of Corrig-O'Neal. At first the disappointment was dreadful. The proud mansion, of whose glorious splendor his imagination had created an Oriental palace, was an antiquated brick edifice, in front of which ran a long terrace, once adorned with statues, but of which the pedestals alone remained. A few hedges of yew, with here and there the fragments of a marble figure or fountain, showed that the old French chateau taste had once prevailed there; and of this a quaint straight avenue of lime-trees, reaching directly from the door to the river, also bore evidence. The tone of sadness and desertion was on everything; many of the lower windows were walled up; the great door itself was fastened and barricaded in such a way as to show it had been long disused. Not a creature was to be seen stirring about the place, and save that at night the flickering light of a candle might be descried from a small casement that looked upon the garden, the house might have been deemed uninhabited. Perhaps something in the mysterious desolation of the scene had its influence over the boy's mind; but as hour by hour he lingered in those silent woods, and lay in the deep grass, watching the cloud shadows as they stole along, he grew fondly attached to the place; now losing himself in some revery of the long past, now following out some half-remembered narrative of his mother's childhood, when she herself dwelt there. All his little resources of pocket-money expended, his clothes, save such as he wore, sold, he could scarcely tear himself from a scene that filled every avenue of his heart. The time, however, came, when a ship, about to sail for the Scheldt, gave him the opportunity of returning home; and now this was to be his last day at Corrig-O'Neal. And what a day of conflicting thought was it! now half resolved to approach the house, and ask to see his uncle, and now repelled by remembering all his unkindness to his father. Then marvelling whether some change might not have taken place in the old man's mind, and whether in his lonely desolation he might not wish once more to see his kindred near him. He knew not what to do, and evening found him still undecided, and sitting on a little rising spot, from which the view extended over the garden at the back of the house, and whence he had often watched the solitary light that marked the old man's vigils. Wearied by long watching and thought, he fell asleep; and when he awoke the light was gone, the light which hitherto had always burned till daybreak! and from the darkness it must now be far from that hour. While Frank wondered what this might mean, he was startled by hearing footsteps near him at least so they sounded on the gravel-walk of the garden, and in a few minutes after the grating sound of a key, and the opening of a small door which led out into the wood. He now perceived that a man was standing at the foot of the knoll, who seemed irresolute and undecided; for he twice returned to the door, once introduced the key, and again withdrew it, as if with a changed purpose. Suddenly he appeared to have made up his mind, for, stooping down, he began to dig with the greatest energy, stopping at intervals to listen, and again continuing his work when satisfied that he was unobserved. The hour the scene itself the evident secrecy of the man, almost paralyzed the boy with terror; nor was it till long after the turf was replaced, dry leaves and dead branches were strewn over the spot, and the man himself gone, that Frank gained courage to move away. This he did at first cautiously and timidly, and then with a speed that soon carried him far away from the spot. The following day he was at sea; and if at first the strange scene never left his thoughts, with time the impression faded away, till at length it assumed the indistinctness of a vision, or of some picture created by mere imagination. When he did return home, he never revealed, except to Nelly, where he had been, and the object for which he went; but, even to her, from some strange love of mystery, he told nothing of the last night's experience: this was a secret, which he hoarded like a miser's treasure, and loved to think that he only knew of. The stirring events of a schoolboy's life, at first, and subsequently the changeful scenes of opening manhood, gradually effaced the impression of what he had seen, or merely left it to all the indistinctness of a dream. And thus are thoughts often sealed up in the memory for years unnoticed and unknown till, after a long interval, they are all called forth, and become the very pivots on which turns our destiny.	{ "id": "32061" }
4	THE ONSLOWS	THE little town of Baden was thrown into a state of considerable excitement by the unexpected arrival we have chronicled in a preceding chapter, and the host of the “Russie” reduced to the most uncommon straits to restore the effective of a staff, now brought down to the closest economy of retrenchment. Cooks, waiters, and housemaids were sought after in every quarter, while emissaries were despatched right and left to replenish the larder and provide for the wants of the mighty “Englander.” Nor was all the bustle and commotion limited to within the hotel, but extended throughout the village itself, where many a rustic pony, laid up in ordinary for the winter, was again trimmed and curried and shod, to be paraded before the windows with a scarlet saddle-cloth and a worsted tassel to the bridle, in all the seductive attraction of a palfrey. Even flower-girls made their appearance again with a few frost-nipped buds and leaves; while a bassoon and a triangle, voting themselves a band, gave horrid signs of their means of persecution. Meanwhile were the fortunate individuals for whose benefit these exertions were evoked, in the most blissful ignorance of all the interest they were awakening. From the first moment of their arrival none had even seen them. Waited upon by their own servants, scarcely heard, not even appearing at the windows, they were unconsciously ministering to a mystery that now engaged every tongue and ear around them. As, however, nothing of secrecy had any share in their proceedings, we have no scruple in invading the presence and introducing the reader to the company. Sir Stafford Onslow was an immensely rich London banker, who in his capacity of borough member had voted steadily with the Whigs for some five-and-twenty years; supporting them by all the influence of his wealth and family, and who now came abroad, in a pet of sulk with his party, on being refused the peerage. By nature generous, kind-hearted, and affectionate, the constant pressure of a more ambitious wife had involved him in a career to which neither his tastes nor habits suited him. The fortune which he would have dispensed with dignity and munificence he was eternally taught to believe should be the stepping-stone to something higher in rank. All his influence in the City, of which he was justly proud, he was told was a mere vulgar ambition in comparison with that a coronet would bestow on him; and, in fact, having believed himself the leading man of a great section in society, he was led to look upon his position with discontent, and fancy that his just claims were disregarded and denied. Lady Hester Onslow, who having once been a beauty and the admired belle of royalty itself, had accepted the banker in a moment of pique, and never forgave him afterwards the unhappy preference. Belonging to a very ancient but poor family, few were surprised at her accepting a husband some thirty-odd years her senior; and it is probable that she would fully have recognized the prudence of her choice if, by the death of a distant relative in India, which occurred a few months after her marriage, she had not acquired a very large fortune. This sudden accession of wealth coming, as she herself said, “too late,” embittered every hour of her after-life. Had she been but wealthy a few months back, she had married the man she loved, or whom she thought she loved, the heartless, handsome, well-mannered Lord Norwood, a penniless viscount, ruined before he came of age, and with no other means of support than the faculties which knavery had sharpened into talent. Miss Onslow and her brother, both the children of a former marriage, were strikingly like their father, not alone in feature, but in the traits of his frank and generous character. They were devotedly attached to him, not the less, perhaps, from the circumstances of a marriage to which they were strongly opposed, and whose results they now saw in many a passage of discord and disagreement. George and Sydney Onslow were both dark-complexioned and black-eyed, and had many traits of Spanish origin in appearance, their mother having been from that country. Lady Hester was a blonde, and affected to think that the Southern tint was but an approximation to the negro. Nor was she less critical on their manners, whose joyous freedom she pronounced essentially vulgar. Such, in a few words, were the discordant elements which Fate had bound up as a family, and who now, by the sudden illness of Sir Stafford, were driven to seek refuge in the deserted town of Baden. Nor can we omit another who, although not tied to the rest by kindred, had been long a member of the circle. This was Dr. Grounsell, an old college friend of Sir Stafford's, and who, having lost every shilling of his fortune by a speculation, had taken up his home at the banker's many years previous to his second marriage. Lady Hester's dislike to him amounted to actual hatred. She detested him for the influence he possessed over her husband, for the sturdiness of a character that resisted every blandishment, for a quaintness that certainly verged upon vulgarity, and, most of all, for the open and undisguised manner he always declared against every scheme for the attainment of a title. As Sir Stafford's physician, the only one in whom he had confidence, the doctor was enabled to stand his ground against attacks which must have conquered him; and by dint of long resistance and a certain obstinacy of character, he had grown to take pleasure in an opposition which, to a man of more refinement and feeling, must have proved intolerable; and although decidedly attached to Sir Stafford and his children, it is probable that he was still more bound to them by hate to “my Lady,” than by all his affection for themselves. Grounsell detested the Continent, yet he followed them abroad, resolved never to give up an inch of ground uncontested; and although assailed by a thousand slights and petty insults, he stood stoutly up against them all, defying every effort of fine-ladyism, French cookery, homoeopathy, puppyism, and the water-cure, to dislodge him from his position. There was very possibly more of dogged malice in all this than amiability or attachment to his friends; but it is due to the doctor to say that he was no hypocrite, and would never have blinked the acknowledgment if fairly confronted with the charge. Although, if it had not been for my Lady's resentful notice of the ministerial neglect, the whole family would have been snugly domesticated in their beautiful villa beside the Thames at Richmond, she artfully contrived to throw the whole weight of every annoyance they experienced upon every one's shoulders rather than her own; and as she certainly called to her aid no remarkable philosophy against the inconveniences of travel, the budget of her grievances assumed a most imposing bulk. Dressed in the very perfection of a morning costume, her cap, her gloves, her embroidered slippers, all in the most accurate keeping with that assumed air of seclusion by which fine ladies compliment the visitor fortunate enough to be admitted to their presence, Lady Hester sat at a window, occasionally looking from the deep lace that bordered her handkerchief to the picturesque scene of mountain and river that lay before her. A fastidious taste might have found something to be pleased with in either, but assuredly her handsome features evinced no agreeable emotion, and her expression was that of utter ennui and listlessness. At another window sat Sydney Onslow drawing; her brother standing behind her chair, and from time to time adding his counsels, but in a tone studiously low and whispered. “Get that shadow in something deeper, Syd, and you 'll have more effect in the distance.” “What is that I hear about effect and distance?” sighed out my Lady. “You surely are not drawing?” “Only sketching; making a hurried note of that wheel, and the quaint old-fashioned house beside it,” said Sydney, diffidently. “What a refinement of cruelty! The detestable noise of that mill kept me awake all night, and you mean to perpetuate the remembrance by a picture. Pray, be a good child and throw it out of the window.” Sydney looked up in her brother's face, where already a crimson flush of anger was gathering, but before she could reply he spoke for her. “The drawing is for me, Lady Onslow. You 'll. excuse me if I do not consent to the fate you propose for it.” “Let me look at it,” said she, languidly; and the young girl arose and presented the drawing to her. “How droll!” said she, laughing; “I suppose it is peculiar to Germany that water can run up hill.” “The shadow will correct that,” said Sydney, smiling; “and when the foreground is darker.” A violent slam of the door cut short the explanation. It was George Onslow, who, too indignant at the practised impertinence toward his sister, dashed out of the room in a passion. “How underbred your brother will persist in being, my love,” said she, calmly; “that vile trick of slamming a door, they learn, I 'm told, in the Guards' Club. I 'm sure I always thought it was confined to the melodrames one sees at the Porte St. Martin.” At this moment a servant appeared at the door. “Colonel Haggerstone's compliments, my Lady, and begs to know how Sir Stafford is to-day.” “Something better,” replied she, curtly; and as the man disappeared, she added, “Whose compliments did he say?” “I did not hear the name; it sounded like Haggerstone.” “Impossible, child; we know of no such person. What hour is it?” “A few minutes past two.” “Oh dear! I fancied it had been four or five or six,” sighed she, drearily. “The amiable doctor has not made his report to-day of your papa, and he went to see him immediately after breakfast.” “He told George that there was no amendment,” said Sydney, gravely. “He told George! Then he did not deign to tell me.” “You were not here at the moment. It was as he passed through the room hurriedly.” “I conclude that I was in my dressing-room. But it is only in keeping with Mr. Grounsell's studied disrespect, a line of conduct I grieve to see him supported in by members of this family.” “Mr. Alfred Jekyl, my Lady,” said a servant, “with inquiry for Sir Stafford.” “You appear to know best, my dear, how your papa is. Pray answer thai inquiry.” “Sir Stafford is not better,” said Sydney to the servant. “Who can all these people be, my dear?” said Lady Hester, with more animation of manner than she had yet exhibited. “Jekyl is a name one knows. There are Northamptonshire Jekyls, and, if I mistake not, it was a Jekyl married Lady Olivia Drossmore, was it not? Oh, what a fool I am to ask you, who never know anything of family or connection! And yet I 'm certain I 've told you over and over the importance the actual necessity of this knowledge. If you only bestowed upon Burke a tithe of the patience and time I have seen you devote to Lyell, you 'd not commit the shocking mistake you fell into t' other day of discussing the Duchess of Dartley's character with Lord Brandford, from whom she was divorced. Now you 'd never offend quartz and sandstone by miscalling their affinities. But here comes the doctor.” If Dr. Grounsell had been intended by nature to outrage all ultra-refined notions regarding personal appearance, he could not possibly have been more cunningly fashioned. Somewhat below the middle size, and squarely formed, his legs did not occupy more than a third of his height; his head was preternaturally large, and seemed even larger from a crop of curly yellowish hair, whose flaring ochre only rescued it from the imputation of being a wig. His hands and feet were enormous, requiring a muscular effort to move them that made all his gestures grotesque and uncouth. In addition to these native graces, his clothes were always made much too large for him, from his avowed dislike to the over-tightening and squeezing of modern fashion. As his whole life had been passed in the superintendence of a great military hospital in the East, wherein all his conversations with his brethren were maintained in technicalities, he had never converted the professional jargon into a popular currency, but used the terms of art upon all occasions, regardless of the inability of the unmedical world to understand him. “Well, sir, what is your report to-day?” said Lady Onslow, assuming her very stateliest of manners. “Better, and worse, madam. The arthritis relieved, the cardiac symptoms more imminent.' “Please to bear in mind, sir, that I have not studied at Apothecaries' Hall.” “Nor I, madam; but at Edinburgh and Aberdeen, in the faculties of medicine and surgery,” said Grounsell, drawing down his waistcoat, and arranging himself in what he considered an order of battle. “Is papa better, doctor?” said Sydney, mildly. “The articular affection is certainly alleviated, but there is mischief here,” said Grounsell, placing his hand over his heart; “fibrous tissues, my dear Miss Onslow, fibrous tissues are ticklish affairs.” “Is this advice to be construed in a moral rather than a medical sense?” said Lady Onslow, with a malicious smile. “Either or both,” replied the doctor. “The heart will always be highly susceptible of nervous influence.” “But papa” broke in Sydney, eagerly. “Is suffering under metastasis migratory gout, it may be termed changing from articular to large organic structures.” “And, of course, you are giving him the old poisons that were in use fifty years ago?” “What do you mean, madam?” said Grounsell, sternly. “That shocking thing that drives people mad colocynth, or colchicum, or something like that. You know what I mean?” “Happily for me, madam, I can guess it.” “And are you still as obstinate as ever about the globules?” “The homoeopathic humbug?” “If you are polite enough so to designate what I put the most implicit trust in. But I warn you, sir, I mean to exert my just and rightful influence with Sir Stafford; and in case a very great change does not appear to-morrow, I shall insist upon his trying the aconite.” “If you do, madam, the insurance offices shall hear of it!” said Grounsell, with a sternness that made the threat most significant. “I 'll send for that man from Heidelberg at once, Sydney,” said Lady Hester, as, pale with passion, she seated herself at her writing-table. “Take care what you do, madam,” said Grounsell, approaching where she sat, and speaking in a low and solemn voice. “Let not any feeling of displeasure with me induce you to an act of rashness or imprudence. My old friend's state is critical; it may at any moment become dangerous. I am convinced that what I am doing offers the most reasonable hope of serving him. Take care lest you weaken his confidence in me, when he may not be prepared to repose it in another.” “Here, Sydney, you write German; and it is possible he may not read French. This is his name, I got it in Paris Graeffnell. Tell him to come at once in fact, let Francois take a carriage for him.” Sydney Onslow looked at her mother and then at the doctor. At the latter her glance was almost imploring, but he never noticed it, turning abruptly toward the window without uttering a word. “Can you consult with him, doctor?” asked Sydney, timidly. “Of course not; he 's a mountebank.” “Write, as I bade you, Miss Onslow,” said Lady Hester. “Dr. Graeffnell is one of the first men in Germany. Lady Heskisson sent for him when the Earl fell ill at Wiesbaden.” “And the Countess was a widow in four days after. Don't forget the denouement of the story, madam.” Sydney dropped the pen, and her hands fell powerless to her side. There was something in the sternness of the doctor that seemed to awe even Lady Onslow, for she made no reply; while Grounsell, seeing his advantage, left the room at once, without further parley. Our readers will probably forgive us if we follow his example, and not remain to listen to the eloquent monologue in which Lady Onslow lamented her sad condition in life. Not only did she bewail her destiny, but, like one of those classic personages the Greek Chorus presents us to, she proceeded to speculate upon every possible mischance futurity might have in store for her, ingeniously inventing “situations,” and devising “predicaments” that nothing less gifted than a self-tormenting imagination can conceive. Leaving her to all the pleasure such a pastime can give, we shall quit the house, and, although a cold, raw evening is closing in, wander out into the street.	{ "id": "32061" }
5	THE PATIENT	ALONG the dark and narrow street, over which the coming night cast a dreary shadow, a single lamp was seen to shine at the door of Ludwig Kraus, the apothecary; a beacon, it is but fair to add, lighted less with the hope of attracting custom than in obedience to the requirements of the law, for Herr Kraus was a “state” official, and bound to conform to the dictates of the government. His shop was a small triangular space, in which there was barely room for the learned dispenser and a single client at the same moment, thus giving to all his interviews the secrecy of the confessional itself. Jars, phials, flasks, and drawers rose on every side, not inscribed with the vulgar nomenclature of modern physic, but bearing the enigmatical marks and hieroglyphics known to Galen and Paracelsus. Arabic letters, dragons, strange monsters, and zodiacal signs met the eye everywhere, and did not consort ill with the spare form and high bald head of the proprietor, whose quaint-figured dressing-gown and black velvet cap gave him a kind of resemblance to an alchemist in his workshop. As Grounsell approached the glass door and peeped in, the scene that presented itself rather assisted this illusion, for straight in front of the little counter over which Kraus was leaning, sat the dwarf, Hans Roeckle, talking away with considerable animation, and from time to time seeming to expatiate upon the merits of a wooden figure which he held carefully in his hands. The small, half-lighted chamber, the passive, motionless features of the chemist, the strange wild gestures of little Hans, as, in his tongue of mysterious gutturals he poured out a flood of words, amazed Grounsell, and excited his curiosity to the utmost. He continued to gaze in for a considerable time, without being able to guess what it might mean, and at last abandoning all conjecture he resolved to enter. Scarcely had he touched the handle of the door, however, than the dwarf, seizing the figure, concealed it beneath the skirt of his fur mantle, and retired to a corner of the shop. Dr. Grounsell's errand was to obtain certain medicines for his patient, which, from his ignorance of German, he had taken the precaution to write down in Latin. He passed the paper in silence over the counter, and waited patiently as the chemist spelt out the words. Having read it through, he handed back the paper with a few dry words, which, being in his native tongue, were totally incomprehensible. “You must have these things, surely,” exclaimed Grounsell; “they are the commonest of all medicines;” and then remembering himself, he made signs in the direction of the drawers and phials to express his meaning. Again the chemist uttered some dozen words. The doctor produced his purse, where certain gold pieces glittered, as though to imply that he was willing to pay handsomely for his ignorance; but the other pushed it away, and shook his head in resolute refusal. “This is too bad,” muttered Grounsell, angrily. “I 'll be sworn he has the things, and will not give them.” The chemist motioned Hans to approach, and whispered a few words in his hearing, on which the dwarf, removing his cap in courteous salutation, addressed Grounsell: “High-born and much-learned Saar. De laws make no oder that doctoren have recht to write physics.” “What!” cried Grounsell, not understanding the meaning of this speech. Hans repeated it more slowly, and at length succeeded in conveying the fact that physicians alone were qualified to procure medicines. “But I am a doctor, my worthy friend, a physician of long standing.” “Das ist possible who knows?” “I know, and I say it,” rejoined the other, tersely. “Ja! ja!” responded Hans, as though to say the theme were not worth being warm about, one way or t' other. “Come, my dear sir,” said Grounsell, coaxingly; “pray be good enough to explain that I want these medicines for a sick friend, who is now at the hotel here, dangerously ill of gout.” “Podagra gout!” exclaimed Hans, with sudden animation, “and dese are de cure for gout?” “They will, I hope, be of service against it.” “You shall have dem Saar on one condition. That ist, you will visit anoder sick man mit gout an Englessman, too verh ill verb sick; and no rich you understan'.” “Yes, yes; I understand perfectly; I'll see him with pleasure. Tell this worthy man to make up these for me, and I 'll go along with you now.” “Gut! verh good,” said Hans, as in a few words of German he expressed to the apothecary that he might venture to transgress the law in the present case when the season was over, and no one to be the wiser. As Hans issued forth to show the way, he never ceased to insist upon the fact that the present was not a case for a fee, and that the doctor should well understand the condition upon which his visit was to be paid; and still inveighing on this theme, he arrived at the house where the Daltons dwelt. “Remember, too,” said Hans, “that, though they are poor, they are of guten stamm how say you, noble?” Grounsell listened with due attention to all Hanserl's cautions, following, not without difficulty, his strange and guttural utterances. “I will go before. Stay here,” said Hans, as they gained the landing-place; and so saying, he pushed open the door and disappeared. As Grounsell stood alone and in the dark, he wondered within himself what strange chances should have brought a fellow-countryman into this companionship, for there was something so grotesque in Hans's appearance and manner, that it routed all notion of his being admitted to any footing of friendly equality. The door at length opened, and the doctor followed Hans into a dimly lighted room, where Dalton lay, half dressed, upon his bed. Before Grounsell had well passed the entrance, the sick man said, “I am afraid, sir, that my little friend here has taken a bit of liberty with both of us, since I believe you wanted a patient just as little as I did a doctor.” The anxious, lustrous eye, the flushed cheek, and tremulous lip of the speaker gave, at the same time, a striking contradiction to his words. Grounsell's practised glance read these signs rapidly, and drawing near the bed, he seated himself beside it, saying, “It is quite clear, sir, that you are not well, and although, if we were both of us in our own country, this visit of mine would, as you observe, be a considerable liberty, seeing that we are in a foreign land, I hope you will not deem my intrusion of this nature, but suffer me, if I can, to be of some service to you.” Less the words themselves than a certain purpose-like kindliness in the speaker's manner, induced Dalton to accept the offer, and reply to the questions which the other proposed to him. “No, no, doctor,” said he, after a few moments; “there is no great mischief brewing after all. The truth is, I was fretted harassed a little. It was about a boy of mine I have only one and he 's gone away to be a soldier with the Austrians. You know, of course as who does n't? how hard it is to do anything for a young man now-a-days. If family or high connection could do it, we 'd be as well off as our neighbors. We belong to the Daltons of Garrigmore, that you know are full blood with the O'Neals of Cappagh. But what 's the use of blood now? devil a good it does a man. It would be better to have your father a cotton-spinner, or an iron-master, than the descendant of Shane Mohr na Manna.” “I believe you are right,” observed the doctor, dryly. “I know I am; I feel it myself, and I 'm almost ashamed to tell it. Here am I, Peter Dalton, the last of them now; and may I never leave this bed, if I could make a barony constable in the county where the king's writ could n't run once without our leave.” “But Ireland herself has changed more than your own fortunes,” remarked Grounsell. “That's true, that 's true,” sighed the sick man. “I don't remember the best days of it, but I 've heard of them often and often from my father. The fine old times, when Mount Dalton was filled with company from the ground to the slates, and two lords in the granary; a pipe of port wine in the hall, with a silver cup beside it; the Modereen hounds, huntsmen and all, living at rack and manger, as many as fifty sitting down in the parlor, and I won't say how many in the servants' hall; the finest hunters in the west country in the stables, there was life for you! Show me the equal of that in the wide world.” “And what is the present condition of the scene of those festivities?” said Grounsell, with a calm but searching look. “The present condition?” echoed Dalton, starting up to a sitting posture, and grasping the curtain with a convulsive grip; “I can't tell you what it is to-day, this ninth of November, but I 'll tell what it was when I left it, eighteen years ago. The house was a ruin; the lawn a common; the timber cut down; the garden a waste; the tenants beggared; the landlord an exile. That 's a pleasant catalogue, is n't it?” “But there must come a remedy for all this,” remarked Grounsell, whose ideas were following out a very different channel. “Do you mean by a poor-law? Is it by taxing the half ruined to feed the lazy? or by rooting out all that once was a gentry, to fill their places by greedy speculators from Manchester and Leeds? Is that your remedy? It 's wishing it well I am! No; if you want to do good to the country, leave Ireland to be Ireland, and don't try to make Norfolk of her. Let her have her own Parliament, that knows the people and their wants. Teach her to have a pride in her own nationality, and not to be always looking at herself in shame beside her rich sister. Give her a word of kindness now and then, as you do the Scotch; but, above all, leave us to ourselves. We understand one another; you never did, nor never will. We quarrelled, and made friends again, and all went right with us; you came over with your Chancery Courts, and your police, and whenever we differed, you never stopped till we were beggared or hanged.” “You take a very original view of our efforts at civilization, I confess,” said Grounsell, smiling. “Civilization! Civilization! I hate the very sound of the word; it brings to my mind nothing but county jails, bridewells, turnpikes, and ministers' money. If it was n't for civilization, would there be a receiver over my estate of Mount Dalton? Would the poor tenants be racked for the rent that I always gave time for? Would there be a big poor-house, with its ugly front staring to the highway, as they tell me there is, and a police barrack to keep it company, opposite? I tell you again, sir, that your meddling has done nothing but mischief. Our little quarrels you converted into serious animosities; our estrangements into the feuds of two opposing races; our very poverty, that we had grown accustomed to, you taught us to regard as a 'national disgrace,' without ever instructing us how to relieve it; and there we are now on your hands, neither English in industry, nor Irish in submission, neither willing to work, nor content to be hungry!” The doctor saw by the agitated look and tone of the sick man that the subject was one of too much excitement for him, and hastened to change the topic by jocularly expressing a hope that he might prove more successful with him than England had been with his countrymen. “I doubt it, sir,” said Dalton, gravely; “not thanking you the less for your kindness. I believe, like my poor country, that I 'm past doctoring.” He paused for a few seconds, and then added: “It's all fretting. It's thinking about the girls. Frank there is no fear of. That 's what ails me.” Grounsell saw that to prolong his visit would be but to encourage a tone of depression that must prove injurious; so promising to return to see him in the morning, he shook Dalton's hand cordially, and followed Hans into the adjoining room, where writing materials were prepared for him. The two girls were standing at the fire as he entered; and simple as was their dress, homely even to poverty, every trait of their costume, their looks, bespoke them of gentle blood. Their anxious glances as he came forward showed their eagerness to hear his tidings; but they did not speak a word. “Do not be uneasy, young ladies,” said he, hastening to relieve their fears. “Your father's illness has nothing serious about it. A few days will, I trust, see him perfectly restored to health. Meanwhile you are his best physicians, who can minister to his spirits and cheer him up.” “Since my brother left us, sir, he appeared to sink hour by hour; he cannot get over the shock,” said Ellen. “I never knew him to give way before,” interposed Kate. “He used to say, when anything grieved him, 'he 'd pay some one to fret for him.” “With better health you 'll see his old courage return,” said the doctor, as he hastily wrote a few lines of prescription, and then laying his head in his hand, seemed for some minutes lost in thought. There were little comforts, mat-' ters of trifling luxury he wished to order, and yet he hesitated, for he did not know how far they were compatible with their means; nor could he venture upon the hazard of offending by questioning them. As in his uncertainty he raised his eyes, they fell upon the wooden figure which the dwarf had exhibited in the apothecary's shop, and which now stood upon a table near. It was a child sleeping at the foot of a cross, around which its arms were entwined. The emaciated limbs and wasted cheek portrayed fasting and exhaustion, while in the attitude itself, sleep seemed verging upon death. “What is that?” asked he, hastily, as he pointed with his pen to the object. “A poor child was found thus, frozen to death upon the Arlberg,” said Kate; “and my sister carved that figure from a description of the event.” “Your sister! This was done by you,” said Grounsell, slowly, as he turned his gaze from the work to the artist. “Yes,” cried Hans, whose face beamed with delight; “is it not 'lieblich?' is it not vonderful? Dass, I say, alway; none have taste now none have de love to admire!” Stooping down to examine it better, Grounsell was struck by the expression of the face, whereon a smile of trustfulness and hope seemed warring with the rigid lines of coming death; so that the impression conveyed was more of a victory over suffering than of a terrible fate. “She is self-taught, sir; none even so much as assisted Ler by advice,” said Kate, proudly. “That will be perhaps but too apparent from my efforts,” said Ellen, smiling faintly. [Illustration: 078] “I'm no artist, young lady,” said Grounsell, bluntly, “but I am well versed in every variety of the human expression in suffering, and of mere truth to nature I can speak confidently. This is a fine work! nay, do not blush, I am not a flatterer. May I take it with me, and show it to others more conversant with art than I am?” “Upon one condition you may,” said the girl, in a low, deep voice. “Be it so; on any condition you wish.” “We are agreed, then?” “Perfectly.” “The figure is yours Nay, sir your promise!” Groimsell stammered, and blushed, and looked confused; indeed, no man was less able to extricate himself from any position of embarrassment; and here the difficulties pressed on every side, for while he scrupled to accept what he deemed a gift of real value, he felt that they too had a right to free themselves from the obligation that his presence as a doctor imposed. At last he saw nothing better than to yield; and in all the confusion of a bashfully awkward man, he mumbled out his acknowledgments and catching up the figure, departed. Hans alone seemed dissatisfied at the result, for as he cast his wistful looks after the wooden image, his eyes swam with his tears, and he muttered as he went some words of deep desponding cadence.	{ "id": "32061" }
6	A FIRST VISIT.	THE dreary weather of November showed no signs of “taking up.” Lowering days of fog and gloom alternated with cold winds and sleet, so that all out-door occupation was utterly denied to that imprisoned party, who were left with so few resources to pass the time within. It is true they did not make the best of the bad. Lady Hester grew hourly more irritable and peevish. Sydney Onslow seldom left her room. George took to the hills every morning, and never returned before a late dinner; while the doctor, when not with Sir Stafford, spent all his time at the Dal tons', with whom he had already established a close intimacy. Lady Hester had exhausted every possible means she could imagine to while away the hours; she had spent whole days in letter-writing folios of “tirades” to every one she could think of. She had all the carriages inspected, and the imperials searched, for books she well knew had been left behind. She had sent for the landlord's daughter to give her lessons in German, which she thought of learning during the week. She had given a morning to the Italian boy with his white mice, and pored for hours long over the “Livre des Voyageurs,” reading the names of friends who, with better fortune, had taken their departure for Italy. But at last there came an end even to these frail resources, and she was left utterly without an occupation to engage, or even a thought to employ her. The five minutes of morning altercation with Grounsell over, the dreary time was unbroken by a single event, or uncheckered by a single hope. Sir Stafford was indeed recovering, but so slowly that weeks might be required ere he could proceed on his journey. How were they to be passed? was the fearful question to which she could find no answer. She looked with actual envy at the party of boors who played at dominos in the beer-house opposite, and followed with longing eyes the little mail-cart as it left the village. If she could read Germau, there were scores of books at her service. If she could but take a charitable turn, there was poverty enough to give her occupation from morn till night. She never knew what it was to think seriously, for meditation is the manufacture that cannot work without its raw material, and with this her mind was not stored. It was in this pitiable frame of mind she was walking up and down the drawing-room one morning, just as the doctor had taken his departure, and with him the last little scene that was to relieve the day, when the servant entered with the card of Colonel Haggerstone, and the daily repeated inquiry for Sir Stafford's health. Had the gallant colonel presented himself at Wilton Crescent, or the Villa, it is more than likely that the well-instructed porter had not vised his passport, but at once consigned a name of such unimposing consonants to gentle obscurity, while such an entry in the visiting-book had been coolly set down as a mistake. Not so now, however. Lady Hester took up the card, and, instead of the habitual curt rejoinder, “Sir Stafford is better,” said, “You may tell Colonel Haggerstone that Lady Hester will receive him.” The gallant colonel, who was negligently slapping his boots with his riding-whip below stairs, was not a little amazed at the message. There had been a time when he would have interpreted the favor most flatteringly. He would have whispered to himself, “She has seen me passing the window, she was struck with me as I rode by.” Time had, however, toned down these bright illusions, and he read the permission with a nearer approach to truth, as a fine-lady caprice in a moment of ennui. “I thought as much,” muttered he to himself as he slowly ascended the stairs; “the blockade was too strictly enforced not to tell at last. No newspapers, no books ha! ha! Could n't help surrendering!” The colonel had by this time given his whiskers and moustaches the last curl, thrown back his head into a position of calm dignity, as the servant, throwing wide the folding-doors, announced him. Advancing two paces, and bowing low, Colonel Haggerstone said, “Your Ladyship will pardon the liberty the very great liberty I have taken in my respectful inquiries for some days past; but although probably not remembered by Sir Stafford, I once did enjoy the honor of his acquaintance, we met at Lord Kerrison's, in Scotland.” Lady Onslow cut short this very uninteresting explanation by a bland but somewhat supercilious smile, that seemed to say, “What possible matter can it be?” while at the same time she motioned him to be seated. “May I hope that Sir Stafford continues to improve?” said he, bowing again. “He's better to-day,” said Lady Onslow, languidly. “Perhaps as well as anyone can be in this wretched place. You heard, I suppose, of the series of misfortunes that befell us, and compelled us to return here?” The colonel looked mildly compassionate and inquisitive. He anticipated the possible pleasure her Ladyship might feel in a personal narrative, and he was an accomplished listener. This time, however, he was wrong. Lady Onslow either did not think the occasion or the audience worth the trouble of the exertion, and merely said, “We had a break-down somewhere with an odious name. Sir Stafford would travel by that road through the Hohlen Thai, where somebody made his famous march. Who was it?” “Massena, I think,” said the colonel, at a haphazard, thinking that at least the name was ben trovato, just as Sunday-school children father everything remarkable on John the Baptist. “Oh dear, no; it was Moreau. We stopped to breakfast at the little inn where he held his headquarters, and in the garden of which he amused himself in pistol-shooting, strange, was it not? Are you a good shot, Colonel?” “Good among bad ones,” said the colonel, modestly. “Then we must have a match. I am so fond of it! You have pistols, of course?” “I am fortunate enough to have a case of Schlessinger's best, and at your Ladyship's disposal.” “Well, that is agreed upon. You 'll be kind enough to select a suitable spot in the garden, and if to-morrow be fine By the way what is to-morrow not Sunday I hope?” The colonel relieved her anxieties by the assurance that the next day would be Monday, consequently that the present one was Sunday. “How strange! One does make sad confusion in these things abroad,” said she, sighing. “I think we are better in England in that respect, don't you?” The question was not a very clear one, but the colonel never hesitated to give in his adhesion. “Sir Stafford always took that view in the House, and consequently differed from his party, as well as about Ireland. Poor dear Ireland! what is to be done for her?” This was a rather more embarrassing demand than the previous one, and the colonel hemmed and coughed, and prepared for a speech of subtle generalities; but the dexterity was all unnecessary, for her Ladyship had already forgotten the theme, and everything about it, as she went on. “How I pity those dear Wreckingtons, who are condemned to live there! The Earl, you know, had promised solemnly that he would go any lengths for the party when he got his blue riband; and so they took him at his word, and actually named him to the viceroyalty. It was a very cruel thing, but I hear nothing could be better than his conduct on hearing it: and dear Lady Wreckington insisted upon accompanying him. It was exactly like the story of what was that man's name, who assisted in the murder of the Emperor Paul Geroboffskoi, or something like that, and whose wife followed him to the mines.” The colonel avowed that the cases were precisely alike, and now the conversation if the word can be degraded to mean that bald disjointed chat ran upon London people and events their marriages, their dinners, their separations, coalitions, divorces, and departures; on all which themes Haggerstone affected a considerable degree of knowledge, although, to any one less occupied with herself than her Ladyship, it would have been at once apparent that all his information was derived from the newspapers. It was at the close of a lamentation on the utter stupidity of everything and everywhere, that he adroitly asked where she meant to pass the winter. “I wish I knew,” said she, languidly. “The Dollingtons say Naples; the Upsleys tell us Rome; and, for my part, I pronounce for neither. Lady Dollingtou is my aversion, and the three Upsley girls, with their pink noses and red hair, are insufferable.” “What does your Ladyship think of Florence?” asked the colonel, soothingly. “Pretty much what I might of one of the Tonga Islands. I know nothing of the place, the people, or the climate. Pray tell me about it.” “There is very little to say,” said Haggerstone, shrugging his shoulders; “not but the place might be very agreeable, if there were some one of really fashionable standing to take the lead and give a tone to the society; some one who would unite indispensable rank and wealth with personal graces, and thus, as it were, by prescriptive right, assume the first place. Then, I say, Florence would be second to no city of Italy. Would that your Ladyship would condescend to accept the vacant throne!” “I!” said she, affecting astonishment; and then laughingly added: “Oh no! I detest mock sovereignty. I actually shudder at the idea of the lady-patroness part; besides, whom should one have to reign over? Not the Browns and Smiths and Perkinses; not the full-pensioned East Indians, the half-pay colonels, and the no-pay Irish gentilities, that form the staple of small city society. You surely would not recommend me to such a sad pre-eminence.” The colonel smiled flatteringly at her Ladyship's smartness, and hastened to assure her that such heresy was far from his thoughts; and then with a practised readiness ran over a list of foreign celebrities French, Russian, and German whose names, at least, clinked like the true metal. This looked promisingly; it was very like cutting all English society, and had the appearance of something very exclusive, very impertinent, and very ungenerous; and now she lent a willing ear as Haggerstone revealed a plan of operations for a whole winter campaign. According to his account, it was a perfect terra incognita, where the territorial limits and laws might be laid down at will; it was a state which called for a great dictatorship, and the sway of unlimited authority. Now, Lady Hester had never at least since her marriage, and very rarely even before it been more than on the periphery of fashionable society. When she did obtain a footing within the charmed circle, it was by no prescriptive right, but rather on some ground of patronage, or some accidental political crisis, which made Sir Stafford's influence a matter of moment. There was, therefore, a flattery in the thought of thus becoming a leader in society; and she shrewdly remembered, that though there might be little real power, there would be all the tyranny of a larger sovereignty. It is true she suffered no symptom of this satisfaction to escape her; on the contrary, she compassionated the “poor dear things,” that thought themselves “the world,” in such a place, and smiled with angelic pity at their sweet simplicity; but Haggerstone saw through all these disguises, and read her real sentiments, as a practised toadeater never fails to do, where only affectation is the pretence. Adroitly avoiding to press the question, he adverted to Baden and its dreary weather; offered his books, his newspapers, his horses, his phaeton, and everything that was his, even his companionship as a guide to the best riding or walking roads, and, like a clever actor, made his exit at the very moment when his presence became most desirable. Lady Hester looked out of the window, and saw, in the street beneath, the saddle-horses of the colonel, which were led up and down by a groom in the most accurate of costumes. The nags themselves, too, were handsome and in top condition. It was a little gleam of civilization, in the midst of universal barrenness, that brought up memories, some of which at least were not devoid of pain, so far as the expression of her features might be trusted. “I wonder who he can be?” said she, musing. “It's a shocking name! Haggerstone. Perhaps Sir Stafford may remember him. It's very sad to think that one should be reduced to such people.” So, with a slight sigh, she sat down to indulge in a mood of deep and sincere commiseration for herself and her sorrows. From these reveries she was aroused by the arrival of a package of books and papers from the colonel. They included some of the latest things of the day, both French and English, and were exactly the kind of reading she cared for, that half-gossipry that revolves around a certain set, and busies itself about the people and incidents of one very small world. There were books of travel by noble authors, and novels by titled authoresses; the one as tamely well bred and tiresome as the others were warm and impassioned, no bad corroborative evidence, by the way, of the French maxim, that the “safety of the Lady Georginas has an immense relation to the coldness of the Lord Georges.” There were books of beauty, wherein loveliness was most aristocratic; and annuals where nobility condescended to write twaddle. There were analyses of new operas, wherein the list of the spectators was the only matter of interest, and better than these were the last fashions of “Longchamps,” the newest bulletins of that great campaign which began in Adam's garden, and will endure to the “very crack of doom.” Lady Hester's spirits rallied at once from these well-timed stimulants; and when the party gathered together before dinner, George and his sister were amazed at the happy change in her manner. “I have had a visitor,” said she, after a short mystification; “a certain colonel, who assumes to be known to your father, but I fancy will scarcely be remembered by him, he calls himself Haggerstone.” “Haggerstone!” said George, repeating the name twice or thrice. “Is not that the name of the man who was always with Arlington, and of whom all the stories are told?” “As I never heard of Arlington's companion, nor the stories in question, I can't say. Pray enlighten us,” said Lady Hester, tartly. “Haggerstone sounds so like the name,” repeated George to himself. “So like what name? Do be good enough to explain.” “I am unwilling to tell a story which, if not justly attributable to the man, will certainly attach unpleasantly to his name hereafter.” “And in your excessive caution for yourself, you are pleased to forget me, Mr. Onslow. Pray remember that if I admit him to acquaintance--” “But surely you don't mean to do so?” “And why not?” “In the first place, you know nothing about him.” “Which is your fault.” “Be it so. I have at least told you enough to inspire reserve and caution.” “Quite enough to suggest curiosity and give a degree of interest to a very commonplace character.” “Is he young, may I ask?” said George, with a half smile. “No, far from it.” “Good-looking?” “Just as little.” “Very agreeable and well-mannered?” “Rather prosy, and too military in tone for my taste.” “Does he come under the recommendatory 'firman' of any dear friend or acquaintance?” “Nothing of the kind. There is his passport,” said she, pointing to his visiting ticket. “Your Ladyship used to be more difficult of access,” said George, dryly. “Very true; and so I may possibly become again. To make selections from the world of one's acquaintance is a very necessary duty; but, as my father used to say, no one thinks of using a sieve for chaff.” “This gentleman is, then, fortunate in his obscurity.” “Here comes Miss Onslow,” said Lady Hester, “who will probably be more grateful to me when she learns that our solitude is to be enlivened by the gallant colonel.” Sydney scanned over the books and journals on the table, and then quietly remarked, “If a man is to be judged of by his associates, these do not augur very favorably for the gentleman's taste.” “I see that you are both bent on making him a favorite of mine,” said Lady Hester, pettishly; “and if Dr. Grounsell will only discover some atrocious circumstance in his history or character, I shall be prepared to call him 'charming.'” The announcement of dinner fortunately broke up a discussion that already promised unfavorably; nor were any of the party sorry at the interruption.	{ "id": "32061" }
7	A LESSON IN PISTOL-SHOOTING	THERE are two great currents which divide public opinion in the whole world, and all mankind may be classed into one or other of these wide categories, “the people who praise, and the people who abuse everything.” In certain sets, all is as it ought to be, in this life. Everybody is good, dear, and amiable. All the men are gifted and agreeable; all the women fascinating and pretty. An indiscriminate shower of laudations falls upon everything or everybody, and the only surprise the bearer feels is how a world, so chuck full of excellence, can possibly consist with what one reads occasionally in the “Times” and the “Chronicle.” The second category is the Roland to this Oliver, and embraces those who have a good word for nobody, and in whose estimation the globe is one great penal settlement, the overseers being neither more nor less than the best-conducted among the convicts. The chief business of these people in life is to chronicle family disgraces and misfortunes, to store their memories with defalcations, frauds, suicides, disreputable transactions at play, unfair duels, seductions, and the like, and to be always prepared, on the first mention of a name, to connect its owner, or his grandmother, with some memorable blot, or some unfortunate event of years before. If the everlasting laudations of the one set make life too sweet to be wholesome, the eternal disparagement of the other renders it too bitter to be enjoyable; nor would it be easy to say whether society suffers more from the exercise of this mock charity on the one side, or the practice of universal malevolence on the other. Perhaps our readers will feel grateful when we assure them that we are not intent upon pushing the investigation further. The consideration was forced upon us by thinking of Colonel Haggerstone, who was a distinguished member of class No. 2. His mind was a police sheet, or rather like a page of that celebrated “Livre Noir,” wherein all the unexpiated offences of a nation are registered. He knew the family disasters of all Europe, and not a name could be mentioned in society to which he could not tag either a seduction, a fraud, a swindle, or a poltroonery; and when such revelations are given prosaically, with all the circumstances of date, time, and place, unrelieved by the slightest spice of wit or imagination, but simply narrated as “Memoires pour servir a l'Histoire” of an individual, the world is very apt to accept them as evidences of knowledge of life, rather than what they really are, proofs of a malignant disposition. In this way, Haggerstone seemed to many the mere “old soldier,” and nothing more; whereas, if nature had given him either fancy or epigrammatic smartness, he would have been set down for the incarnation of slander. It may seem strange that Lady Hester, who had lived a good deal in the world, should never have met a character of this type, but so it was; she belonged to a certain “fast set” in society, who seem to ask for a kind of indemnity for all they do, by never, on any occasion, stopping to criticise their neighbors. This semblance of good nature is a better defensive armor than the uninitiated know of, enlisting all loose sympathies with its possessor, and even gaining for its advocates that great floating majority who speak much and think little. In London, Haggerstone would have at once appeared the very worst “ton,” and she would have avoided the acquaintance of a man so unhappily gifted; but here, at Baden, with nothing to do, none to speak to, he became actually a prize, and she listened to him for hours with pleasure as he recounted all the misdeeds of those “dear, dear friends” who had made up her own “world.” There was at heart, too, the soothing flattery that whispered, “He can say nothing of me; the worst he can hint is, that I married a man old enough to be my father, and if I did, I am heartily sorry for the mistake.” He was shrewd enough soon to detect the family differences that prevailed, and to take advantage of them, not by any imprudent or ill-advised allusion to what would have enlisted her Ladyship's pride in opposition, but by suggesting occupations and amusements that he saw would be distasteful to the others, and thus alienate her more and more from their companionship. In fact, his great object was to make Lady Hester a disciple of that new school which owns Georges Sand for its patron, “and calls itself Lionue.” It would be foreign to our purpose here were we to stop and seek to what social causes this new sect owes existence. In a great measure it may be traced to the prevailing taste of men for club life, to that lounging ease which exacts no tribute of respect or even attention, but suffers men to indulge their caprices to any extent of selfishness; thus unfitting them for ladies' society, or only such society as that of ladies condescending enough to unsex themselves, and to talk upon themes and discuss subjects that usually are reserved for other audiences. Certain clever men liked this liberty, these receptions were a kind of free port, where all could be admitted duty free. Nothing was forbidden in this wide tariff, and so conversation, emancipated from the restriction of better society, permitted a thousand occasions of display, that gradually attracted people to these reunions, and made all other society appear cold, formal, and hypocritical by contrast. This new invention had not reached England when Lady Hester quitted it, but she listened to a description of its merits with considerable interest. There were many points, too, in which it chimed in with her notions. It had novelty, liberty, and unbounded caprice amongst its recommendations; and lastly, it was certain to outrage the “Onslows.” It was a “part” which admitted of any amount of interpolations. Under its sanction she would be free to say anything, know any one, and go anywhere. Blessed immunity that permitted all and denied nothing! With all the vulgar requirements of “Lionism” she was already sufficiently conversant. She could ride, drive, shoot, and fence; was a very tolerable billiard-player, and could row a little. But with the higher walks of the craft she had made no acquaintance; she had not learned to swim, had never smoked, and was in dark ignorance of that form of language which, half mystical and all-mischievous, is in vogue with the members of this sect. That she could acquire all these things rapidly and easily the colonel assured her, and, by way of “matriculating,” reminded her of her challenge respecting the pistol-shooting, for which he had made every preparation in the garden of the hotel. True to his word, he had selected a very pretty alley, at the end of which rose a wall sufficiently high to guard against accidents from stray shots. On a table were displayed, in all the dandyism such objects are capable of, a handsome case of pistols, with all the varied appliances of kid leather for wadding, bullet-moulds, rammers, hammers, screws, and rests, even to a russia-leather bound note-book, to record the successes, nothing had been forgotten; and Lady Hester surveyed with pleasure preparations which at least implied an anxious attention to her wishes. “Only fancy the barbarism of the land we live in,” said he; “I have sent emissaries on every side to seek for some of those plaster images so common in every city of Europe, but in vain. Instead of your ladyship cutting off Joan of Arc's head, or sending your bullet through some redoubtable enemy of England, you must waste your prowess and skill upon an ignoble jar of porcelain, or a vase of Bohemian glass; unless, indeed, my last messenger shall have proved more fortunate, and I believe such is the case.” As he spoke, his servant came up with a small parcel carefully enveloped in paper. “I have got this figure, sir,” said he, “with the greatest difficulty, and only indeed by pretending we wanted it as an ornamental statue. The little fellow of the toy-shop parted with it in tears, as if it had been his brother.” “It is very beautiful!” said Lady Hester, as she surveyed a small wooden statue of Goethe's “Marguerite,” in the attitude of plucking the petals of a flower to decide upon her lover's fidelity. “A mere toy!” said Haggerstone. “These things are carved by every child in the Black Forest. Does your Ladyship think you could hit the feather of her cap without hurting the head?” “I couldn't think of such profanation,” replied she; “there is really something very pretty in the attitude and expression. Pray let us reserve her for some less terrible destiny.” But the colonel persisted in assuring her that these were the commonest knick-knacks that adorned every peasant's cabin, that every boor with a rusty knife carved similar figures, and in the midst of his explanations he placed the statue upon a little stone pillar about twenty paces off. Lady Hester's objection had been little more than a caprice; indeed, had she been convinced that the figure was a valuable work of art, she would have felt rather flattered than otherwise at the costliness of the entertainment provided for her. Like Cleopatra's pearl, it would have had the charm of extravagance at least; but she never gave the colonel credit for such gallantry, and the more readily believed all he said on the subject. Colonel Haggerstone proceeded to load the pistols with all that pomp and circumstance so amusingly displayed by certain people on like occasions. The bullets, encased in little globes of chamois, carefully powdered with emery, were forced down the barrels by a hammer, the hair trigger adjusted, and the weapon delivered to Lady Hester with due solemnity. “If I go wide of the mark, Colonel, I beg you to remember that I have not had a pistol in my hand for above three years; indeed, it must be nearly four years since I shot a match with Lord Norwood.” “Lord Norwood! indeed!” said Haggerstone. “I wasn't aware that your Ladyship had ever been his antagonist.” Had not Lady Hester been herself anxious to hide the confusion the allusion to the viscount always occasioned her, she could not have failed to remark how uncomfortably astonished was Haggerstone at the mention of that name. Nervously eager to do something anything that might relieve her embarrassment she pulled the trigger; but the aim was an erring one, and no trace of the bullet to be seen. “There 's no use in looking for it, Colonel Haggerstone,” said she, pettishly; “I'm certain I was very wide of the mark.” “I 'm positive I saw the plaster drop from the wall somewhere hereabouts,” said the complaisant Colonel, pointing to a spot close beside the figure. “Yes, and the twigs are broken here.” “No matter; I certainly missed, and that's quite enough. I told you I should, before I fired; and when one has the anticipation of failure, it is so easy to vindicate the impression.” [Illustration: 094] It was in evident chagrin at her want of success that she spoke, and all her companion's flatteries went for nothing. Meanwhile, he presented the second pistol, which, taking hastily, and without giving herself time for an aim, she discharged with a like result. “I 'll not try again,” said she, pettishly. “Either the pistols don't suit me, or the place or the light is bad. Something is wrong, that's certain.” Haggerstone bit his lip in silence, and went on reloading the pistols without trusting himself to reply. A little conflict was going on within him, and all his intended flatteries for her Ladyship were warring with the desire to display his own skill, for he was a celebrated shot, and not a little vain of the accomplishment. Vanity carried the day at last, and taking up the weapon, he raised it slowly to a level with his eye. A second or two he held it thus, his hand steady as a piece of marble. “I have taken my aim, and now you may give the word for me to fire when you please,” said he, turning his eyes from the object, and looking straight at Lady Hester. She stared at him as if to reassure herself of the direction of his glance, and then called out “Fire!” The shot rang out clear and sharp; with it arose a shrill cry of agony, and straight before them, at the foot of the pillar, lay something which looked like a roll of clothes, only that by its panting motion it indicated life. Haggerstone sprang forward, and to his horror discovered the dwarf, Hans Roeckle, who, with his arm broken, lay actually bathed in blood. With his remaining hand he clasped the little statue to his bosom, while he muttered to himself the words “Gerettet! saved! saved!” While Lady Hester hurried for assistance, Haggerstone bound up the bleeding vessels with his handkerchief; and in such German as he could command, asked how the accident had befallen. A few low muttering sounds were all the dwarf uttered, but he kissed the little image with a devotion that seemed like insanity. Meanwhile the colonel's servant, coming up, at once recognized Hans, and exclaimed, “It is the little fellow of the toy-shop, sir. I told you with what reluctance he parted with this figure. He must be mad, I think.” The wild looks and eager expressions of the dwarf, as he clutched the image and pressed it to his heart, seemed to warrant the suspicion; and Haggerstone thought he could read insanity in every line of the poor creature's face. To the crowd that instantaneously gathered around the inn door, and which included many of his friends and acquaintances, Hans would give no other explanation of the event than that it was a mere accident; that he was passing, and received the shot by chance; nothing more. “Is he not mad, or a fool?” asked Haggerstone of the innkeeper. “Neither, sir; Hans Roeckle is an old and respected burgher of our town, and although eccentric and odd in his way, is not wanting for good sense or good nature.” “Ay! ay!” cried two or three of his townsfolk, to whom the landlord translated the Colonel's question; “Hans is a kind-hearted fellow, and if he loves his dolls and wooden images over-much, he never lacks in affection for living creatures.” While these and such-like observations were making around him, the dwarf's wounds were being dressed by his friend, Ludwig Kraus, an operation of considerable pain, that the little fellow bore with heroic tranquillity. Not a word of complaint, not a syllable of impatience escaped him; and while from his half-closed lips a low, muttered exclamation of “Saved! saved!” came forth from time to time, the bystanders deemed it the utterance of gratitude for his own escape with life. But once only did any expression of irritation burst from him, it was when Haggerstone pulled out his purse, and with an ostentatious display of munificence asked him to name his recompense. “Take me home; take me hence!” said Hans, impatiently. “Tell the rich 'Englander' that there are wounds for which sorrow would be an ample cure, but there are others which insult is sure to fester.”	{ "id": "32061" }
8	THE NIGHT EXCURSION	THE remainder of the day after the dwarf's misfortune was passed by Lady Hester in a state of feverish irritability. Sorry as she felt for the “sad accident,” her own phrase, she was still more grieved for the effects it produced upon herself; the jar and worry of excited feelings, the uncomfortableness of being anxious about anything or anybody. Epicurean in her code of manners as of morals, she detested whatever occasioned even a passing sensation of dissatisfaction, and hence upon the luckless colonel, the author of the present evil, fell no measured share of her displeasure. “He should have taken precautions against such a mishap; he ought to have had sufficient presence of mind to have arrested his aim; he should have fired in the air, in fact, he ought to have done anything but what he did do;” which was to agitate the nerves, and irritate the sensibilities, of a fine lady. The conduct of the family, too, was the very reverse of soothing. Sir Stafford's gout had relapsed on hearing of the event; George Onslow's anger was such that he could not trust himself to speak of the occurrence; and as for Sydney, though full of sorrow for the dwarf, she had not a single sympathy to bestow upon her stepmother. “Were there ever such people?” she asked herself again and again. Not one had taken the trouble to ask how she bore up, or express the slightest anxiety for the consequences the shock might occasion her. Grounsell was actually insufferable; and even hinted that if anything untoward were to happen, the very grave question might arise as to the guilt of the parties who appeared in arms without a Government permission. He reminded her Ladyship that they were not in England, but in a land beset with its own peculiar prejudices and notions, and in nothing so rigorous as in the penalties on accidents that took their origin in illegality. As for the wound itself, he informed her that the bullet had “traversed the deltoid, but without dividing the brachial artery; and, for the present, sympathetic fever and subcutaneous inflammation would be the worst consequences.” These tidings were neither very reassuring nor intelligible; but all her cross-examination could elicit little better. “Has Colonel Haggerstone been to see him?” asked she. “No, madam. His groom called with a present of two florins.” “Oh! impossible, sir.” “Perfectly true, madam. I was present when the money was returned to the man by a young lady, whose attentions to the sufferer saved him the pain this indignity would have cost him.” “A young lady, did you say? How does he happen to be so fortunate in his attendance?” “Her father chances to be this poor creature's tenant, and many mutual acts of kindness have passed between them.” “Not even scandal could asperse her motives in the present case,” said Lady Hester, with an insolent laugh. “It looked hardly human when they lifted it from the ground.” “Scandal has been guilty of as gross things, madam,” said Grounsell, sternly, “but I would defy her here, although there is beauty enough to excite all her malevolence.” And with this speech, delivered with a pointedness there was no mistaking, the doctor left the room. Impressions, or what she herself would have called “feelings,” chased each other so rapidly through Lady Hester's mind, that her whole attention was now directed to the young lady of whom Grounsell spoke, and whose singular charity excited all her curiosity. There is a strange tendency to imitation among those whose intelligences lie unexercised by any call of duty or necessity. No suggestion coming from within, they look without themselves for occupation and amusement. Lady Hester was a prominent disciple of this school; all her life she had been following, eager to see whether the fashions that became, or the pleasures that beguiled, others, might not suit herself. If such a course of existence inevitably conduces to ennui and discontent, it is no less difficult to strive against; and they who follow in the track of others' footsteps have all the weariness of the road without the cheering excitement of the journey. If the young lady found pleasure in charity, why should n't she? Benevolence, too, for aught she knew, might be very becoming. There were a hundred little devices of costume and manner which might be adopted to display it. What a pretty version of the good Samaritan modernized one might give in a Shetland scarf and a cottage bonnet the very thing Chalons would like to paint; and what an effective “interior” might be made of the dwarf's chamber, crowded with rude peasant faces, all abashed and almost awe-struck as she entered. The longer she dwelt upon the theme the more fascinating it became. “It would be really worth while to realize,” said she to herself at last “so amusing and so odd, an actual adventure; besides, in point of fact, it was her duty to look after this poor creature.” Just so; there never was a frivolous action, or a notion struck out by passing folly, for which its author could not find a justification in PRINCIPLE! We are everlastingly declaring against the knaveries and deceptions practised on us in life; but if we only took count of the cheats we play off upon ourselves, we should find that there are no such impostors as our own hearts. Nobody was ever less likely to make this discovery than Lady Hester. She believed herself everything that was good and amiable; she knew that she was handsome. Whatever contrarieties she met with in life, she was quite certain they came not from any fault of hers; and if self-esteem could give happiness, she must have enjoyed it. But it cannot. The wide neutral territory between what we think of ourselves and others think of us is filled with daring enemies to our peace, and it is impossible to venture into it without a wound of self-love. To make her visit to the dwarf sufficient of an adventure, it must be done in secret; nobody should know it but Celestine, her maid, who should accompany her. Affecting a slight indisposition, she could retire to her room in the evening, and then there would be abundant time to put her plan into execution. Even these few precautions against discovery were needless, for George did not return to dinner on that day, and Sydney made a headache an excuse for not appearing. Nothing short of the love of adventure and the indulgence of a caprice could have induced Lady Hester to venture out in such a night. The rain fell in torrents, and swooped along the narrow streets in channels swollen to the size of rivulets. The river itself, fed by many a mountain stream, fell tumbling over the rocks with a deafening roar, amid which the crashing branches of the pine-trees were heard at intervals. What would not have been her anxieties and lamentings if exposed to such a storm when travelling, surrounded with all the appliances that wealth can compass! and yet now, of her own free will, she wended her way on foot through the darkness and the hurricane, not only without complaining, but actually excited to a species of pleasure in the notion of her imaginary heroism. The courier who preceded her, as guide, enjoyed no such agreeable illusions, but muttered to himself, as he went, certain reflections by no means complimentary, to the whims of fine ladies; while Mademoiselle Celestine inwardly protested that anything, “not positively wrong,” would be dearly purchased by the dangers of such an excursion. “Gregoire! Gregoire! where is he now!” exclaimed Lady Hester, as she lost sight of her guide altogether. “Here, miladi,” grunted out the courier, in evident pain; “I fail to break my neck over de stone bench.” “Where 's the lantern, Gregoire?” “Blowed away, zum Teufel, I believe.” “What 's he saying, Celestine? what does he mean?” But mademoiselle could only answer by a sob of agony over her capote de Paris, flattened to her head like a Highland bonnet. “Have you no light? You must get a light, Gregoire.” “Impossible, miladi; dere 's nobody livin' in dese houses at all.” “Then you must go back to the inn for one; we 'll wait here till you return.” A faint shriek from Mademoiselle Celestine expressed all the terror such a proposition suggested. “Miladi will be lost if she remain here all alone.” “Perdue! sans doute!” exclaimed Celestiue. “I am determined to have my way. Do as I bade you, Gregoire; return for a light, and we'll take such shelter as this door affords in the meanwhile.” It was in no spirit of general benevolence that Gregoire tracked his road back to the “Russie,” since, if truth must be told, he himself had extinguished the light, in the hope of forcing Lady Hester to a retreat. Muttering a choice selection of those pleasant phrases with which his native German abounds, he trudged along, secretly resolving that he would allow his mistress a reasonable interval of time to reflect over her madcap expedition. Meanwhile, Lady Hester and her maid stood shivering and storm-beaten beneath the drip of a narrow eave. The spirit of opposition alone sustained her Ladyship at this conjuncture, for she was wet through, her shoes soaked with rain, and the cold blast that swept along seemed as if it would freeze the very blood in her heart. Celestine could supply but little of comfort or consolation, and kept repeating the words, “Quelle aventure! quelle aventure!” in every variety of lamentation. “He could easily have been back by this,” said Lady Hester, after a long pause, and an anxious attention to every sound that might portend his coming: “I 'm certain it is full half an hour since he left us. What a night!” “Et quelle aventure!” exclaimed Celestine, anew. None knew better than Lady Hester the significant depreciation of the Frenchwoman's phrase, and how differently had she rated all the hazards of the enterprise if any compromise of character were to have followed it. However, it was no time for discussion, and she let it pass. “If he should have missed the way, and not be able to find us!” she said, after another pause. “We shall be found dead in the morning,” cried Celestine; “et pour quelle a venture, mon Dieu, pour quelle aventure!” The possibility that her fears suggested, and the increasing severity of the storm for now the thunder rolled overhead, and the very ground seemed to shake with the reverberation served to alarm Lady Hester, and for the first time she became frightened at their situation. “We could scarcely find our way back, Celestine!” said she, rather in the tone of one asking for comfort than putting a question. “Impossible, miladi.” “And Gregoire says that these houses are all uninhabited.” “Quelle aventure!” sobbed the maid. “What can have become of him? It is more than an hour now! What was that, Ce'lestine? was it lightning? there, don't you see it yonder, towards the end of the street? I declare it is Gregoire; I see the lantern.” A cry of joy burst from both together, for already hope had begun to wane, and a crowd of fearful anticipations had taken its place. Lady Hester tried to call his name, but the clattering noise of the storm drowned the weak effort. The light, however, came nearer at each instant, and there was no longer any doubt of their rescue, when suddenly it turned and disappeared at an angle of the street. Lady Hester uttered a piercing cry, and at the instant the lantern was again seen, showing that the bearer had heard the sounds. “Here, Gregoire, we are here!” exclaimed she, in her loudest voice, and speaking in English. Whoever carried the lantern seemed for a moment uncertain how to act, for there was no reply, nor any change of position for a few seconds, when at length the light was seen approaching where Lady Hester stood. “I think I heard an English voice,” said one whose accents proclaimed her to be a woman. “Oh yes!” cried Lady Hester, passionately, “I am English. We have lost our way. Our courier went back to the inn for a lantern, and has never returned, and we are almost dead with cold and terror. Can you guide us to the Hotel de Russie?” “The house I live in is only a few yards off. It is better you should take shelter there for the present.” “Take care, miladi!” whispered Celestine, eagerly. “This may be a plot to rob and murder us.” “Have no fears on that score, mademoiselle,” said the unknown, laughing, and speaking in French; “we are not very rich, but as surely we are perfectly safe company.” Few as these words were, there was in their utterance that indescribable tone of good breeding and ease which at once reassured Lady Hester, who now replied to her unseen acquaintance with the observance due to an equal, and willingly accepted the arm she offered for guidance and support. “At the end of this little street, scarcely two minutes' walking, and you will be there,” said the unknown. Lady Hester scarcely heard the remark, as she ran on with voluble levity on the dangers they had run, the terrific storm, the desertion of the courier, her own fortitude, her maid's cowardice, what must have happened if they had not been discovered, till at last she bethought her of asking by what singular accident the other should have been abroad in such a terrible night. “A neighbor and a friend of ours is very ill, madam, and I have been to the doctor's to fetch some medicine for him.” “And I, too, was bent upon a charitable errand,” said Lady Hester, quite pleased with the opportunity of parading her own merits, “to visit a poor creature who was accidentally wounded this morning.” “It is Hans Roeckle, our poor neighbor, you mean,” cried the other, eagerly; “and here we are at his house.” And so saying, she pushed open a door, to which a bell, attached on the inside, gave speedy warning of their approach. “Dearest Kate!” cried a voice from within, “how uneasy I have been at your absence!” And the same moment a young girl appeared with a light, which, as she shaded it with her hand, left her unaware of the presence of strangers. “Think rather of this lady, and what she must have suffered,” said Kate, as, drawing courteously back, she presented her sister to Lady Hester. “Or rather, what I might have suffered,” interposed Lady Hester, “but for the fortunate accident of your coming. A few moments back, as I stood shivering beneath the storm, I little thought that I should owe my rescue to a countrywoman. May I learn the name of one to whom I am so deeply indebted?” “Dalton, madam,” said Nelly; and then with a slight confusion, added, “we ought, perhaps, to tell the circumstances which induced my sister to be abroad at such an hour.” “She knows it all,” broke in Kate, “and can the more readily forgive it, as it was her own errand. But will not this lady come near the fire?” said she, addressing Mademoiselle Celestiue, who, as she followed the rest into the humble chamber, was bestowing a most depreciatory glance upon the place, the furniture, and the people. “It is only my maid,” said Lady Hester, carelessly. “And now it is time I should introduce myself, and say that Lady Hester Onslow owes you all her gratitude.” Ellen courtesied respectfully at the announcement, but Kate Dalton's cheek colored slightly, and she bent a look of more than common admiration at the handsome figure of the stranger. An innate reverence for rank and title was rooted in her heart, and she was overjoyed to think that their chance acquaintance should be one of that class so distinctively marked out for honor. Prepared to admire every grace and fascination of the high-born, Kate watched with eager and delighted looks the slightest gestures, the least traits of manner, of the fashionable beauty. They were all attractions to which her heart gave a ready response. The accent in which she spoke, the careless elegance of her attitude as she lay back in her chair, the charming negligence with which she wore the little portions of dress exchanged for her own, were all inimitable graces in the eye of the simple girl. As for Lady Hester, accustomed to all the servile offices of her own attendants, to be punctiliously obeyed and waited on, it was yet a new sensation to watch the zealous and eager devotion with which the two sisters ministered to her wants. In utter forgetfulness of themselves, they had brought forth the little resources of their humble wardrobe, too happy, as it seemed, when they saw their services so willingly accepted. Fortunately, they did not perceive the contemptuous looks with which “mademoiselle” regarded their attentions, nor overheard her exclamation of “Mon Dieu! where did they gather together these chiffons?” as she surveyed the somewhat antiquated stores of their toilette. Even had Lady Hester's good breeding not prompted a gracious reception of what was so generously offered, the very singularity of the scene would have had its charm in her estimation. She was delighted with everything, even to Kate Dalton's slippers, which, by a most happy flattery, were a little too large for her. She fancied, too, that her costume, curiously made up of shreds and patches the most incongruous, was the dress of an Irish peasant, and was in an ecstasy at the thought of a similar one at her next fancy ball. Besides all these internal sources of self-satisfaction, the admiration of the two sisters was another and more legitimate cause of pleasure; for even Ellen, with all her natural reserve and caution, was scarcely less impressed than Kate with the charm of those fascinations which, however destined but for one class of society, are equally successful in all. Ellen Dalton's life had not been devoid of trials, nor had they failed to teach their own peculiar lessons; and yet her experiences had not shown her how very like right feeling good breeding can be, and how closely good manners may simulate every trait of a high and generous nature.	{ "id": "32061" }
9	A FINE LADY'S BLANDISHMENTS.	WE left Lady Hester, in our last chapter, employed in the exercise of those fascinations which, however unlike in other respects, have this resemblance to virtue, that they are assuredly their own reward. The charm of courtesy never conferred one half the pleasure on those for whom it was exercised as to him who wielded it. It matters little whether the magician be prince or “charlatan,” the art of pleasing is one of the most agreeable faculties human nature can be endowed with. Whether Lady Hester was aware of the theory or not, she felt the fact, as she saw the undisguised admiration in the faces of the two sisters; for while she had won over Nelly by the elevation of her sentiments and the kindness of her expressions, Kate was fascinated by her beauty, her grace, her easy gayety, and a certain voluble lightness that simulates frankness. Without anything that approached the prying of curiosity, for she was both too well bred and too little interested to have so felt such a motive, she inquired by what accident the Daltons remained at Baden so late in the season, affected to see some similarity between their cases and her own, asked in the most feeling terms for their father, whose ill-health she deplored, and then took such an interest in “dear Frank,” that Kate could not resist showing a portrait of him, which, however humble its claims to art, still conveyed a not unfaithful resemblance of the handsome youth. While thus hearing about them, she was equally communicative about herself, and enlisted all the sympathies of the girls as she recounted their escape from the torrent in the Black Forest, and their subsequent refuge in Baden. Thence she diverged to Sir Stafford's illness, her own life of seclusion and sadness, and, by an easy transition, came round to poor Hans Roeckle and the accident of that morning. “Do tell me everything about the poor dear thing,” said she, poutingly. “They say it is mad.” “No, madam,” said Nelly, gravely; “Hans, with many eccentricities of manner, is very far from deficient in good sense or judgment, and is more than ordinarily endowed with right feeling and kindness of heart.” “He is a dwarf, surely?” “Yes, but in intelligence--” “Oh, that, of course,” interrupted she; “they are rarely deficient in acuteness, but so spiteful, so full of malice. My dear child, there 's no trusting them. They never forget an injury, nor even an imaginary slight. There was that creature what was his name? that Polish thing, Benywowski, I think you remember, they baked him in a pie, to amuse Charles II. well, he never forgave it after wards, and to the day of his death could never bear the sight of pastry.” “I must except poor Hans from this category,” said Nelly, mildly, and with difficulty restraining a smile. “He is amiability itself.” Lady Hester shook her head doubtfully, and went on. “Their very caprices, my dear, lead them into all kinds of extravagances. For instance, this poor thing, it would seem, is so enamored of these wooden toys that he makes himself, that he cannot bear to part with them. Now, there 's no saying to what excesses he might be carried by this absurd passion. I have read of the most atrocious murders committed under a similar fanaticism.” “I assure you, madam, there need be no fear of such in the present instance. In the first case, Hans is too good; in the second, the objects are too valueless.” “Very true, so they are; but he doesn't think them so, you know.” “Nay, my Lady; nor would you either, were you to regard them with attention,” broke in Kate, whose cheek was now one glow of scarlet. “Even this, half finished as it is, may lay claim to merit.” And as she spoke, she removed a napkin from a little statue, before which she held the candle. “For shame, Kate, dearest Kate!” cried Nelly, standing up in bashful discomfiture. “It is a statuette of poor Frank, madam,” continued Kate, who, totally regardless of her sister's interruption now exhibited the figure nearer. “You see him just as he left us, his knapsack on his shoulder, his sword fastened across it, his little cap on one side of his head, and that happy smile upon his lips. Poor dear fellow! how sad a heart it covered!” “And was this his work?” asked Lady Hester, in astonishment. “No, madam; my sister Nelly was the artist of this, as of all the others. Unaided and untaught, her own ingenuity alone suggesting the means, as her imagination supplied the conception.” “Kate! dear, dear Kate!” said Ellen, with a voice of almost rebuke. “You forget how unworthy these poor efforts are of such high-sounding epithets.” Then, turning to Lady Hester, she continued: “Were it to ears less charitable than yours, madam, these foolish words were spoken, I should fear the criticism our presumption would seem to call forth. But you will not think harshly of us for ignorance.” “But this figure is admirable; the attitude is graceful; the character of the head, the features, are in good keeping. I know, of course, nothing of the resemblance to your brother, but, as a work of art, I am competent to say it has high merit. Do tell me how the thought of doing these things first occurred to you.” “I learned drawing as a child, madam, and was always fond of it,” said Ellen, with a degree of constraint that seemed as if the question were painful to answer. “Yes, and so have I spent months ay, I believe I might say years at the easel, copying every Giorgione at Venice and every Vandyk at Genoa, and yet such a thought never suggested itself to me.” “I am happy to think so, madam,” was the low response. “Why so? how do you mean?” asked Lady Hester, eagerly. “That the motive in my case never could have been yours, madam.” “And what was the motive?” “Poverty, madam. The word is not a pleasant word to syllable, but it is even better than any attempt at disguise. These trifles, while beguiling many a dreary hour, have helped us through a season of more than usual difficulty.” “Yes, madam,” broke in Kate. “You are aware that papa's property is in Ireland, and for some years back it has been totally unproductive.” “How very sad how dreadful!” exclaimed Lady Hester. But whether the expressions referred to the condition of the Daltons or of Ireland, it is not quite clear. “I doubt, madam, if I should have ventured on the confession,” said Ellen, with a voice of calm firmness, “were it not for the opportunity it offers of bearing testimony to the kindness of our poor friend yonder, Hans Roeckle. These efforts of mine have met such favor in his eyes that he accepts them all, taking them as rapidly as they are finished, and, I need not say, treating me with a generosity that would become a more exalted patron and a better artist.” “It is quite a romance, I declare!” cried Lady Hester. “The Wood Demon and the Maiden. Only he is not in love with you, I hope?” “I'm not quite sure of that,” said Kate, laughing; “at least, when some rivalry of her own wooden images does not intervene.” “Hush! Hans is awaking,” said Ellen, as on tiptoe she crossed the room noiselessly, and opened the door of the chamber where the dwarf lay. Lady Hester and Kate now drew near and peeped in. On a low settle over which an old scarlet saddle-cloth, fringed with tarnished lace, was spread as a quilt lay Hans Roeckle, his wounded arm supported by a pillow at his side; his dark eyes glistened with the bright glare of fever, and his cheeks were flushed and burning, as his lips moved unceasingly, with a low muttering, which he continued, regardless of the presence of those who now approached his bedside. “What is it he is saying? Does he complain of pain?” asked Lady Hester. [Illustration: 110] “I cannot understand him,” said Nelly; “for ever since his accident he has spoken in his native dialect the patois of the Bregentzer Wald of which I am utterly ignorant; still he will reply to me in good German when questioned.” Then, stooping down, she asked, “Are you better, Hans?” Hans looked up steadfastly in her face without speaking; it seemed as if her voice had arrested his wandering faculties, but yet not awakened any intelligence. “You are thirsty, Hans,” said she, gently, as she lifted a cup of water to his lips. He drank greedily, and then passed his hand across his brow, as if trying to dispel some tormenting fancies. After a second or two, he said: “It was in Nuremberg, in the Oden Gasse, it happened. The Ritter von Ottocar stabbed her as she knelt at the cross; and the dwarf, Der Mohrchen, as they called him, tore off his turban to bind up the wound; and what was his reward, maiden? tell me that! Are ye all so shamed that ye dare not speak it?” “We know it not, Hans; we never heard of the Ritter nor the Mohrchen before.” “I 'll tell you, then. They burned him as a warlock in the Hohen Platz next morning.” With a wild burst of savage laughter he closed this speech, which he spoke in good German; but immediately after his thoughts seemed to turn to his old Tyrol haunts and the familiar language of his native land, as he sang, in a low voice, the following words: “A Buchsel zu schiessen, A Stossring zu schlagn, A Dienal zu Liebn, Muss a Rue hahn.” “What does he mean? Do tell me,” said Lady Hester, whose interest in the scene was more that of curiosity than compassion. “It is a peasant dialect; but means, that a rifle to shoot with, a weapon to wield, and a maiden to love, are all that a good Tyroler needs in life,” said Kate, while Nelly busied herself in arranging the position of the wounded limb, little offices for which the poor dwarf looked his gratitude silently. “How wild his looks are!” said Lady Hester. “See how his eyes glance along the walls, as if some objects were moving before them!” And so in reality was it. Hanserl's looks were riveted upon the strange and incongruous assemblage of toys which, either suspended from nails or ranged on shelves, decorated the sides of the chamber. “Ay,” said he at last, with a melancholy smile, “thou 'lt have to put off all this bravery soon, my pretty damsels, and don the black veil and the hood, for thy master Hans is dying!” “He is talking to the wax figures,” whispered Kate. “And ye too, my brave hussars, and ye Uhlaners with your floating banners, must lower your lances as ye march in the funeral procession, when Hanserl is dead! Take down the wine-bush from the door, hostess, and kneel reverently, for the bell is ringing; and here comes the priest in his alb, and with the pix before him. Hush! they are chanting his requiem. Ah! yes. Hanserl is away to the far-off land, Wo sind die Tage lang genug, Wo sind die Nachte mild.” “Come away, we do but excite his mind to wanderings,” said Ellen: “so long as there is light to see these toys, his fancy endows them all with life and feeling, and his poor brain is never at rest.” The sound of voices in the outer room at the same moment caught their attention, and they heard the courier of Lady Hester in deep converse with Mademoiselle Celestine. He, deploring the two hours he had passed in hunting after his mistress through the dark streets of the village; and she, not less eloquently, bewailing the misery of a night spent in that comfortless cabin. “To visit a wretched dwarf, too! Parbleu! had it been a rendezvous with some one worth while, but an excursion without an object, sans emotion meme, it is too bad!” “Que voulez-vous!” said Monsieur Gregoire, with a shrug of the shoulders; “she is English!” “Ah! that is no reason for a vulgar caprice, and I, for one, will not endure it longer. I cannot do so. Such things compromise one's self. I 'll give warning to-morrow. What would my poor dear mistress, la Marquise, say, if she only knew how mes petits talents were employed?” “Do not be rash, mademoiselle,” interposed the courier; “they are rich, very rich, and we are going to Italy too, the real pays de Cocagne of our profession.” How far his persuasions might have gone in inducing her to reconsider her determination there is no saying, when they were suddenly interrupted by Lady Hester's appearance. Her first care was to ascertain that her absence from the hotel had not been remarked, her secret, as she loved to fancy it, remained sacred. Having learned thus much, she listened with a kind of childish pleasure to the courier's version of all his unhappy wanderings in search of her, until he at last descried a light, the only one that shone from any window in the whole village. As Gregoire had provided himself with a sufficient number of shawls, cloaks, and clogs, and as the storm had now passed over, Lady Hester prepared to take her leave, delighted with her whole night's adventure. There had been excitement enough to make it all she could desire; nor did she well know whether most to admire her heroism during the storm, or the success with which she captivated the two sisters; the courage which planned the expedition, or the grace with which it was executed. “You'll come and see me, Miss Dalton; mind, I'm always at home. Remember, Miss Kate Dalton, that they must not deny me to you” said she, in her most winning of manners. The two girls gave their promise in bashful diffidence, while she continued, “You'll say to your papa, too, that Sir Stafford will wait on him whenever he is able to leave the house. Mr. Onslow, indeed, ought to call at once; but he is so odd. Never mind, we shall be great friends; and you 'll bring all your little carving tools and your models with you, and work in my room. Your sister her embroidery, or her lace, or her crochet, or whatever it is, or you 'll read German for me, like a dear child, that will be so delightful. I can't understand a word of it, but it sounds so soft, and you 'll tell me all it 's about won't you? And then this poor thing must want for nothing.” “Nay, madam, he is in no need of anything but kindness. In a land where such simple habits prevail, Hans Roeckle passes for rich.” “How strange! how very odd! but I remember that poor Prince of Stolzenheimer. Papa used to say that he had six cordons, but only one coat! I believe it was true.” “Hanserl is better off, madam,” replied Nelly, smiling; “at least as regards the coats.” “Tell him, then, that I've been to see him, and am so grieved at his accident, but that it was all Colonel Haggerstone's fault, a bit of silly vanity to show how well he could shoot, and I 'm certain it just comes of being used to the pistols. I never missed when I fired with Norwood's!” The utterance of that name seemed to recall her from the discursive babble. She paused, and for a moment or two she was silent. At last, turning to the sisters, she reiterated her hopes of a speedy meeting, and with a cordial pressure of the hand to each, wished her last good-night, and departed.	{ "id": "32061" }
10	A FAMILY DISCUSSION.	LONG before Lady Hester awoke on the following morning every circumstance of her visit was known to Grounsell. It was the doctor's custom to see Dalton early each day, and before Sir Stafford was stirring, and to chat away an hour or so with the invalid, telling the current news of the time, and cheering his spirits by those little devices which are not among the worst resources of the Materia Medica. With all his knowledge of Lady Hester's character, her caprices, her whims, and her insatiable passion for excitement, he was still astonished beyond measure at this step: not that the false air of benevolence or charity deceived him, he was too old a practitioner in medicine, and had seen far too much of the dark side of human nature, to be easily gulled, but his surprise arose from the novelty of her condescending to know, and even propitiate, the good graces of people whom she usually professed to regard as the least interesting of all classes of mankind. The “reduced lady or gentleman” had only presented themselves to Lady Hester's mind by the medium of an occasional curiously worded advertisement in a morning paper, and were invariably associated with a subsequent police report, where the object of charity was sure to be confronted with half a dozen peers or members of parliament, whose sympathies he had put under contribution, to support a life of infamy or extravagance. “A begging impostor” rang in her mind as a phrase whose ingredient words could not be divorced, and she was thoroughly convinced that imposture and poverty were convertible terms. The very notion of any one having once been well off, and being now in embarrassment, was, to her deeming, most satisfactory evidence of past misconduct and present knavery. Grounsell had beard her hold forth on this theme more than once, “embroidering the sentiment” with an occasional sly allusion to himself and his own fortunes, so that he had often thought over the difficulty of serving the Daltons with Sir Stafford, by reflecting on the hostility any project would meet with from “my Lady,” and now accident, or something very like it, had done what all his ingenuity could not succeed in discovering. The announcement at first rendered him perfectly mute; he heard it without power to make the slightest observation; and it was only at the end of a lengthy description from the two sisters, that he exclaimed, in a kind of half soliloquy, “By Jove, it is so like her, after all!” “I 'm sure of it,” said Nelly; “her manner was kindness and gentleness itself. You should have seen the tender way she took poor Hansells hand in her own, and how eagerly she asked us to translate for her the few stray words he uttered.” “Of course she did. I could swear to it all, now that my eyes are opened.” “And with what winning grace she spoke!” cried Kate. “How the least phrase came from her lips with a fascination that still haunts me!” “Just so, just so!” muttered Grounsell. “How such traits of benevolence ennoble high station!” said Nelly. “How easy to credit all that one hears of the charms of intercourse, where manner like hers prevails on every side!” cried Kate, enthusiastically. “How thoughtful in all her kindness!” “What elegance in every movement!” “With what inborn courtesy she accepted the little valueless attentions, which were all we could render her!” “How beautiful she looked, in all the disorder of a dress so unlike her own splendor! I could almost fancy that old straw chair to be a handsome fauteuil since she sat in it.” “How delightful it must be to be admitted to the freedom of daily intercourse with such a person, to live within the atmosphere of such goodness and such refinement!” And thus they went on ringing the changes upon every gift and grace, from the genial warmth of her heart, to the snowy whiteness of her dimpled hands; while Grouusell fidgeted in his chair, searched for his handkerchief, his spectacles, his snuff-box, dropped them all in turn, and gathered them up again, in a perfect fever of embarrassment and indecision. “And you see her every day, doctor?” said Nelly. “Yes, every day, madam,” said he, hastily, and not noticing nor thinking to whom he was replying. “And is she always as charming, always as fascinating?” “Pretty much the same, I think,” said he, with a grunt. “How delightful! And always in the same buoyancy of spirits?” “Very little changed in that respect,” said he, with another grunt. “We have often felt for poor Sir Stafford being taken ill away from his home, and obliged to put up with the miserable resources of a watering-place in winter; but I own, when I think of the companionship of Lady Hester, much of my compassion vanishes.” “He needs it all, then,” said Grounsell, as, thrusting his hands into the recesses of his pockets, he sat a perfect picture of struggling embarrassment. “Are his sufferings so very great?” Grounsell nodded abruptly, for now he was debating within himself what course to take; for while, on one side, he deemed it a point of honor not to divulge to strangers, as were the Daltons, any of the domestic circumstances of those with whom he lived, he felt, on the other, reluctant to suffer Lady Hester's blandishments to pass for qualities more sterling and praiseworthy. “She asked the girls to go and see her,” said Dalton, now breaking silence for the first time; for although flattered in the main by what he heard of the fine lady's manner towards his daughters, he was not without misgivings that what they interpreted as courtesy might just as probably be called condescension, against which his Irish pride of birth and blood most sturdily rebelled. “She asked them to go and see her, and it was running in my head if she mio'ht not have heard something of the family connection.” “Possibly!” asserted Grounsell, too deep in his own calculations to waste a thought on such a speculation. “My wife's uncle, Joe Godfrey, married an Englishwoman. The sister was aunt to some rich city banker; and indeed, to tell the truth, his friends in Ireland never thought much of the connection but you see times are changed. They are up now, and we are down, the way of the world! It 's little I ever thought of claiming relationship with the like o' them!” “But if it 's they who seek us, papa?” whispered Kate. “Ay, that alters the case, my dear; not but I'd as soon excuse the politeness. Here we are, living in a small way; till matters come round in Ireland, we can't entertain them, not even give them a dinner-party.” “Oh, dearest papa,” broke in Nelly, “is not our poverty a blessing if it save us the humiliation of being absurd? Why should we think of such a thing? Why should we, with our straitened means and the habits narrow fortune teaches, presume even to a momentary equality with those so much above us.” “Faith, it's true enough!” cried Dalton, his cheek flushed with anger. “We are changed, there's no doubt of it; or it is not a Dalton would say the words you 've just said. I never knew before that the best in the land wasn't proud to come under our roof.” “When we had a roof,” said Nelly, firmly. “And if these ancestors had possessed a true and a higher pride, mayhap we might still have one. Had they felt shame to participate in schemes of extravagance and costly display, had they withheld encouragement from a ruinous mode of living, we might still be dwellers in our own home and our own country.” Dalton seemed thunderstruck at the boldness of a speech so unlike the gentle character of her who had uttered it. To have attributed any portion of the family calamities to their own misconduct to have laid the blame of their downfall to any score save that of English legislation, acts of parliament, grand-jury laws, failure of the potato crop, tithes, Terry alts, or smut in the wheat was a heresy he never, in his gloomiest moments, had imagined, and now he was to hear it from the lips of his own child. “Nelly Nelly Dal ton,” said he; “but why do I call you Dalton? Have you a drop of our blood in your veins at all, or is it the Godfreys you take after? Extravagance, ruinous living, waste, what 'll you say next?” He could n't continue, indignation and anger seemed almost to suffocate him. “Papa, dearest, kindest papa!” cried Nelly, as the tears burst from her eyes, “be not angry with me, nor suppose that any ungenerous repining against our altered lot finds a place in my heart. God knows that I grieve not for myself; in the humble sphere in which I am placed, I have found true contentment, greater, perhaps, than higher fortunes would have given me; for here my duties are better defined, and my sense of them is clearer. If I feel sorrow, it is for you and my dear sister, for you, papa, who suffer from many a privation; for her, who might well adorn a more exalted station. But for me the lame Nelly, as children used to call me” She was not suffered to finish her speech, for already her father had clasped his arms around her, and Kate, in a gush of tears, was sobbing on his shoulder. “Where's the doctor? what's become of him?” said Dalton, as, recovering from his emotion, he wished to give a different direction to their thoughts. “He went away half an hour ago, papa,” said Kate. “He always goes off without saying good-bye, whenever there is a word said about family.” “I noticed that, too, my dear,” said Dalton, “and I would n't wonder if he came of low people; not but he 's a kind creature, and mighty good-hearted.” Nelly could probably have suggested a better reason for the doctor's conduct, but she prudently forbore from again alluding to a theme already too painful. With the reader's permission, we will now follow him as, with a gesture of impatience, he abruptly left the room on the very first mention by Dalton of that genealogical tree in whose branches he loved to perch himself. “An old fool!” muttered Grounsell, as he passed downstairs, “an old fool, that no experience will ever make wiser! Well may his native country be a stumbling-block to legislators, if his countrymen be all like him, with his family pride and pretension! Confound him! can't he see that there 's no independence for a man in debt, and no true self-respect left for him who can't pay his tailor? For himself there's no help; but the poor girls! he'll be the ruin of them. Kate is already a willing listener to his nonsensical diatribes about blood and family; and poor Nelly's spirits will be broken in the hopeless conflict with his folly! Just so, that will be the end of it; he will turn the head of one, and break the heart of the other; and yet, all the while, he firmly believes he is leaving a far better heritage behind him in this empty pride, than if he could bequeath every acre that once belonged to them.” Thus soliloquizing, he went on ringing changes over every form of imprudence, waste, vanity, and absurdity, which, by applying to them the simple adjective of “Irish,” he fancied were at once intelligible, and needed no other explanation. In this mood he made his entrance into Sir Stafford's chamber, and so full of his own thoughts that the worthy baronet could not fail to notice his preoccupation. “Eh! Grounsel, what 's the matter, another row with my Lady, eh?” said he, smiling with his own quiet smile. “Not to-day. We 've not met this morning, and, consequently, the armistice of yesterday is still unbroken! The fatigue of last night has, doubtless, induced her to sleep a little longer, and so I have contrived to arrive at noon without the risk of an apoplexy.” “What fatigue do you allude to?” “Oh, I forgot I have a long story for you. What do you suppose her Ladyship has been performing now?” “I 've heard all about it,” said Sir Stafford, pettishly. “George has given me the whole narrative of that unlucky business. We must take care of the poor fellow, Grounsell, and see that he wants for nothing.” “You 're thinking of the pistol-shooting; but that 's not her Ladyship's last,” said the doctor, with a malicious laugh. “It is as a Lady Bountiful she has come out, and made her debut last night I am bound to say with infinite success.” And, without further preface, Grounsell related the whole adventure of Lady Hester's visit to the dwarf, omitting nothing of those details we have already laid before the reader, and dilating with all his own skill upon the possible consequences of the step. “I have told you already about these people: of that old fool, the father, with his Irish pride, his Irish pretensions, his poverty, and his insane notions about family. Well, his head a poor thing in the best of times is gone clean mad about this visit. And then the girls! good, dear, affectionate children as they are, they 're in a kind of paroxysm of ecstasy about her Ladyship's style, her beauty, her dress, the charm of her amiability, the fascination of her manner. Their little round of daily duties will henceforth seem a dreary toil; the very offices of their charity will lose all the glow of zeal when deprived of that elegance which refinement can throw over the veriest trifle. Ay! don't smile at it, the fact is a stubborn one. They 'd barter the deepest devotion they ever rendered to assuage pain for one trick of that flattery with which my Lady captivated them. Will all the poetry of poor Nelly's heart shut out the memory of graces associated with the vanities of fashion? Will all Kate's dutiful affection exalt those household drudgeries in her esteem, the performances of which will henceforth serve to separate her more and more from one her imagination has already enshrined as an idol?” “You take the matter too seriously to heart, Grounsell,” said Sir Stafford, smiling. “Not a bit of it; I 've studied symptoms too long and too carefully not to be ever on the look-out for results. To Lady Hester, this visit is a little episode as easily forgotten as any chance incident of the journey. But what an event is it in the simple story of their lives!” “Well, well, it cannot be helped now; the thing is done, and there 's an end of it,” said Sir Stafford, pettishly; “and I confess I cannot see the matter as you do, for I have been thinking for two days back about these Daltons, and of some mode of being of service to them, and this very accident may suggest the way. I have been looking over some old letters and papers, and I 've no doubt that I have had unintentionally, of course a share in the poor fellow's ruin. Do you know, Grounsell, that this is the very same Peter Dalton who once wrote to me the most insulting letters, and even a defiance to fight a duel, because a distant relative bequeathed to me a certain estate that more naturally should have descended to him. At first, I treated the epistles as unworthy of any serious attention, they were scarcely intelligible, and not distinguished by anything like a show of reason; but when from insult the writer proceeded to menace, I mentioned the affair to my lawyer, and, indeed, gave him permission to take any steps that might be necessary to rid me of so unpleasant a correspondent. I never heard more of the matter; but now, on looking over some papers, I see that the case went hardly with Dalton, for there was a 'rule to show cause,' and an 'attachment,' and I don't know what besides, obtained against him from the King's Bench, and he was actually imprisoned eight months for this very business; so that, besides having succeeded to this poor fellow's property, I have also deprived him of his liberty. Quite enough of hardship to have suffered at the hands of any one man and that one, not an enemy.” “And would you believe it, Onslow, we have talked over you and your affairs a hundred times together, and yet he has never even alluded to this? One would think that such an event would make an impression upon most men; but, assuredly, he is either the most forgetful or the most generous fellow on earth.” “How very strange! And so you tell me that he remembers my name, and all the circumstances of that singular bequest for singular it was from a man whom I never saw since he was a boy.” “He remembers it all. It was the last blow fortune dealt him, and, indeed, he seemed scarcely to require so heavy a stroke to fell him, for, by his own account, he had been struggling on, in debt and difficulty, for many a year, putting off creditors by the plausible plea that a considerable estate must eventually fall in to him. It is quite certain that he believed this himself, but he also maintained a course of expenditure that, were he even in possession of the property, it would have been impossible to keep up. His brother-in-law's parsimony, too, was a constant source of self-gratulation to him, fancying, as he did, that a considerable sum in Bank stock would be among the benefits of this bequest. To find himself cut off, without even a mention of his name, was, then, to know that he was utterly, irretrievably ruined.” “Poor fellow!” exclaimed Onslow; “I never suspected the case had been so hard a one. His letters you shall see them yourself bore all the evidence of a man more touchy on the score of a point of honor than mindful of a mere money matter. He seemed desirous of imputing to me who, as I have told you, never saw Mr. Godfrey for above forty years something like undue influence, and, in fact, of having prejudiced his brother-in-law against him. He dated his angry epistles from a park or a castle I forget which and they bore a seal of armorial pretensions such as an archduke might acknowledge. All these signs seemed to me so indicative of fortune and standing, that I set my friend down for a very bloodthirsty Irishman, but assuredly never imagined that poverty had contributed its sting to the injury.” “I can easily conceive all that,” said Grounsell. “At this very moment, with want staring him on every side, he 'd rather talk of his former style at confound the barbarous place, I never can remember the name of it than he 'd listen to any suggestion for the future benefit of his children.” “I have been a grievous enemy to him,” said Sir Stafford, musingly. “He reckons the loss at something like six thousand a year,” said Grounsell. “Not the half of it, doctor; the estate, when I succeeded to it, was in a ruinous condition. A pauper and rebellious tenantry holding their tenures on nominal rents, and either living in open defiance of all law, or scheming to evade it by a hundred subterfuges. Matters are somewhat better; but if so, it has cost me largely to make them so. Disabuse his mind, I beg you, of this error. His loss was at least not so heavy as he reckoned.” “Faith, I'll scarcely venture on so very delicate a theme,” said Grounsell, dryly. “I 'm not quite so sure how he 'd take it.” “I see, doctor,” said Onslow, laughing, “that his duelling tastes have impressed you with a proper degree of respect. Well, let us think of something more to the purpose than rectifying a mere mistaken opinion. How can we serve him? What can be done for him?” “Ruined gentlemen, like second-hand uniforms, are generally sent to the colonies,” said Grounsell; “but Dalton is scarcely fit for export.” “What if we could get him appointed a magistrate in one of the West India Islands?” “New rum would finish him the first rainy season.” “Is he fit for a consulship?” “About as much as for Lord Chancellor. I tell you the man's pride would revolt at anything to which a duty was annexed. Whatever you decide on must be untrammelled by any condition of this kind.” “An annuity, then, some moderate sum sufficient to support them in respectability,” said Onslow; “that is the only thing I see for it, and I am quite ready to do my part, which, indeed, is full as much a matter of honor as generosity.” “How will you induce him to accept it?” “We can manage that, I fancy, with a little contrivance. I 'll consult Prichard; he 's coming here this very day about these renewals, and he 'll find a way of doing it.” “You'll have need of great caution,” said Grounsell; “without being naturally suspicious, misfortune has rendered him very sensitive as to anything like a slight. To this hour he is ignorant that his daughter sells those little figures; and although he sees, in a hundred appliances to his comfort, signs of resources of which he knows nothing, he never troubles his head how the money comes.” “What a strange character!” “Strange indeed. True pride and false pride, manly patience, childish petulance, generosity, selfishness, liberality, meanness, even to the spirits alternating between boy-like levity and downright despair! The whole is such a mixture as I never saw before, and yet I can fancy it is as much the national temperament as that of the individual.” And now Grounsell, launched upon a sea without compass or chart, hurried off to lose himself in vague speculation about questions that have puzzled, and are puzzling, wiser heads than his.	{ "id": "32061" }
11	A PEEP BETWEEN THE SHUTTERS AT A NEW CHARACTER.	NOT even Mademoiselle Celestine herself, nor the two London footmen now condemned to exhibit their splendid proportions to the untutored gaze of German rustics, could have chafed and fretted under the unhappy detention at Baden with a greater impatience than did George Onslow, a young Guardsman, who often fancied that London, out of season, was a species of Palmyra; who lived but for the life that only one capital affords; who could not credit the fact that people could ride, dress, dine, and drive anywhere else, was lamentably “ill bestowed” among the hills and valleys, the winding glens and dense pine forests of a little corner of Germany. If he liked the excitement of hard exercise, it was when the pleasure was combined with somewhat of peril, as in a fox-hunt, or heightened by the animation of a contest, in a rowing-match. Scenery, too, he cared for, when it came among the incidents of a deer-stalking day in the Highlands. Even walking, if it were a match against time, was positively not distasteful; but to ride, walk, row, or exert himself, for the mere exercise, was in his philosophy only a degree better than a sentence to the treadmill, the slavery being voluntary not serving to exalt the motive. To a mind thus constituted, the delay at Baden was intolerable. Lady Hester's system of small irritations and provocations rendered domesticity and home life out of the question. She was never much given to reading at any time, and now books were not to be had; Sydney was so taken up with studying German, that she was quite uncompanionable. Her father was too weak to bear much conversation; and as for Grounsell, George always set him down for a quiz: good-hearted in his way, but a bit of a bore, and too fond of old stories. Had he been a young lady, in such a predicament, he would have kept a journal, a pretty martyrology of himself and his feelings, and eked out his sorrows between Childe Harold and Werther. Had he been an elderly one, he would have written folios by the post, and covered acres of canvas with dogs in worsted, and tigers in Berlin wool. Alas! he had no such resources. Education had supplied him with but one comfort and consolation, a cigar; and so he smoked away incessantly: sometimes as he lounged out of the window, after breakfast, in all the glory of an embroidered velvet cap, and a gorgeous dressing-gown; sometimes as he sauntered in the empty saloon, or the deserted corridors, in the weed-grown garden, in the dishabille of a many-pocketed shooting-jacket and cork-soled shoes; now, as he lounged along the dreary streets, or passed along the little wooden bridge, wondering within himself how much longer a man could resist the temptation that suggested a spring over the balustrade into the dark pool beneath. He had come abroad partly for Sydney's sake, partly because, having “gone somewhat too fast” in town, an absence had become advisable. But now, as he sauntered about the deserted streets of the little village, not knowing how long the durance might last, without an occupation, without a resource, both his brotherly love and prudence began to fail him, and he wished he had remained behind, and taken the chances, whatever they might be, of his creditors' forbearance. His moneyed embarrassments involved nothing dishonorable; he had done no more than what some score of very well-principled young men have done, and are doing at this very hour, ay, good reader, and will do again, when you and I have gone where all our moralizing will not deceive any more, he had contracted debts, the payment of which must depend upon others; he had borrowed what no efforts of his own could restore; he had gambled, and lost sums totally disproportionate to his fortune; but, in all these things, he was still within the pale of honorable conduct, at least, so said the code under which he lived, and George believed it. Sir Stafford, who only learned about the half of his son's liabilities, was thunderstruck at the amount. It was scarcely a year and a half ago that he had paid all George's debts, and they were then no trifle; and now he saw all the old items revived and magnified, as if there was only one beaten road to ruin, and that began at Crocky's, and ended at “the Bench.” The very names of the dramatis personae were the same. It was Lazarus Levi lent the money, at sixty per cent; it was another patriarch, called Gideon Masham, discounted the same. A lucky viscount had once more “done the trick” at hazard; and if Cribbiter had not broken down in training, why Madame Pompadour had, and so the same result came about. George Onslow had got what Newmarket men call a “squeeze,” and was in for about seven thousand pounds. Nothing is more remarkable in our English code social, than the ingenuity with which we have contrived to divide ranks and classes of men, making distinctions so subtle that only long habit and training are able to appreciate. Not alone are the gradations of our nobility accurately defined, but the same distinctions prevail among the “untitled” classes, and even descend to the professional and trading ranks; so that the dealer in one commodity shall take the pas of another; and he who purveys the glass of port for your dessert, would be outraged if classed with him who contributed the Stilton! These hair-splittings are very unintelligible to foreigners; but, as we hold to them, the presumption is, that they suit us; and I should not have stopped now to bestow a passing notice on the system, if it were not that we see it, in some cases, pushed to a degree of extreme resembling absurdity, making even of the same career in life a sliding-scale of respectability; as, for instance, when a young gentleman of good expectations and fair fortune has outraged his guardians and his friends by extravagance, he is immediately removed from the Guards, and drafted into the Infantry of the Line; if he misbehaves there, they usually send him to India; is he incorrigible, he is compelled to remain in some regiment there; or, in cases of inveterate bad habits, he exchanges into the Cape Rifles, and gets his next removal from the knife of a Caffre. Ancient geographers have decided, we are not aware on what grounds, that there is a place between “H--ll and Connaught.” Modern discovery, with more certitude, has shown one between the Guards and the Line, a species of military purgatory, where, after a due expiation of offences, the sinner may return to the paradise of the Household Brigade without ever transgressing the Inferno of a marching regiment. This half-way stage is the “Rifles.” So long as a young fashionable falls no lower, he is safe. There is no impugnment of his character, no injury that cannot be repaired. Now, George Onslow had reached so far; he was compelled to exchange into the --th, then quartered in Ireland. It is true he did not join his regiment; his father had interest enough somewhere to obtain a leave of absence for his son, and First Lieutenant Onslow, vice Ridgway promoted, was suffered to amuse himself howsoever and wheresoever he pleased. The “exchange,” and the reasons for which it was effected, were both unpleasant subjects of reflection to George; and as he had few others, these continued to haunt him, till at last he fancied that every one was full of the circumstance, each muttering as he passed, “That 's Onslow, that was in the Coldstreams.” Lady Hester, indeed, did not always leave the matter purely imaginary, but threw out occasional hints about soldiers who never served, except at St. James's or Windsor, and who were kept for the wonderment and admiration of foreign sovereigns when visiting England, just as Suffolk breeders exhibit a “punch,” or a Berkshire farmer will show a hog, for the delectation of swine fanciers. Where children show toys, kings show soldiers, and ours are considered very creditable productions of the kind; but Lady Hester averred, with more of truth than she believed, that a man of spirit would prefer a somewhat different career. These currents, coming as they did in season and out of season, did not add to the inducements for keeping the house, and so George usually left home each day, and rarely returned to it before nightfall. It is true he might have associated with Haggerstone, who, on being introduced, made the most courteous advances to his intimacy; but George Onslow was bred in a school whose first lesson is a sensitive shrinking from acquaintance, and whose chief characteristic is distrust. Now he either had heard, or fancied he had heard, something about Haggerstone. “The Colonel was n't all right,” somehow or other. There was a story about him, or somebody of his set, and, in fact, it was as well to be cautious; and so the young Guardsman, who would have ventured his neck in a steeplechase, or his fortune on a “Derby,” exhibited all the deliberative wisdom of a judge as to the formation of a passing acquaintance. If we have been somewhat prolix in explaining the reasons of the young gentleman's solitude, our excuse is, that he had thereby conveyed, not alone all that we know, but all that is necessary to be known, of his character. He was one of a class so large in the world that few people could not count some half-dozen, at least, similar amongst their acquaintance; and all of whom would be currently set down as incapables, if it were not that now and then, every ten years or so, one of these well-looking, well-bred, indolent dandies, as if tired of his own weariness, turns out to be either a dashing soldier, with a heart to dare, and a head to devise the boldest achievements, or a politic leader, with resources of knowledge, and a skill in debate, to confront the most polished and practised veteran in “the Commons.” Our own experiences of our own day show that these are no paradoxical speculations. But we must not pursue the theme further; and have only to add, that the reader is not to believe that George Onslow formed one of these brilliant exceptions. Whether the fault lies more in himself or in us, we must not inquire. If his lonely walks did not suggest any pleasant reveries, the post did not bring any more agreeable tidings. Dry statements from Mr. Orson, his lawyer, every young man about town has his lawyer nowadays, about the difficulty of arranging his affairs, being the chief intelligence he received, with, from time to time, a short and pithy epistle from a certain noble creditor, Lord Norwood, who, although having won very large sums from Onslow, never seemed in such pressing difficulty as since his good fortune. The viscount's style epistolary was neither so marked by originality, nor so worthy of imitation, that it would be worth communicating; but as one of his letters bears slightly upon the interests of our story, we are induced to give it; and being, like all his correspondence, very brief, we will communicate it in extenso. “Oh, Norwood again!” said Onslow, as he looked at the seal, and read the not very legible autograph in the corner. “My noble friend does not give a very long respite;” and biting his lips in some impatience, he opened the paper, and read: DEAR ONSLOW, Orson has paid me the two thousand, as you ordered, but positively refuses the seventeen hundred and eighty, the Ascot affair, because I cannot give up the original two bills for twelve hundred passed to me for that debt. I told him that they were thrown into the fire being devilishly tempted to illustrate the process with himself six months ago, when you gave the renewals; but all won't do, the old prig persists in his demand, to comply with which is clearly impossible, for I have not even preserved the precious ashes of the incremation. I don't doubt but that, legally speaking, and in pettifogging parlance, he is all correct but between men of honor such strictness is downright absurdity and, as Dillhurst says, “something more.” Now, my dear boy, you must write to him and at once, too for I 'm in a bad book about “Chanticleer” who is to win, it seems, after all and say that he is acting in direct opposition to your wishes, as of course he is; that the money must be paid without more chaffing. The delay has already put me to great inconvenience, and I know how you will be provoked at his obstinacy. You 've heard, I suppose, that Brentwood is going to marry Lydia Vaughan. She has thirty thousand pounds, which is exactly what Jack lost last winter. Crosbie says he ought to “run away from her after the start as he carries no weight:” which is somewhat of my own opinion. What any man has to do with a wife nowadays, with the funds at eighty-two, and a dark horse first favorite for the Oaks, is more than I know. Doncaster has levanted, and the Red-House folk will smart for it. He would back Hayes's lot, and there 's nothing can ever set him right again. By the way, Orson hints that if I give him a release, or something of that sort, with respect to the bills, he 'd pay the cash; but this is only a dodge to make a case for lawyers' parchments, stamps, and so forth; so I won't stand it. Your writing to him will do the whole thing at once. What a jolly world it would be, old fellow, if the whole race of Orsons were carried off by the cholera, or anything akin! They are the greatest enemies to human peace in existence. Believe me, yours most faithfully, NORWOOD. P. S. I half fancy Baden is empty by this; but if you chance upon a little fellow Heaven knows to whom he belongs, or whence he comes, called Albert Jekyl, will you tell him that I 'll forward the twenty pounds whenever I win the Oaks, or marry Miss Home Greville, or any other similar piece of good fortune. When he lent me the cash, I don't believe he was the owner of as much more in the world; but it suited him to have a viscount in his debt a devilish bad investment, if he knew but all. The chances, therefore, are that he has foundered long ago, and you will be spared the trouble of the explanation; but if he survive, say something apologetic, for letter-writing and foreign postage are only making bad worse. Although, unquestionably, the postscript of this elegant epistle was the part which reflected most severely upon the writer's good feeling and sense of honor, George Onslow was more struck by what related to his own affairs, nor was it till after the lapse of some days that he took the trouble of considering the paragraph, or learning the name of the individual referred to. Even then all that he could remember was, that he had seen or heard the name “somewhere,” and thus, very possibly, the whole matter would have glided from his memory, if accident had not brought up the recollection. Returning one evening later than usual from his solitary walk, he found that the hotel was closed, the door strongly secured, and all the usual precautions of the night taken, in the belief that the inmates were already safe within doors. In vain he knocked and thundered at the massive panels; the few servants occupied rooms at a distance, and heard nothing of the uproar. He shouted, he screamed, he threw gravel against the windows, and, in his zeal, smashed them too. All was fruitless; nobody stirred, nor could he detect the slightest sign of human presence in the vast and dreary-looking building before him. The prospect was not a pleasant one, and a December night in the open air was by no means desirable; and yet, where should he turn for shelter? The other hotels were all closed and deserted, and even of the private houses not one in twenty was inhabited. Resolving to give himself one chance more for admission, he scaled the paling of the garden, and reached the rear of the hotel; but here all his efforts proved just as profitless as the former, and he was at last about to abandon all hope, when he caught sight of a faint gleam of light issuing from a small window on the first floor. Having failed to attract notice by all his cries and shouts, he determined to reach the window, to which, fortunately, a large vine, attached to the wall, offered an easy access. George was an expert climber, and in less than a minute found himself seated on the window-sill, and gazing into a room by the aperture between the half-closed shutters. His first impression on looking in was that it was a servant's room. The bare, whitewashed walls; the humble, uncurtained bed; three chairs of coarse wood, all strengthened this suspicion, even to the table, covered by a coarse table-cloth, and on which stood a meal if meal it could be called an anchorite might have eaten on Friday. A plate of the common brown bread of the country was balanced by a little dish of radishes, next to which stood a most diminutive piece of Baden cheese, and a capacious decanter of water, a long-wicked tallow candle throwing its gloomy gleam over the whole. For a moment or two George was unable to detect the owner of this simple repast, as he was engaged in replenishing his fire; but he speedily returned, and took his place at the table, spreading his napkin before him, and surveying the board with an air of self-satisfaction such as a gourmand might bestow upon the most perfect petit diner. In dress, air, and look, he was thoroughly gentlemanlike; a little foppish, perhaps, in the arrangement of his hair, and somewhat too much display in the jewelled ornaments that studded his neckcloth. Even in his attitude, as he sat at the table, there was a certain air of studied elegance that formed a curious contrast with the miserable meal before him. Helping himself to a small portion of cheese, and filling out a goblet of that element which neither cheers nor inebriates, he proceeded to eat his supper. Onslow looked on with a mingled sense of wonder and ridicule, and while half disposed to laugh at the disparity of the entertainment and him who partook of it, there was something in the scene which repressed his scorn and rendered him even an interested spectator of what went forward. [Illustration: 134] The piercing cold of the night at length admonished him that he should provide for his own admission into the hotel; and although nothing was now easier than to make his presence known, yet he felt a natural reluctance at the pain he must occasion to the stranger, whose frugal mode of living and humble interior would be thus so unceremoniously exposed. “The chances are,” thought George, “that these privations are only endurable because they are practised in secret, and at no sacrifice of worldly estimation. How can I then or what right have I to inflict the torture of an exposure upon this young man, whoever he is!” The conclusion was very rapidly come to, and not less speedily acted upon; for he determined to spend the night, if need be, in the open air, rather than accept an alternative so painful in its consequences. His resolutions had usually not long to await their accomplishment; and, turning his back to the window, and disdaining the slow process by which he had gained the ascent, he sprang with one leap down to the ground: in doing so, however, his elbow struck the window, and at the same instant that he reached the earth, the shivered fragments of a pane of glass came clattering after him. In a moment the sash was thrown open, and a head appeared above. “I have smashed the window,” cried George, in French, “as the only means of being heard. They have locked me out of the hotel, and I don't fancy spending a winter's night in walking the streets of Baden.” “You're an Englishman,” said the voice from above, in English. “Yes; but I don't see what that has to do with the matter,” replied Onslow, testily; “even a Laplander might prefer shelter in such a season.” “If you 'll have the goodness to come round to the front door,” said the voice, one of the very softest and meekest of voices, “I shall have great pleasure in opening it for you.” And at the same time the unknown held forth his candle in polite guidance to the other's steps. “Thanks, thanks; never mind the light. I know the way perfectly,” said George, not a little ashamed at the contrast between his own gruffness and the courtesy of the stranger whose window he had broken. Onslow had barely time to reach the front door of the inn, when it was opened for him, and he saw before him a very dapper little figure, who with a profusion of regrets at not having heard him before, offered his candle a wax one on this occasion for George's accommodation. Protesting that the broken pane was not of the slightest inconvenience, that the room was a small dressing-closet, that it was not worth a moment's thought, and so forth, he permitted Onslow to escort him to the door of his room, and then wished him a good-night. The scene scarcely occupied the time we have taken to relate it, and yet in that very short space George Onslow had opportunity to see that the unknown had all the easy deportment and quiet breeding of one accustomed to good society. There was, perhaps, a little excess of courtesy, at least according to that school of politeness in which Onslow had been taught; but this might be the effect of living abroad, where such a tone usually prevailed. The urbanity was not exactly cold enough for George's notions. “No matter; he 's no snob, that 's clear,” thought he; “and even if he were, he's done me good service.” And with this blending of selfishness and speculation he went to sleep, and slept soundly, too, not harassed by even a thought of him who passed an hour in the effort to repair his broken window, and shivered the rest of the night through from the insufficiency of his skill. Blessed immunity theirs, who so easily forget the pain they occasion others, and who deem all things trifles that cost themselves no afterthought of regret. Happy the nature that can, without self-repining, spill the wine over Aunt Betty's one “peach-colored satin,” or, in careless mood, pluck the solitary flower of her only geranium. Enviable stoicism that mislays the keepsake of some poor widow, or lames the old curate's cob, the fond companion of many rambles. These, whatever others think, are very enviable traits, and enable the possessors to wear placid countenances, and talk in most meritorious strain on the blessings of equanimity and the excellent fruits of a well-trained mind.	{ "id": "32061" }
12	MR. ALBERT JEKYL	ONSLOW'S first thought, on awaking the next morning, was of last night's acquaintance, but all the information he could obtain concerning him was that he was an Englishman who had passed the summer in Baden, and during the season knew and was known by every one. The waiter called him, in the usual formulary, “a very nice gentleman;” and seemed by his manner to infer that any further account might be had by paying for it. Onslow, if he even understood the hint, was not the man to avail himself of it; so he simply ordered him to bring the hotel book, in which the names of all travellers are inscribed, and at once discovered that the proprietor of the humble entresol, No. 6, was a Mr. Albert Jekyl, with the ordinary qualification attached to him of “Rentier Anglais.” Searching back in the same instructive volume, he found that, on his arrival in June, Mr. Jekyl had occupied a small apartment on the first floor, from which he had subsequently removed to the second; thence to a single room in the third story, and finally settled down in the quiet seclusion of the small chamber where George had first seen him. These were very small materials from which to compile a history, but at least they conveyed one inference, and that a very common one, that the height of Mr. Jekyl's fortune and that of his dwelling observed to each other an inverse proportion, and that, as his means went down, he went up. If, then, no very valuable contribution to the gentleman's history was contained here, at least the page recorded his name; and George, reopening Norwood's letter, satisfied himself that this was the same confiding individual who had intrusted the noble viscount with a loan of twenty pounds. George now remembered to have seen his card on Lady Hester's table, with inquiry after Sir Stafford. “Poor fellow!” thought he; “another victim of 'trente-et-un.' They have cleared him out at the tables, and he is either ashamed to write home, or his friends have refused to assist him. And Norwood, too the heartlessness of putting to contribution a poor young fellow like this!” Onslow thought worse of this than of fifty other sharp things of the noble Lord's doing, and of some of which he had been himself the victim. “I'll call upon him this very morning!” said George, half aloud, and with the tone and air of a man who feels he has said a very generous thing, and expressed a sentiment that he is well aware will expose him to a certain amount of reprobation. “Jekyl, after all, is a right good name. Lady Hester said something about Jekyls that she knew, or was related to. Good style of fellow he looked a little tigerish, but that comes of the Continent. If he be really presentable, too, my Lady will be glad to receive him in her present state of destitution. Norwood's ungracious message was a bore, to be sure, but then he need not deliver it there was no necessity of taking trouble to be disagreeable or, better again far better,” thought he, and he burst out laughing at the happy notion, “I 'll misunderstand his meaning, and pay the money. An excellent thought; for as I am about to book up a heavy sum to his Lordship, it 's only deducting twenty pounds and handing it to Jekyl, and I 'll be sworn he wants it most of us all.” The more Onslow reflected on it, the more delighted was he with this admirable device; and it is but fair to add, that however gratified at the opportunity of doing a kindness, he was even better pleased at the thought of how their acquaintance at the “Grosvenor” and the “Ultras” would laugh at the “sharp viscount's being sold.” There was only one man of all Onslow's set on whom he would have liked to practise this jest, and that man was Norwood. Having decided upon this plan, he next thought of the execution of it, and this he determined should be by letter. A short note, conveying Norwood's message and the twenty pounds, would save all explanation, and spare Jekyl any unpleasant feeling the discussion of a private circumstance might occasion. Onslow's note concluded with his “thanks for Mr. Jekyl's kindness on the preceding evening,” and expressing a wish to know “at what hour Mr. J. would receive a visit from him.” Within a very few minutes after the billet was despatched, a servant announced Mr. Albert Jekyl; and that young gentleman, in the glory of a very magnificent brocade dressing-gown, and a Greek cap, with slippers of black velvet embroidered in gold, entered the room. Onslow, himself a distinguished member of that modern school of dandyism whose pride lies in studs and shirt-pins, in watch-chains, rings, and jewelled canes, was struck by the costly elegance of his visitor's toilette. The opal buttons at his wrists; the single diamond, of great size and brilliancy, on his finger; even the massive amber mouthpiece of the splendid meerschaum he carried in his hand, were all evidences of the most expensive tastes. “Could this by possibility be the man he had seen at supper?” was the question he at once asked himself; but there was no time to discuss the point, as Jekyl, in a voice almost girlish in its softness, said, “I could not help coming at once to thank you, Mr. Onslow, for your polite note, and say how gratified I feel at making your acquaintance. Maynard often spoke of you to me; and I confess I was twenty times a day tempted to introduce myself.” “Maynard Sir Horace Maynard!” cried Onslow, with a slight flush, half pleasure, half surprise, for the baronet was the leader of the set George belonged to, a man of great fortune, ancient family, the most successful on the English Turf, and the envy of every young fellow about town. “Do you know Maynard?” “Oh, very well indeed,” lisped Jekyl; “and like him much.” Onslow could not help a stare at the man who, with perfect coolness and such an air of patronage, professed his opinion of the most distinguished fashionable of the day. “He has a very pretty taste in equipage,” continued Jekyl, “but never could attain to the slightest knowledge of a dinner.” Onslow was thunderstruck. Maynard, whose entertainments were the triumph of the Clarendon, thus criticised by the man he had seen supping like a mouse on a morsel of mouldy cheese! “Talking of dinners, by the way,” said Jekyl, “what became of Merewater?” “Lord Merewater? he was in waiting when we left England.” “A very tidy cook he used to have, a Spaniard called Jose, a perfect hand at all the Provencal dishes. Good creature, Merewater. Don't you think so?” Ouslow muttered a kind of half-assent; and added, “I don't know him.” Indeed, the lord in question was reputed as insufferably proud, and as rarely admitting a commoner to the honor of his acquaintance. “Poor Merewater! I remember playing him such a trick: to this hour he does not know who did it. I stole the menu of one of his grand dinners, and gave it to old Lord Bristock's cook, a creature that might have made the messes for an emigrant ship, and such a travesty of an entertainment never was seen. Merewater affected illness, and went away from the table firmly persuaded that the whole was got up to affront him.” “I thought the Earl of Bristock lived well and handsomely,” said George. “Down at Brentwood it was very well one was in the country and grouse and woodcocks, and salmon and pheasants, came all naturally and seasonably; besides, he really had some very remarkable Burgundy; and, though few people will drink it nowadays, Chambertin is a Christmas wine.” The cheese and the decanter of water were uppermost in George's mind, but he said nothing, suffering his companion to run on, which he did, over a wide expanse of titled and distinguished families, with all of whom he appeared to have lived on the closest terms of intimacy. Certainly of those Onslow himself knew, Jekyl related twenty little traits and tokens that showed he was speaking with true knowledge of the parties. Unlike Haggerstone, he rarely, if ever, alluded to any of those darker topics which form the staple of scandal. A very gentle ridicule of some slight eccentricity, a passing quiz of some peculiarity in dress, voice, or manner, was about the extent of Jekyl's criticism, which on no occasion betrayed any malice. Even the oddities that he portrayed were usually done by some passing bit of mimicry of the individual in question. These he threw into the dialogue of his story without halt or impediment, and which, being done with great tact, great command of face, and a most thorough appreciation of humor, were very amusing little talents, and contributed largely to his social success. Onslow laughed heartily at many of the imitations, and thus recognized characters that were introduced into a narrative without the trouble of announcing them. “You've heard, perhaps, the series of mishaps which compelled us to take refuge here,” said George, leading the way to what he supposed would induce an equal degree of communicativeness on the other side. “Oh! yes, the landlord told me of your disasters.” “After all, I believe the very worst of them was coming to this place in such a season.” “It is certainly seeing it en papillate” said Jekyl, smiling; “and you, perhaps, are not an admirer of beauty unadorned.” “Say, rather, of Nature at her ugliest; for whatever it may be in summer, with foliage, and clear streams, flowers, smart folk airing and driving about, equipage, music, movement, and merry voices, now it is really too dismal. Pray, how do you get through the day?” Jekyl smiled one of his quiet, equivocal smiles, and slightly raised his shoulders without speaking. “Do you shoot?” “No,” said he. “But why do I ask? there's nothing to shoot. You ride, then?” “No.” “Cigars will do a great deal; but, confound it, there must be a large share of the day very heavy on your hands, even with a reasonable allowance for reading and writing.” “Seldom do either!” said Jekyl, with his usual imperturbed manner. “You have n't surely got up a flirtation with some 'Frdulein with yellow hair '?” “I cannot lay claim to such good fortune. I really do nothing. I have not even the usual English resource of a terrier to jump over my stick, nor was I early enough initiated into the mystery of brandy-and-water in fact, a less occupied individual cannot well be imagined; but somehow you'll smile if I say I am not bored.” “It would be very ungenerous, then, to conceal your secret,” cried Onslow; “for assuredly the art of killing time here, without killing one's self, is worth knowing.” “The misfortune is, I cannot communicate it; that is, even giving me credit for possessing one, my skill is like that of some great medical practitioner, who has learnt to look on disease with such practised eyes that the appropriate remedy rises as it were instinctively to his mind, he knows not how or why, and who dies, without being able to transmit the knowledge to a successor. I have, somewhat in the same way, become an accomplished idler; and with such success that the dreariest day of rain that ever darkened the dirty windows of a village inn, the most scorching dog-day that ever emptied the streets of an Italian city, and sent all the inhabitants to their siesta, never hipped me. I have spent a month with perfect satisfaction in quarantine, and bobbed for three weeks in a calm at sea, with no other inconvenience than the moans of my fellow-passengers. There 's no secret in it, Mr. Onslow; or, if there be, it lies in this pretty discovery, that we are always bored by our habit of throwing ourselves on the resources of somebody else, who, in his turn, looks out for another, and so on. Now, a man in a fever never dreams of cooling his hand by laying it on another patient's cheek; yet this is what we do. To be thoroughly bored, you must associate yourself with some half-dozen tired, weary, dyspeptic twaddles, and make up a joint-stock bank of your several incapacities, learn to growl in chorus, and you'll be able to go home and practise it as a solo.” “And have you been completely alone here of late?” said George, who began to fear that the sermon on ennui was not unaccompanied by a taste of the evil. “Occasionally I 've chatted for half an hour with two gentlemen who reside here, a Colonel Haggerstone--” “By the way, who is he?” broke in Onslow, eagerly. “He has been traced back to Madras, but the most searching inquiries have failed to elicit anything further.” “Is he the man they called Arlington's Colonel Haggerstone?” Jekyl nodded; but with an air that seemed to say, he would not enter more deeply into the subject. “And your other companion who is he?” “Peter Dalton, of I am ashamed to say I forget where,” said Jekyl; who, at once assuming Dalton's bloated look, in a well-feigned Irish accent, went on: “a descendant of as ancient and as honorable a familee as any in the three kingdoms, and if a little down in the world bad luck to them that done it! just as ready as ever he was to enjoy agreeable society and the ganial flow of soul.” “He 's the better of the two, I take it,” said Onslow. “More interesting, certainly, just as a ruined chateau is a more picturesque object than a new police-station or a cut-stone penitentiary. There 's another feature also which ought to give him the preference. I have seen two very pretty faces from time to time as I have passed the windows, and which I conjecture to belong to his daughters.” “Have you not made their acquaintance?” asked Onslow, in some surprise. “I grieve to say I have not,” sighed Jekyl, softly. “Why, the matter should not be very difficult, one might opine, in such a place, at such a time, and with--” He hesitated, and Jekyl added, “With such a papa, you were about to say. Well, that is precisely the difficulty. Had my excellent friend, Peter, been a native of any other country, I flatter myself I should have known how to make my advances; but with these dear Irish their very accessibility is a difficulty of no common order. Assume an air of deference and respect, and they 'll set you down for a cold formalist, with whom they can have nothing in common. Try the opposite line, and affect the free and easy, and the chances are that you have a duel to fight before you know you have offended. I confess that I have made several small advances, and thrown out repeated little hints about loneliness, and long evenings, and so forth; and although he has concurred with me in every word, yet his practice has never followed his precept. But I don't despair. What say you, if we attack the fortress as allies? I have a notion we should succeed?” “With all my heart. What's your plan?” “At this moment I have formed none, nor is there need of any. Let us go out, like the knight-errants of old, in search of adventures, and see if they will not befall us. The first step will be to make Dalton's acquaintance. Now, he always takes his walk in bad weather in the great Saal below; should he not make his appearance there to-day, as he has already absented himself for some days, I 'll call to inquire after him at his own house. You 'll accompany me. The rest we 'll leave to fortune.” Although On slow could not see that this step could lead to anything beyond a civil reply to a civil demand, he assented readily, and promised to meet his companion at four o'clock the same evening. As for Jekyl, he took a very different view of the whole transaction, for he knew that while to him there might be considerable difficulty in establishing any footing with the Daltons, the son of the wealthy baronet would be, in all likelihood, very differently looked on. In presenting him, thought he, I shall have become the friend of the family at once. It had often before been his fortune in life to have made valuable acquaintances in this manner; and although the poor Daltons were very unlikely to figure in the category of profitable friends, they would at least afford an agreeable resource against the dulness of wintry evenings, and prevent what he himself called the “demoralization” of absence from female society. Lastly, the scheme promised to establish a close intimacy between Onslow and himself; and here was a benefit worth all the others.	{ "id": "32061" }
13	A SUSPICIOUS VISITOR	How far were the Daltons from suspecting that they were the subject of so much and such varied solicitude, and that, while Lady Hester was fancying to herself all the fashionable beauties whom Kate would eclipse in loveliness, and what an effect charms like hers would produce on society, Sir Stafford was busily concerting with his lawyer the means of effectually benefiting them; and George Onslow for want of better speculated, as he smoked, on “the kind of people” they would prove, and wondered whether the scheme were worth the light trouble it was to cost him. Little did they know of all this, little imagine that outside of their humble roof there lived one save “dear Frank” whose thoughts included them. “The purple and fine linen” category of this world cannot appreciate the force of this want of sympathy! They, whose slightest griefs and least afflictions in life are always certain of the consolations of friends, and the even more bland solace of a fashionable physician whose woes are re-echoed by the “Morning Post,” and whose sorrows are mourned in Court Journals cannot frame to themselves the sense of isolation which narrow fortune impresses. “Poverty,” says a classical authority, “has no heavier evil than that it makes men ridiculous.” But this wound to self-love, deep and poignant though it be, is light in comparison with the crushing sense of isolation, that abstraction from sympathy in which poor men live! The Daltons were seated around Hanserl's bed, silently ministering to the sick man, and watching with deep and anxious interest the labored respiration and convulsive twitches of his fever. The wild and rapid utterance of his lips, and the strange fancies they syllabled, often exciting him to laughter, only deepened the gravity of their countenances, and cast over the glances they interchanged a tinge of sadder meaning. “He could n't have better luck,” muttered Dalton, sorrowfully; “just from being a friend to us! If he had never seen nor heard of us, maybe 't is happy and healthy he 'd be to-day!” “Nay, nay, papa,” said Nelly, gently; “this is to speak too gloomily; nor is it good for us to throw on fortune the burden that we each should bear patiently.” “Don't tell me that there is not such a thing as luck!” replied Dalton, in a tone of irritation. “I know well whether there is or no! For five-and-thirty years whatever I put my hand to in life turned out badly. It was the same whether I did anything on the spur of the moment, or thought over it for weeks. If I wished a thing, that was reason enough for it to come out wrong!” “And even were it all as you fancy, papa dearest,” said Nelly, as she fondly drew her arm round him, “is it nothing that these reverses have found you strong of heart and high of courage to bear them? Over and over again have you told me that the great charm of field sports lay in the sense of fatigue bravely endured, and peril boldly confronted; that, devoid of these, they were unworthy of men. Is there not a greater glory, then, in stemming the tide of adverse fortune; and is it not a higher victory that carries you triumphant over the real trials of life, kind of heart, trustful, and generous, as in the best days of your prosperity, and with a more gentle and forbearing spirit than prosperity ever taught?” “That 's nothing against what I was saying,” said Dalton, but with a more subdued face. “There 's poor little Hans, and till a couple of clays ago he never knew what it was to be unlucky. As he told us himself, his life was a fairy tale.” “True,” interposed Nelly; “and happy as it was, and blameless and guileless he who led it, mark how many a gloomy thought, what dark distressing fancies, hover round his brain, and shadow his sick-bed! No, no! the sorrows of this world are more equally distributed than we think for, and he who seems to have fewest is oftentimes but he who best conceals them!” Her voice shook, and became weaker as she spoke; and the last few words were barely audible. Dalton did not notice her emotion; but Kate's looks were bent upon her with an expression of fond and affectionate meaning. “There's somebody at the door,” whispered Daltou; “see who it is, Kate.” Kate arose, and opening the door softly, beheld old Andy; his shrivelled features and lustreless eyes appearing in a state of unusual excitement. “What's the matter, Andy? what is it you want?” said she. “Is the master here? Where 's the master?” “He 's here; what do you want with him?” rejoined she. “I want himself,” said he, as with his palsied hand he motioned to Dalton to come out. “What is it, you old fool?” said Dalton, impatiently, as he arose and followed him outside of the room. “There's one of them again!” said Andy, putting his mouth to Dalton's ear, and whispering in deep confidence. “One of what? one of whom?” “He's upstairs,” muttered Andy. “Who's upstairs, who is he?” cried Dalton, angrily. “Didn't I know him the minit I seen him! Ayeh! Ould as I am, my eyes isn't that dim yet.” “God give me patience with you!” said Dalton; and, to judge from his face, he was not entreating a vain blessing. “Tell me, I say, what do you mean, or who is it is upstairs?” Andy put his lips once more to the other's ear, and whispered, “An attorney!” “An attorney!” echoed Dalton. “Iss!” said Andy, with a significant nod. “And how do you know he 's an attorney?” “I seen him!” replied the other, with a grin; “and I locked the door on him.” “What for?” “What for! what for, is it? Oh, murther, murther!” whined the old creature, who in this unhappy question thought he read the evidence of his poor master's wreck of intellect. It was indeed no slight shock to him to hear that Peter Dalton had grown callous to danger, and could listen to the terrible word he had uttered without a sign of emotion. “I seen the papers with a red string round 'em,” said Andy, as though by this incidental trait he might be able to realize all the menaced danger. “Sirrah, ye 're an old fool!” said Dalton, angrily; and, jerking the key from his trembling fingers, he pushed past him, and ascended the stairs. If Dalton's impatience had been excited by the old man's absurd terrors and foolish warnings, his own heart was not devoid of a certain vague dread, as he slowly wended his way upwards. It was true he did not partake of old Andy's fear of the dread official of the law. Andy, who, forgetting time and place, not knowing that they were in another land, where the King's writ never ran, saw in the terrible apparition the shadows of coming misfortune. Every calamity of his master's house had been heralded by such a visit, and he could as soon have disconnected the banshee with a sudden death, as the sight of an attorney with an approaching disaster. It is true, Dalton did not go this far; but still old impressions were not so easily effaced. And as the liberated captive is said to tremble at the clanking of a chain, so his heart responded to the fear that memory called up of past troubles and misfortunes. “What can he want with me now?” muttered he, as he stopped to take breath. “They 've left me nothing but life, and they can't take that. It 's not that I 'd care a great deal if they did! Maybe it's more bother about them titles; but I'll not trouble my head about them. I sold the land, and I spent the money; ay, and what 's more, I spent it at home among my own people, like a gentleman! and if I 'm an absentee it 's not my fault. I suppose he couldn't arrest me,” said he, after a pause; “but, God knows, they 're making new laws every day, and it 's hard to say if they 'll let a man have peace or ease in any quarter of the world before long. Well, well! there's no use guessing. I have nothing to sell nothing to lose; I suppose they don't make it a hanging matter even for an Irishman to live a trifle too fast.” And with this piece of reassuring comfort, he pulled up his cravat, threw back the breast of his coat, and prepared to confront the enemy bravely. Although Dalton made some noise in unlocking the door, and not less in crossing the little passage that led to the sitting-room, his entrance was unperceived by the stranger, who was busily engaged in examining a half-finished group by Nelly. It represented an old soldier, whose eyes were covered by a bandage, seated beside a well, while a little drummer-boy read to him the bulletin of a great victory. She had destined the work for a present to Frank, and had put forth all her genius in its composition. The glowing enthusiasm of the blind veteran, his half-opened lips,' his attitude of eagerness as he drank in the words, were finely contrasted with the childlike simplicity of the boy, more intent, as it seemed, in spelling out the lines than following the signification. If the stranger was not a finished connoisseur, he was certainly not ignorant of art, and was deep in its contemplation when Dalton accosted him. “I beg pardon, Mr. Dalton, I presume; really this clever composition has made me forget myself totally. May I ask, is it the work of a native artist?” “It was done in this place, sir,” replied Dalton, whose pride in his daughter's skill was overlaid by a less worthy feeling, shame that a Dalton should condescend to such an occupation. “I have seen very inferior productions highly prized and praised; and if I am not indiscreet--” “To prevent any risk of that kind,” observed Dalton, interrupting him, “I 'll take the liberty of asking your name, and the object of this visit.” “Prichard, sir; of the firm of Prichard and Harding, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields,” replied the other, whose voice and manner at once assumed a business-like tone. “I never heard the names before,” said Dalton, motioning to a chair. The stranger seated himself, and, placing a large roll of papers before him on the table, proceeded to untie and arrange them most methodically, and with the air of a man too deeply impressed with the importance of his occupation to waste a thought upon the astonishment of a bystander. “Prichard and Harding are mighty cool kind of gentlemen,” thought Dalton, as he took his seat at the opposite side of the table, trying, but not with any remarkable success, to look as much at ease as his visitor. “Copy of deed draft of instructions bill of sale of stock no, here it is! This is what we want,” muttered Prichard, half aloud. “I believe that letter, sir, is in your handwriting?” Dalton put on his spectacles and looked at the document for a few seconds, during which his countenance gradually appeared to light up with an expression of joyful meaning; for his eye glistened, and a red flush suffused his cheek. “It is, sir, that's mine, every word of it; and what's more, I 'm as ready to stand to it to-day as the hour I wrote it.” Mr. Prichard, scarcely noticing the reply, was again deep in his researches; but the object of them must be reserved for another chapter.	{ "id": "32061" }
14	AN EMBARRASSING QUESTION.	How very seldom it is that a man looks at a letter he has written some twenty years or so before, and peruses it with any degree of satisfaction! No matter how pleasurable the theme, or how full of interest at the time, years have made such changes in circumstances, have so altered his relations with the world, dispelled illusions here, created new prospects there, that the chances are he can feel nothing but astonishment for what once were his opinions, and a strange sense of misgiving that he ever could have so expressed himself. Rare as this pleasure is, we left Mr. Dalton in the fullest enjoyment of it, in our last chapter; and as he read and re-read his autograph, every feature of his face showed the enjoyment it yielded him. “My own writing, sure enough! I wish I never put my hand to paper in a worse cause. Is n't it strange,” he muttered, “how a man's heart will outlive his fingers? I could n't write now as well as I used then, but I can feel just the same. There 's the very words I said.” And with this he read, half aloud, from the paper: “'But if you my consent to send lawyers and attorneys to the devil, and let the-matter be settled between us, like two gentlemen, Peter Dalton will meet you when, where, and how you like, and take the satisfaction as a full release of every claim and demand he makes on you.' Just so; and a fairer offer never was made; but I grieve to say it wasn't met in the same spirit.” “When you wrote that letter, Mr. Dalton,” said Prichard, not looking up from the papers before him, “you were doubtless suffering under the impression of a wrong at the hands of Sir Stafford Ouslow.” “Faith, I believe you. The loss of a fine estate was n't a trifle, whatever you may think it.” “The question ought rather to be, what right had you to attribute that loss to him?” “What right is it? All the right in the world. Who got the property? Answer me that. Was n't it he came in as a sole legatee? But what am I talking about? Sure the thing is done and ended, and what more does he want?” “I'm just coming to that very point, sir,” said Prichard. “Sir Stafford's attention having been accidentally called to this transaction, he perceives that he has unwittingly done you a great injustice, and that there is one matter, at least, on which he is bound, even for his own satisfaction.” “Satisfaction, is it?” broke in Dalton, catching at the only word that struck his ear with a distinct signification. “Better late than never; and it 's proud I am to oblige him. Not but there 's people would tell you that the time 's gone by, and all that sort of thing; but them was never my sentiments. 'Never a bad time for a good deed,' my poor father used to say, and you may tell him that I 'll think the better of his countrymen to the day of my death, for what he 's going to do now.” Prichard laid down the paper he was reading, and stared at the speaker in mute amazement. “You 're his friend, I perceive,” said Dalton. “Sir Stafford is kind enough to consider me in that light.” “Faith, the kindness is all the other way,” rejoined Dalton, laughing, “at least, in this country; for the seconds are just as guilty as the principals, and have no fun for their money. But, sure, we can cross over to Landau; they tell me it's Barbaria there, over the Rhine.” “Bavaria, perhaps?” interposed the other. “Yes, that 's what I said. We can be over the frontier in two hours. There 's every conveniency in life,” said he, rubbing his hands in high glee. “Our business, I trust, sir, can be all arranged here, and without much delay, either.” “Just as you like; I 'm not fond of moving since my knee was bad, and I 'm agreeable to anything.” “You seem to contemplate a hostile meeting, sir, if I understand you aright,” said Prichard, slowly; “but if you had been kind enough to hear me out, you 'd have seen that nothing was further from my friend's thoughts or my own.” “Oh, murther!” groaned Dal ton, as he sank down into a chair. “We never entertained any such intention.” “No duel?” “Nothing of the kind.” “Sure, I heard you say satisfaction. I 'll take my oath you said satisfaction.” “I hope sincerely, sir, that the word may bear a peaceful signification.” “Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Dalton, as, clasping his hands on his knees, he sat, a perfect type of disappointed hope, and totally inattentive to a very eloquent explanation that Prichard was pouring forth. “You see, now, sir, I trust,” cried the latter, triumphantly, “that if my friend's intentions are not precisely what you looked for, they are not less inspired by an anxious desire to cultivate your friendship and obtain your good opinion.” “I wasn't listening to a word you were saying,” said Dalton, with a sincerity that would have made many men smile; but Mr. Prichard never laughed, or only when the joke was uttered by a silk gown, or the initiative given by the bench itself. “I was endeavoring, sir, to convey,” said he again, and with infinite patience, “that, by a clause of the late Mr. Godfrey's will, the suggestion was made to the effect that, if Sir Stafford Onslow should deem it fitting and suitable, the testator would not be averse to an annuity of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred pounds per annum being settled on Mr. Peter Dalton for the term of his life. This clause has now been brought under Sir Stafford's notice for the first time, as he never, in fact, saw the will before. The document was lodged in our hands; and as certain proceedings, of which the letter you have just acknowledged forms a part, at that period placed you in a peculiar position of hostility to Sir Stafford, we, as his legal advisers, did not take any remarkable pains to impress this recommendation on his memory.” “Go on; I 'm listening to you,” said Dalton. “Well, sir, Sir Stafford is now desirous of complying with this injunction, the terms of which he reads as more obligatory upon him than his legal friends would be willing to substantiate. In fact, he makes the matter a question of feeling and not of law; and this, of course, is a point wherein we have no right to interpose an opinion. Something like ten years have elapsed since Mr. Godfrey's death, and taking the sum at two hundred pounds, with interest at five per cent, a balance of above three thousand two hundred will now be at your disposal, together with the annuity on your life; and to arrange the payment of these moneys, and take measures for their future disbursement, I have the honor to present myself before you. As for these letters, they are your own; and Sir Stafford, in restoring them, desires to efface all memory of the transaction they referred to, and to assure you that, when circumstances enable him to meet you, it may be on terms of perfect cordiality and friendship.” “Upon my soul and conscience I don't understand a word of it all!” said Dalton, whose bewildered looks gave a perfect concurrence to the speech. “Is it that I have a right to all the money?” “Exactly, sir; Sir Stafford feels that he is simply carrying out the wishes of your relative, Mr. Godfrey--” “But this has nothing to do with the little difference between Sir Stafford and myself? I mean, it leaves us just where we were before.” “Sir Stafford hopes that henceforth a better understanding will subsist between you and himself; and that you, seeing how blameless he has been in the whole history of your losses, will receive this act as an evidence of his desire to cultivate your friendship.” “And this two hundred a year?” “Is Mr. Godfrey's bequest.” “But depending on Sir Stafford to pay or not, as he likes.” “I have already told you, sir, that he conceives he has no option in the matter; and that the mere expression of a desire on Mr. Godfrey's part becomes to him a direct injunction.” “Faith, he was mighty long in finding it out, then,” said Dalton, laughing. “I believe I have explained myself on that head,” replied Prichard; “but I am quite ready to go over the matter again.” “God forbid! my head is 'moidered' enough already, not to make it worse. Explanations, as they call them, always puzzle me more; but if you 'd go over the subject to my daughter Nelly, her brain is as clear as the Lord Chancellor's. I'll just call her up here; for, to tell you the truth, I never see my way right in anything till Nelly makes it out for me.” Mr. Prichard was probably not grieved at the prospect of a more intelligent listener, and readily assented to the proposition, in furtherance of which Dalton left the room to seek his daughter. On descending to the little chamber where he had left the two girls in waiting beside the dwarf's sick-bed, he now discovered that they had gone, and that old Andy had replaced them, a change which, to judge from Hansel's excited looks and wild utterance, was not by any means to his taste. “Was machst du hier?” cried he, sternly, to the old man. “Whisht! alannah! Take a sleep, acushla!” whined old Andy, as, under the delusion that it was beside an infant his watch was established, he tried to rock the settle-bed like a cradle, and then croned away in a cracked voice one of his own native ditties: “I saw a man weeping and makin' sad moan, He was crying and grievin', For he knew their deceiving An' rockin' a cradle for a child not his own.” “Was fur katzen jammer! What for cats' music mak'st thou there?” “Where 's the girls, Andy?” whispered Daltou in the old man's ear. “They 're gone,” muttered he. “Gone where? where did they go?” “Fort mit ihm. Away with him. Leave him not stay. Mein head is heavy, and mein brain turn round!” screamed Hansel. “Will ye tell me where they 're gone, I say?” cried Daiton, angrily. “Hushoo! husho!” sang out the old man, as he fancied he was composing his charge to sleep; and then made signs to Dalton to be still and not awaken him. With an angry muttering Dalton turned away and left the chamber, totally regardless of Hanserl's entreaties to take Andy along with him. “You're just good company for each other!” said he, sulkily, to himself. “But where 's these girls, I wonder?” “Oh, papa, I have found you at last!” cried Kate, as, bounding down the stairs half a dozen steps at a time, she threw her arm round him. “She's here! she's upstairs with us; and so delightful, and so kind, and so beautiful. I never believed any one could be so charming.” “And who is she, when she's at home?” said Dalton, half sulkily. “Lady Hester, of course, papa. She came while we were sitting with Hanserl, came quite alone to see him and us; and when she had talked to him for a while, so kindly and so sweetly, about his wound, and his fever, and his home in the Tyrol, and his mother, and everything, she turned to Nelly and said, 'Now, my dears, for a little conversation with yourselves. Where shall we go to be quite alone and uninterrupted?' We did n't know what to say, papa; for we knew that you and the strange gentleman were busy in the sitting-room, and while I was thinking what excuse to make, Nelly told her that our only room was occupied. 'Oh, I don't care for that in the least,' said she; 'let us shut ourselves up in your dressing-room.' Our dressing-room! I could have laughed and cried at the same moment she said it; but Nelly said that we had none, and invited her upstairs to her bedroom; and there she is now, papa, sitting on the little bed, and making Nelly tell her everything about who we are, and whence we came, and how we chanced to be living here.” “I wonder Nelly had n't more sense,” said Dalton, angrily; “not as much as a curtain on the bed, nor a bit of carpet on the floor. What 'll she think of us all?” “Oh, papa, you're quite mistaken; she called it a dear little snuggery; said she envied Nelly so much that lovely view over Eberstein and the Schloss, and said what would she not give to lead our happy and peaceful life, away from that great world she despises so heartily. How sad to think her duties tie her down to a servitude so distasteful and repulsive!” “Isn't my Lady the least taste in life of a humbug, Kitty?” whispered Dalton, as his eyes twinkled with malicious drollery. “Papa, papa! you cannot mean--” “No harm if she is, darling. I'm sure the pleasantest, ay, and some of the worthiest people ever I knew were humbugs, that is, they were always doing their best to be agreeable to the company; and if they strained their consciences a bit, small blame to them for that same.” “Lady Hester is far above such arts, papa; but you shall judge for yourself. Come in now, for she is so anxious to know you.” Kate, as she spoke, had opened the door of the little bedroom, and, drawing her arm within her father's, gently led him forward to where Lady Hester was seated upon the humble settle. “It's a nice place they showed you into, my Lady,” said Dalton, after the ceremony of introduction was gone through; “and there was the drawing-room, or the library, and the breakfast-parlor, all ready to receive you.” “We heard that you were engaged with a gentleman on business, papa.” “Well, and if I was, Nelly, transacting a small matter about my estates in Ireland, sure it was in my own study we were.” “I must be permitted to say that I am very grateful for any accident which has given me the privilege of an intimate with my dear young friends,” said Lady Hester, in her very sweetest of manners; “and as to the dear little room itself, it is positively charming.” “I wish you 'd see Mount Dalton, my Lady. There '& a window, and it is n't bigger than that there, and you can see seven baronies out of it and a part of three counties, Killikelly's flour-mills, and the town of Drumcoolaghan in the distance; not to speak of the Shannon winding for miles through as elegant a bog as ever you set eyes upon.” “Indeed!” smiled her Ladyship, with a glance of deep interest. “'T is truth, I 'm telling you, my Lady,” continued he; “and, what's more, 'twas our own, every stick and stone of it. From Crishnamuck to Ballymodereena on one side, and from the chapel at Dooras down to Drumcoolaghan, 'twas the Dalton estate.” “What a princely territory!” “And why not? Weren't they kings once, or the same as kings? Did n't my grandfather, Pearce, hold a court for life and death in his own parlor? Them was the happy and the good times, too,” sighed he, plaintively. “But I trust your late news from Ireland is favorable?” “Ah! there isn't much to boast about. The old families is dying out fast, and the properties changing hands. A set of English rogues and banker-fellows that made their money in dirty lanes and alleys.” A sort of imploring, beseeching anxiety from his daughter Kate here brought Dalton to a dead stop, and he pulled up as suddenly as if on the brink of a precipice. “Pray, go on, Mr. Dalton,” said Lady Hester, with a winning smile; “you cannot think how much you have interested me. You are aware that we really know nothing about poor dear Ireland; and I am so delighted to learn from one so competent to teach.” “I did n't mean any offence, my Lady,” stammered out Dalton, in confusion. “There 's good and bad everywhere; but I wish to the Lord the cotton-spinners would n't come among us, and their steam-engines, and their black chimneys, and their big factories; and they say we are not far from that now.” A gentle tap at the door which communicated with the sitting-room was heard at this moment, and Dalton exclaimed, “Come in!” but, not suffering the interruption to stop the current of his discourse, he was about to resume, when Mr. Prichard's well-powdered head appeared at the door. “I began to suspect you had forgotten me, Mr. Dalton,” said he; but suddenly catching a glimpse of Lady Hester, he stopped to ask pardon for the intrusion. “Faith, and I just did,” said Dalton, laughing; “couldn't you contrive to step in in the morning, and we 'll talk that little matter over again?” “Yes, Prichard; pray don't interrupt us now,” said Lady Hester, in a tone of half-peevishness. “I cannot possibly spare you, Mr. Dalton, at this moment;” and the man of law withdrew, with a most respectful obeisance. “You'll forgive me, won't you?” said she, addressing Dalton, with a glance whose blandishment had often succeeded in a more difficult case. “And now, papa, we'll adjourn to the drawing-room,” said Kate, who somehow continued to notice a hundred deficiencies in the furniture of a little chamber she had often before deemed perfect. Dalton accordingly offered his arm to Lady Hester, who accepted the courtesy in all form, and the little party moved into the sitting-room; Nelly following, with an expression of sadness in her pale features, very unlike the triumphant glances of her father and sister. “I 'm certain of your pardon, Mr. Dalton, and of yours, too, my dear child,” said Lady Hester, turning towards Kate, as she seated herself on the stiff old sofa, “when I avow that I have come here determined to pass the evening with you. I 'm not quite so sure that my dear Miss Dalton's forgiveness will be so readily accorded me. I see that she already looks gravely at the prospect of listening to my fiddle-faddle instead of following out her own charming fancies.” “Oh, how you wrong me, my Lady!” broke in Nelly, eagerly. “If it were not for my fears of our unfitness our inability,” she stammered in confusion and shame; and old Dalton broke in, “Don't mind her, my Lady; we 're as well used to company as any family in the country; but, you see, we don't generally mix with the people one meets abroad; and why should we? God knows who they are. There was chaps here last summer at the tables you would n't let into the servants' hall. There was one I seen myself, with an elegant pair of horses, as nice steppers as ever you looked at, and a groom behind with a leather strap round him,” and here Mr. Dalton performed a pantomime, by extending the fingers of his open hand at the side of his head, to represent a cockade “what d' ye call it in his hat; and who was he, did you think? 'Billy Rogers,' of Muck; his father was in the canal--” “In the canal!” exclaimed Lady Hester, in affright. “Yes, my Lady; in the Grand Canal, an inspector at forty pounds a year, the devil a farthin' more; and if you seen the son here, with two pins in his cravat, and a gold chain twisting and turning over his waistcoat, with his hat on one side, and yellow gloves, new every morning, throwing down the 'Naps' at that thieving game they call 'Red and Black,' you'd say he was the Duke of Leinster!” “Was he so like his Grace?” asked Lady Hester, with a delightful simplicity. “No; but grander!” replied Dalton, with a wave of his hand. “It is really, as you remark, very true,” resumed her Ladyship. “It is quite impossible to venture upon an acquaintance out of England; and I cordially concur in the caution you practise.” “So I 'm always telling the girls, 'better no company than trumpery!' not that I don't like a bit of sociality as well as ever I did, a snug little party of one's own, people whose mothers and fathers had names, the real old stock of the land. But to be taken up with every chance rapscallion you meet on the cross-roads, to be hand and glove with this, that, and the other, them never was my sentiments.” It is but justice to confess there was less of hypocrisy in the bland smile Lady Hester returned to this speech than might be suspected; for, what between the rapidity of Daiton's utterance, and the peculiar accentuation he gave to certain words, she did not really comprehend one syllable of what he said. Meanwhile the two girls sat silent and motionless. Nelly, in all the suffering of shame at the absurdity of her father's tone, the vulgarity of an assumption she had fondly hoped years of poverty might have tamed down, if not obliterated; Kate, in mute admiration of their lovely visitor, of whose graces she never wearied. Nor did Lady Hester make any effort to include them in the conversation; she had come out expressly for one sole object, to captivate Mr. Dalton; and she would suffer nothing to interfere with her project. To this end she heard his long and tiresome monologues about Irish misery and distress, narrated with an adherence to minute and local details that made the whole incomprehensible; she listened to him with well-feigned interest, in his narratives of the Daltons of times long past, of their riotous and extravagant living, their lawlessness, and their daring; nor did she permit her attention to flag while he recounted scenes and passages of domestic annals that might almost have filled a page of savage history. “How sorry you must have felt to leave a country so dear by all its associations and habits!” sighed she, as he finished a narrative of more than ordinary horrors. “Ain't I breaking my heart over it? Ain't I fretting myself to mere skin and bone?” said he, with a glance of condolence over his portly figure. “But what could I do? I was forced to come out here for the education of the children bother it for education! but it ruins everybody nowadays. When I was a boy, reading and writing, with a trifle of figures, was enough for any one. If you could tell what twenty bullocks cost, at two pounds four-and-sixpence a beast, and what was the price of a score of hoggets, at fifteen shillings a head, and wrote your name and address in a good round hand, 'twas seldom you needed more; but now you have to learn everything, ay, sorrow bit, but it 's learning the way to do what every one knows by nature; riding, dancing, no, but even walking, I 'm told, they teach too! Then there's French you must learn for talking! and Italian to sing! and German, upon my soul, I believe it's to snore in! and what with music, dancing, and drawing, everybody is brought up like a play-actor.” “There is, as you remark, far too much display in modern education, Mr. Dalton; but you would seem fortunate enough to have avoided the error. A young lady whose genius can accomplish such a work as this--” “'Tis one of Nelly's, sure enough,” said he, looking at the group to which she pointed, but feeling even more shame than pride in the avowal. The sound of voices a very unusual noise from the door without, now broke in upon the conversation, and Andy's cracked treble could be distinctly heard in loud altercation. “Nelly! Kitty! I say,” cried Dalton, “see what's the matter with that old devil. There's something come over him to-day, I think, for he won't be quiet for two minutes together.” Kate accordingly hastened to discover the cause of a tumult in which now the sound of laughter mingled. As we, however, enjoy the prerogative of knowing the facts before they could reach her, we may as well inform the reader that Andy, whose intelligence seemed to have been preternaturally awakened by the sight of an attorney, had been struck by seeing two strangers enter the house-door and leisurely ascend the stairs. At such a moment, and with his weak brain filled with its latest impression, the old man at once set them down as bailiffs come to arrest his master. He hobbled after them, therefore, as well as he could, and just reached the landing as Mr. Jekyl, with his friend Onslow, had arrived at the door. “Mr. Dalton lives here, I believe?” said Jekyl. “Anan,” muttered Andy, who, although he heard the question, affected not to have done so, and made this an excuse for inserting himself between them and the door. “I was asking if Mr. Dalton lived here!” cried Jekyl, louder, and staring with some astonishment at the old fellow's manoeuvre. “Who said he did, eh?” said Andy, with an effort at fierceness. “Perhaps it 's on the lower story?” asked Onslow. “Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't, then!” was the answer. “We wish to see him, my good man,” said Jekyl; “or, at least, to send a message to him.” “Sure! I know well enough what ye want,” said Andy, with a wave of his hand. “'T is n't the first of yer like I seen!” “And what may that be?” asked Onslow, not a little amused by the blended silliness and shrewdness of the old man's face. “Ay eh! I know yez well,” rejoined he, shaking his head. “Be off, then, and don't provoke the house! Away wid yez, before the servants sees ye.” “This is a rare fellow,” said Onslow, who, less interested than his companion about the visit, was quite satisfied to amuse himself with old Andy. “So you 'll not even permit us to send our respects, and ask how your master is?” “I'm certain you'll be more reasonable,” simpered Jekyl, as he drew a very weighty-looking purse from his pocket, and, with a considerable degree of ostentation, seemed preparing to open it. The notion of bribery, and in such a cause, was too much for Andy's feelings; and with a sudden jerk of his hand, he dashed the purse out of Jekyl's fingers, and scattered the contents all over the landing and stairs. “Ha, ha!” cried he, wildly, “'t is only ha'pence he has, after all!” And the taunt was so far true that the ground was strewn with kreutzers and other copper coins of the very smallest value. As for Onslow, the scene was too ludicrous for him any longer to restrain his laughter; and although Jekyl laughed too, and seemed to relish the absurdity of his mistake, as he called it, having put in his pocket a collection of rare and curious coins, his cheek, as he bent to gather them up, was suffused with a deeper flush than the mere act of stooping should occasion. It was precisely at this moment that Kate Dalton made her appearance. “What is the matter, Andy?” asked she, turning to the old man, who appeared, by his air and attitude, as if determined to guard the doorway. “Two spalpeens, that want to take the master; that's what it is,” said he, in a voice of passion. “Your excellent old servant has much mistaken us, Miss Dalton,” said Jekyl, with his most deferential of manners. “My friend, Captain Onslow,” here he moved his hand towards George, who bowed, “and myself, having planned a day's shooting in the 'Moorg,' have come to request the pleasure of Mr. Dalton's company.” “Oh, the thievin' villains!” muttered Andy; “that's the way they 'll catch him.” Meanwhile Kate, having promised to convey their polite invitation, expressed her fears that her father's health might be unequal to the exertion. Jekyl immediately took issue upon the point, and hoped, and wondered, and fancied, and “flattered himself” so much, that Kate at last discovered she had been drawn into a little discussion, when she simply meant to have returned a brief answer; and while she was hesitating how to put an end to an interview that had already lasted too long, Dalton himself appeared. “Is it with me these gentlemen have their business?” said he, angrily, while he rudely resisted all Andy's endeavors to hold him back. “Oh, my dear Mr. Dalton,” said Jekyl, warmly, “it is such a pleasure to see you quite restored to health again! Here we are Captain Onslow, Mr. Dalton thinking of a little excursion after the woodcocks down the Moorg Thai; and I have been indulging the hope that you 'll come along with us.” The very hint of an attention, the merest suggestion that bordered on a civility, struck a chord in old Dalton's nature that moved all his sympathies. It was at once a recognition of himself and his ancestry for generations back. It was a rehabilitation of all the Dal tons of Mount Dalton for centuries past; and as he extended a hand to each, and invited them to walk in, he half felt himself at home again, doing the honors of his house, and extending those hospitalities that had brought him to beggary. “Are you serious about the shooting-party?” whispered Onslow to Jekyl, as he walked forward. “Of course not. It's only a 'Grecian horse,' to get inside the citadel.” “My daughter, Miss Dalton; Mr. Jekyl Miss Kate Dalton. Your friend's name, I believe, is--” “Captain Onslow.” Lady Hester started at the name, and, rising, at once said, “Oh, George, I must introduce you to my fair friends. Miss Dalton, this gentleman calls me 'mamma;' or, at least, if he does not, it is from politeness. Captain Onslow Mr. Dalton. Now, by what fortunate event came you here?” “Ought I not to ask the same question of your Ladyship?” said George, archly. “If you like; only that, as I asked first--” “You shall be answered first. Lady Hester Onslow, allow me to present Mr. Albert Jekyl.” “Oh, indeed!” drawled out Lady Hester, as, with her very coldest bow, she surveyed Mr. Jekyl through her glass, and then turned away to finish her conversation with Ellen. Jekyl was not the man to feel a slight repulse as a defeat; but, at the same time, saw that the present was not the moment to risk an engagement. He saw, besides, that, by engaging Dalton in conversation, he should leave Lady Hester and Onslow at liberty to converse with the two sisters, and, by this act of generosity, entitle himself to gratitude on all sides. And, after all, among the smaller martyrdoms of this life, what self-sacrifice exceeds his who, out of pure philanthropy, devotes himself to the “bore” of the party. Honor to him who can lead the forlorn hope of this stronghold of weariness. Great be his praises who can turn from the seductive smiles of beauty, and the soft voices of youth, and only give eye and ear to the tiresome and uninteresting. High among the achievements of unobtrusive heroism should this claim rank; and if you doubt it, my dear reader, if you feel disposed to hold cheaply such darings, try it, try even for once. Take your place beside that deaf old lady in the light auburn wig, or draw your chair near to that elderly gentleman, whose twinkling gray eyes and tremulous lip bespeak an endless volubility on the score of personal reminiscences. Do this, too, within earshot of pleasant voices and merry laughter, of that tinkling ripple that tells of conversation flowing lightly on, like a summer stream, clear where shallow, and reflective where deep! Listen to the wearisome bead-roll of family fortunes, the births, deaths, and marriages of those you never saw, and hoped never to see, hear the long narratives of past events, garbled, mistaken, and misstated, with praise and censure ever misapplied, and then, I say, you will feel that, although such actions are not rewarded with red ribbons or blue, they yet demand a moral courage and a perseverance that in wider fields win high distinction. [Illustration: 166] Albert Jekyl was a proficient in this great art; indeed, his powers developed themselves according to the exigency, so that the more insufferably tiresome his companion, the more seemingly attentive and interested did he become. His features were, in fact, a kind of “bore-ometer,” in which, from the liveliness of the expression, you might calculate the stupidity of the tormentor; and the mercury of his nature rose, not fell, under pressure. And so you would have said had you but seen him that evening, as, seated beside Dalton, he heard, for hours long, how Irish gentlemen were ruined and their fortunes squandered. What jolly times they were when men resisted the law and never feared a debt! Not that, while devouring all the “rapparee” experiences of the father, he had no eye for the daughters, and did not see what was passing around him. Ay, that did he, and mark well how Lady Hester attached herself to Kate Dalton, flattered by every sign of her unbought admiration, and delighted with the wondering homage of the artless girl. He watched Onslow, too, turn from the inanimate charms of Nelly's sculptured figures, to gaze upon the long dark lashes and brilliant complexion of her sister. He saw all the little comedy that went on around him, even to poor Nelly's confusion, as she assisted Andy to arrange a tea-table, and, for the first time since their arrival, proceed to make use of that little service of white and gold which, placed on a marble table for show, constitutes the invariable decoration of every humble German drawing-room. He even overheard her, as she left the room, giving Andy her directions a dozen times over, how he was to procure the tea, and the sugar, and the milk, extravagances she did not syllable without a sigh. He saw and heard everything, and rapidly drew his own inferences, not alone of their poverty, but of their unfitness to struggle with it. “And yet, I'd wager these people,” said he to himself, “are revelling in superfluities; at least, as compared to me! But, so it is, the rock that one man ties round his neck, another would make a stepping-stone of!” This satisfactory conclusion gave additional sweetness to the bland smile with which he took his teacup from Nelly's hand, while he pronounced the beverage the very best he had ever tasted out of Moscow. And so we must leave the party.	{ "id": "32061" }
15	CONTRASTS	“So you think, Grounsell, I may be able to leave this in a day or two?” said Sir Stafford, as, on the day following the events we have just related, he slowly walked up and down his dressing-room. “By the end of the week, if the weather only continue fine, we may be on the road again.” “I'm glad of it, heartily glad of it! Not that, as regarded myself, it mattered much where I was laid up in dock; but I find that this isolation, instead of drawing the members of my family more closely together, has but served to widen the breach between them. Lady Hester and Sydney rarely meet; George sees neither of them, and rarely comes near me, so that the sooner we go hence the better for all of us.” Grounsell gave a dry nod of assent, without speaking. “Sydney is very anxious to go and pass some time with her aunt Conway; but I foresee that, if I consent, the difference between Lady Hester and her will then become an irreconcilable quarrel. You don't agree with me, Grounsell?” “I do not. I never knew the ends of a fractured bone unite by grating them eternally against each other.” “And, as for George, the lounging habits of his service and cigars have steeped him in an indolence from which there is no emerging. I scarcely know what to do with him.” “It's hard enough to decide upon,” rejoined Grounsell; “he has some pursuits, but not one ambition.” “He has very fair abilities, certainly,” said Sir Stafford, half peevishly. “Very fair!” nodded Grounsell. “A good memory, a quick apprehension.” “He has one immense deficiency, for which nothing can compensate,” said the doctor, solemnly. “Application, industry?” “No, with his opportunities a great deal is often acquired with comparatively light labor. I mean a greater and more important element.” “He wants steadiness, you think?” “No; I 'll tell you what he wants, he wants pluck!” Sir Stafford's cheek became suddenly crimson, and his blue eyes grew almost black in the angry expression of the moment. “Pluck, sir? My son deficient in courage?” “Not as you understand it now,” resumed Grouusell, calmly. “He has enough, and more than enough, to shoot me or anybody else that would impugn it. The quality I mean is of a very different order. It is the daring to do a thing badly to-day in the certain confidence that you, will do it better to-morrow, and succeed perfectly in it this day twelvemonth. He has not pluck to encounter repeated failures, and yet return every morning to the attack; he has not pluck to be bullied by mediocrity in the sure and certain confidence that he will live to surpass it; in a word, he has not that pluck which resists the dictation of inferior minds, and inspires self-reliance through self-respect.” “I confess I cannot see that in the station he is likely to occupy such qualities are at all essential,” said Sir Stafford, almost haughtily. “Twenty thousand a year is a fine thing, and may dispense with a great many gifts in its possessor; and a man like myself, who never owned a twentieth of the amount, may be a precious bad judge of the requisites to spend it suitably; but I 'll tell you one thing, Onslow, that organ the phrenologists call 'Combativeness' is the best in the whole skull.” “I think your Irish friend Dalton must have been imparting some of his native prejudices to you,” said Onslow, smiling; “and, by the way, when have you seen him?” “I went to call there last night, but I found a tea-party, and did n't go in. Only think of these people, with beggary staring them on every side, sending out for 'Caravan' tea at I don't know how many florins a pound.” “I heard of it; but then, once and away--” “Once and away! Ay, but once is ruin.” “Well, I hope Prichard has arranged everything by this time. He has gone over this morning to complete the business; so that I trust, when we leave Baden, these worthy people will be m the enjoyment of easier circumstances.” “I see him crossing over the street now. I'll leave you together.” “No, no, Grounsell; wait and hear his report; we may want your advice besides, for I 'm not quite clear that this large sum of arrears should be left at Dalton's untrammelled disposal, as Mr. Prichard intended it should be a test of that excellent gentleman's prudence.” Mr. Prichard's knock was now heard at the door, and next moment he entered. His pale countenance was slightly flushed, and in the expression of his face it might be read that he had come from a scene of unusual excitement. “I have failed, completely failed, Sir Stafford,” said he, with a sigh, as he seated himself, and threw a heavy roll of paper on the table before him. As Sir Stafford did not break the pause that followed these words, Prichard resumed, “I told you last night that Mr. Dalton, not being able clearly to understand my communication, which I own, to prevent any searching scrutiny on his part, I did my best to envelop in a covering of technicalities, referred me to his eldest daughter, in whose acuteness he reposes much confidence. If I was not impressed with the difficulty of engaging such an adversary from his description, still less was I on meeting with the young lady this morning. A very quietly mannered, unassuming person, with considerable good looks, which once upon a time must have been actual beauty, was seated alone in the drawing-room awaiting me. Her dress was studiously plain; and were it not for an air of great neatness throughout, I should perhaps call it even poor. I mention all these matters with a certain prolixity, because they bear upon what ensued. “Without waiting for me to open my communication, she began by a slight apology for her presence there, occasioned, as she said, by her father's ill-health and consequent incapacity to transact business; after which she added a few words expressive of a hope that I would make my statement in the most simple and intelligible form, divested so far as might be of technical phraseology, and such as, to use her own words, a very unlettered person like herself might comprehend. “This opening, I confess, somewhat startled me; I scarcely expected so much from her father's daughter; but I acquiesced and went on. As we concocted the whole plot together here, Sir Stafford, it is needless that I should weary you by a repetition of it. It is enough that I say I omitted nothing of plausibility, either in proof of the bequest, or in the description of the feeling that prompted its fulfilment. I descanted upon the happy event which, in the course of what seemed an accident, had brought the two families together, and prefaced their business intercourse by a friendship. I adverted to the good influence increased comforts would exercise upon her father's health. I spoke of her sister and her brother in the fuller enjoyment of all that became their name and birth. She heard me to the very end with deep attention, never once interrupting, nor even by a look or gesture expressing dissent. “At last, when I had concluded, she said, 'This, then, is a bequest?' “I replied affirmatively. “'In that case,' said she, 'the terms on which it is conveyed will solve all the difficulty of our position. If my uncle Godfrey intended this legacy to be a peace-offering, however late it has been in coming, we should have no hesitation in accepting it; if he meant that his generosity should be trammelled by conditions, or subject in any way to the good pleasure of a third party, the matter will have a different aspect. Which is the truth?' “I hesitated at this point-blank appeal, so different from what I looked for, and she at once asked to see the will. Disconcerted still more, I now prevaricated, stating that I had not brought the document with me; that a memorandum of its provisions would, I had supposed, prove sufficient; and finally assured her that acceptance of the bequest involved neither a condition nor a pledge. “'It may, however, involve an obligation, sir,' said she, firmly. 'Let us learn if such be the case.' “'Are you so proud, Miss Dalton,' said I, 'that you cannot even submit to an obligation?' “She blushed deeply, and with a weak voice answered, “'We are too poor to incur a debt.' “Seeing it was useless to dwell longer on this part of the subject, I adverted to her father's increasing age, his breaking health, and the necessity of affording him a greater share of comforts; but she suddenly stopped me, saying, “'You may make my refusal of this favor for such it is, and nothing less a more painful duty than I deemed it, but you cannot alter my resolution, sir. Poverty, so long as it is honorable, has nothing mean nor undeserving about it, but dependence can never bestow happiness. It is true, as you say, that my dear father might have around him many of those little luxuries that he once was used to; but with what changed hearts would not his children minister them to him? Where would be that high prompting sense of duty that every self-sacrifice is met by now? Where that rich reward of an approving spirit that lightens toil and makes even weariness blessed? Our humble fortunes have linked us closer together; the storms of the world have made us draw nearer to each other, have given us one heart, hope, and love alike. Leave us, then, to struggle on, nor cast the gloom of dependence over days that all the ills of poverty could not darken. We are happy now; who can tell what we should become hereafter?' “I tried to turn her thoughts upon her brother, but she quickly stopped me, saying, “'Frank is a soldier; the rewards in his career are never withheld from the deserving; at all events, wealth would be unsuitable to him. He never knew but narrow fortunes, and the spirit that becomes a more exalted condition is not the growth of a day.' “I next ventured, but with every caution and delicacy, to inquire whether your aid and influence might not avail them in any future plans of life they might form? “'We have no plans,” said she, simply; 'or, rather, we have had so many that they all resolve themselves into mere castle-building. My dear father longs for Ireland again, for home as he still calls it, forgetting that we have no longer a home there. He fancies warm-hearted friends and neighbors, an affectionate people, attached to the very traditions of his name; but it is now wiser to feed this delusion than destroy it, by telling him that few, scarcely one, of his old companions still live, that other influences, other fortunes, other names, have replaced ours; we should go back there as strangers, and without even the stranger's claim to kind acceptance. Then, we had thought of the new world beyond seas; but these are the lauds of the young, the ardent, and the enterprising, high in hope and resolute of heart; and so, at last, we deemed it wisest to seek out some quiet spot, in some quiet country, where our poverty would, at least, present nothing remarkable, and there to live for each other; and we are happy, so happy that, save the passing dread that this delicious calm of life may not be lasting, we have few sorrows.' “Again and again I tried to persuade her to recall her decision, but in vain. Once only did she show any sign of hesitation. It was when I charged her with pride as the reason of refusal. Then suddenly her eyes filled up, and her lip trembled, and such a change came over her features that I grew shocked at my own words. “'Pride!' cried she. 'If you mean that inordinate self-esteem that prefers isolation to sympathy, that rejects an obligation from mere haughtiness, I know not the feeling. Our pride is not in our self-sufficiency, for every step in life teaches us how much we owe to others; but in this, that low in lot, and humble in means, we have kept, and hope still to keep, the motives and principles that guided us in happier fortunes. Yes, you may call us proud, for we are so, proud that our poverty has not made us mean; proud that in a strange land we have inspired sentiments of kindness, and even of affection; proud that, without any of the gifts or graces which attract, we have drawn towards us this instance of noble generosity of which you are now the messenger. I am not ashamed to own pride in all these.' “To press her further was useless; and only asking, that if by any future change of circumstances she might be induced to alter her resolve, she would still consider the proposition as open to her acceptance, I took my leave.” “This is most provoking,” exclaimed Onslow. “Provoking!” cried Grounsell; “you call it provoking! That where you sought to confer a benefit you discover a spirit greater than all the favors wealth ever gave, or ever will give! A noble nature, that soars above every accident of fortune, provoking!” “I spoke with reference to myself,” replied Onslow, tartly; “and I repeat, it is most provoking that I am unable to make a recompense where I have unquestionably inflicted a wrong!” “Rather thank God that in this age of money-seeking and gold-hunting there lives one whose heart is uncorrupted and incorruptible,” cried Grouusell. “If I had not seen it I could not have believed it!” said Prichard. “Of course not, sir,” chimed in Grounsell, bluntly. “Yours is not the trade where such instances are frequently met with; nor have I met with many myself!” “I beg to observe,” said Prichard, mildly, “that even in my career I have encountered many acts of high generosity.” “Generosity! Yes, I know what that means. A sister who surrenders her legacy to a spendthrift brother; a childless widow that denies herself the humblest means of comfort to help the ruined brother of her lost husband; a wife who places in a reckless husband's hand the last little remnant of fortune that was hoarded against the day of utter destitution; and they are always women who do these things, saving, scraping, careful creatures, full of self-denial and small economies. Not like your generous men, as the world calls them, whose free-heartedness is nothing but selfishness, whose liberality is the bait to catch flattery. But it is not of generosity I speak here. To give, even to one's last farthing, is far easier than to refuse help when you are needy. To draw the rags of poverty closer, to make their folds drape decently, and hide the penury within, that is the victory, indeed.” “Mark you,” cried Onslow, laughing, “it is an old bachelor says all this.” Grounsell's face became scarlet, and as suddenly pale as death; and although he made an effort to speak, not a sound issued from his lips. For an instant the pause which ensued was unbroken, when a tap was heard at the door. It was a message from Lady Hester, requesting, if Sir Stafford were disengaged, to be permitted to speak with him. “You're not going, Grounsell?” cried Sir Stafford, as he saw the doctor seize his hat; but he hastened out of the room without speaking, while the lawyer, gathering up his papers, prepared to follow him. “We shall see you at dinner, Prichard?” said Sir Stafford. “I have some hope of joining the party myself to-day.” Mr. Prichard bowed his acknowledgments and departed. And now the old baronet sat down to ponder in his mind the reasons for so strange an event as a visit in the forenoon from Lady Hester. “What can it mean? She can't want money,” thought he; “'t is but the other day I sent her a large check. Is she desirous of going back to England again? Are there any new disagreements at work?” This last thought reminded him of those of whom he had been so lately hearing, of those whose narrow fortunes had drawn them nearer to each other, rendering them more tolerant and more attached, while in his own family, where affluence prevailed, he saw nothing but dissension. As he sat pondering over this not too pleasant problem, a tall and serious-looking footman entered the room, rolling before him an armchair. Another and not less dignified functionary followed, with cushions and a foot-warmer, signs which Sir Stafford at once read as indicative of a long interview; for her Ladyship's preparations were always adopted with a degree of forethought and care that she very rarely exhibited in matters of real consequence. Sir Stafford was contemplating these august demonstrations, when the solemn voice of an upper servant announced Lady Hester; and, after a second's pause, she swept into the room in all that gauzy amplitude of costume that gives to the wearer a seeming necessity of inhabiting the most spacious apartments of a palace. “How d'ye do?” said she, languidly, as she sank down into her chair. “I had not the least notion how far this room was off; if Clements has not been taking me a tour of the whole house.” Mr. Clements, who was still busily engaged in disposing and arranging the cushions, blandly assured her Ladyship that they had come by the most direct way. “I'm sorry for it,” said she, peevishly, “for I shall have the more fatigue in going back again. There, you 're only making it worse. You never can learn that I don't want to be propped up like an invalid. That will do; you may leave the room. Sir Stafford, would you be good enough to draw that blind a little lower? the sun is directly in my eyes. Dear me, how yellow you are! or is it the light in this horrid room? Am I so dreadfully bilious-looking?” “On the contrary,” said he, smiling, “I should pronounce you in the most perfect enjoyment of health.” “Oh, of course, I have no doubt of that. I only wonder you didn't call it 'rude health.' I cannot conceive anything more thoroughly provoking than the habit of estimating one's sufferings by the very efforts made to suppress them.” “Sufferings, my dear? I really was not aware that you had sufferings.” “I am quite sure of that; nor is it my habit to afflict others with complaint. I 'm sure your friend, Mr. Grounsell, would be equally unable to acknowledge their existence. How I do hate that man! and I know, Stafford, he hates us. Oh, you smile, as if to say, 'Only some of us; 'but I tell you he detests us all, and his old school-fellow, as he vulgarly persists in calling you, as much as the others.” “I sincerely hope you are mistaken.” “Polite, certainly; you trust that his dislike is limited to myself. Not that, for my own part, I have the least objection to any amount of detestation with which he may honor me; it is the tribute the low and obscure invariably render the well-born, and I am quite ready to accept it; but I own it is a little hard that I must submit to the infliction beneath my own roof.” “My dear Hester, how often have I assured you that you were mistaken; and that what you regard as disrespect to yourself is the roughness of an unpolished but sterling nature. The ties which have grown up between him and me since we were boys together ought not to be snapped for the sake of a mere misunderstanding; and if you cannot or will not estimate him for the good qualities he unquestionably possesses, at least bear with him for my sake.” “So I should, so I strive to do; but the evil does not end there; he inspires everybody with the same habits of disrespect and indifference. Did you remark Clements, a few moments since, when I spoke to him about that cushion?” “No, I can't say that I did.” “Why should you? nobody ever does trouble his head about anything that relates to my happiness! Well, I remarked it, and saw the supercilious smile he assumed when I told him that the pillow was wrong. He looked over at you, too, as though to say, 'You see how impossible it is to please her'.” “I certainly saw nothing of that.” “Even Prichard, that formerly was the most diffident of men, is now so much at his ease, so very much at home in my presence, it is quite amusing. It was but yesterday he asked me to take wine with him at dinner. The anachronism was bad enough, but only fancy the liberty!” “And what did you do?” asked Sir Stafford, with difficulty repressing a smile. “I affected not to hear, hoping he would not expose himself before the servants by a repetition of the request. But he went on, 'Will your Ladyship' I assure you he said that 'will your Ladyship do me the honor to drink wine with me?' I merely stared at him, but never took any notice of his speech. Would you believe it? he returned to the charge again, and with his hand on his wine-glass, began, 'I have taken the liberty' I could n't hear more; so I turned to George, and said, 'George, will you tell that man not to do that?'” Sir Stafford could not restrain himself any longer, but broke out into a burst of hearty laughter. “Poor Prichard,” said he, at last, “I almost think I see him before me!” “You never think of saying, 'Poor Hester, these are not the associates you have been accustomed to live with!' But I could be indifferent to all these if my own family treated me with proper deference. As for Sydney and George, however, they have actually coventried me; and although I anticipated many sacrifices when I married, this I certainly never speculated upon. Lady Wallingcroft, indeed, warned me to a certain extent of what I should meet with; but I fondly hoped that disparity of years and certain differences, the fruits of early prejudices and habits, would be the only drawbacks on my happiness; but I have lived to see my error!” “The event has, indeed, not fulfilled what was expected from it,” said Sir Stafford, with a slow and deliberate emphasis on each word. “Oh, I comprehend you perfectly,” said she, coloring slightly, and for the first time displaying any trait of animation in her features. “You have been as much disappointed as I have. Just what my aunt Wallingcroft prophesied. 'Remember,' said she, and I 'm sure I have had good cause to remember it, 'their ideas are not our ideas; they have not the same hopes, ambitions, or objects that we have; their very morality is not our morality!'” “Of what people or nation was her Ladyship speaking?” asked Sir Stafford, mildly. “Of the City, generally,” replied Lady Hester, proudly. “Not in ignorance, either,” rejoined Sir Stafford; “her own father was a merchant in Lombard Street.” “But the family are of the best blood in Lancashire, Sir Stafford.” “It may be so; but I remember Walter Crofts himself boasting that he had danced to warm his feet on the very steps of the door in Grosvenor Square which afterwards acknowledged him as the master; and as he owed his wealth and station to honest industry and successful enterprise, none heard the speech without thinking the better of him.” “The anecdote is new to me,” said Lady Hester, superciliously; “and I have little doubt that the worthy man was merely embellishing an incident to suit the tastes of his company.” “It was the company around his table, as Lord Mayor of London!” “I could have sworn it,” said she, laughing; “but what has all this to do with what I wished to speak about if I could but remember what it was! These eternal digressions have made me forget everything.” Although the appeal was palpably directed to Sir Stafford, he sat silent and motionless, patiently awaiting the moment when recollection might enable her to resume. “Dear me! how tiresome it is! I cannot think of what I came about, and you will not assist me in the least.” “Up to this moment you have given me no clew to it,” said Sir Stafford, with a smile. “It was not to speak of Grounsell?” “Of course not. I hate even to think of him!” “Of Prichard, perhaps?” he said, with a half-sly twinkle of the eye. “Just as little!” “Possibly your friend Colonel Haggerstone was in your thoughts?” “Pray do not call him my friend. I know very little of the gentleman; I intend even to know less. I declined to receive him this morning, when he sent up his card.” “An attention I fear he has not shown that poor creature he wounded, Grounsell tells me.” “Oh, I have it!” said she, suddenly; the allusion to Hans at once recalling the Daltons, and bringing to mind the circumstances she desired to remember. “It was exactly of these poor people I came to speak. You must know, Sir Stafford, that I have made the acquaintance of a most interesting family here, a father and two daughters named Dalton.” “Grounsell has already told me so,” interrupted Sir Stafford. “Of course, then, every step I have taken in this intimacy has been represented in the most odious light. The amiable doctor will have, doubtless, imputed to me the least worthy motives for knowing persons in their station?” “On the contrary, Hester. If he expressed any qualification to the circumstance, it was in the form of a fear lest the charms of your society and the graces of your manner might indispose them to return with patience to the dull round of their daily privations.” “Indeed!” said she, superciliously. “A weak dose of his own acquaintance would be, then, the best antidote he could advise them! But, really, I must not speak of this man; any allusion to him is certain to jar my nerves, and irritate my feelings for the whole day after. I want to interest you about these Daltons.” “Nothing more easy, my dear, since I already know something about them.” “The doctor being your informant,” said she, snappishly. “No, no, Hester; many, many years ago, certain relations existed between us, and I grieve to say that Mr. Dalton has reason to regard me in no favorable light; and it was but the very moment I received your message I was learning from Prichard the failure of an effort I had made to repair a wrong. I will not weary you with a long and a sad story, but briefly mention that Mr. Dalton's late wife was a distant relative of my own.” “Yes, yes; I see it all. There was a little love in the business, an old flame revived in after life; nothing serious, of course but jealousies and misconstructions to any extent. Dear me, and that was the reason she died of a broken heart!” It was hard to say if Sir Stafford was more amused at the absurdity of this imputation, or stung by the cool indifference with which she uttered it; nor was it easy to know how the struggle, within him would terminate, when she went on: “It does appear so silly to see a pair of elderly gentlemen raking up a difference out of an amourette of the past century. You are very fortunate to have so quiet a spot to exhibit in!” “I am sorry to destroy an illusion so very full of amusement, Lady Hester; but I owe it to all parties to say that your pleasant fancy has not even the shadow of a color. I never even saw Mrs. Dalton; never have yet met her husband. The event to which I was about to allude, when you interrupted me, related to a bequest--” “Oh, I know the whole business, now! It was at your suit that dreadful mortgage was foreclosed, and these dear people were driven away from their ancient seat of Mount Dalton. I 'm sure I 've heard the story at least ten times over, but never suspected that your name was mixed up with it. I do assure you, Sir Stafford, that they have never dropped the most distant hint of you in connection with that sad episode.” “They have been but just, Lady Hester,” said he, gravely. “I never did hold a mortgage over this property; still less exercised the severe right you speak of. But it is quite needless to pursue a narrative that taxes your patience so severely; enough to say, that through Prichard's mediation I have endeavored to persuade Mr. Dalton that I was the trustee, under a will, of a small annuity on his life. He has peremptorily refused to accept it, although, as I am informed, living in circumstances of great poverty.” “Poor they must be, certainly. The house is wretchedly furnished, and the girls wear such clothes as I never saw before; not that they are even the worn and faded finery of better days, but actually the coarse stuffs such as the peasants wear!” “So I have heard.” “Not even an edging of cheap lace round their collars; not a bow of ribbon; not an ornament of the humblest kind about them.” “And both handsome, I am told?” “The younger, beautiful! the deepest blue eyes in the world, with long fringed lashes, and the most perfect mouth you can imagine. The elder very pretty, too, but sad-looking, for she has a fearful lameness, poor thing! They say it came from a fall off a horse, but I suspect it must have begun in infancy; one of those dreadful things they call 'spine.' Like all persons in her condition, she is monstrously clever; carves the most beautiful little groups in boxwood, and models in clay and plaster. She is a dear, mild, gentle thing; but I suspect with all that infirmity of temper that comes of long illness at least, she is seldom in high spirits like her sister. Kate, the younger girl, is my favorite; a fine, generous, warm-hearted creature, full of life and animation, and so fond of me already.” If Sir Stafford did not smile at the undue emphasis laid upon the last few words, it was not that he had not read their full significance. “And Mr. Dalton himself, what is he like?” “Like nothing I ever met before; the oddest mixture of right sentiments and wrong inferences; of benevolence, cruelty, roughness, gentleness; the most refined consideration, and the most utter disregard for other people and their feelings, that ever existed. You never can guess what will be his sentiments at any moment, or on any subject, except on the question of family, when his pride almost savors of insanity. I believe, in his own country, he would be nothing strange nor singular; but out of it, he is a figure unsuited to any landscape.” “It is hard to say how much of this peculiarity may have come of adverse fortune,” said Sir Stafford, thoughtfully. “I 'm certain he was always the same; at least, it would be impossible to imagine him anything different. But I have not come to speak of him, but of his daughter Kate, in whom I am deeply interested. You must know, Sir Stafford, that I have formed a little plan, for which I want your aid and concurrence. It is to take this dear girl along with us to Italy.” “Take her to Italy! In what position, Lady Hester? You surely never intended any menial station?” “Of course not; a kind of humble friend what they call a 'companion' in the newspapers to have always with one. She is exactly the creature to dissipate low spirits and banish ennui, and, with the advantages of training and teaching, will become a most attractive girl. As it is, she has not been quite neglected. Her French accent is very pure; German, I conclude, she talks fluently, she plays prettily, at least, as well as one can judge on that vile tinkling old harpsichord, whose legs dance every time it is touched, and sings very pleasingly those little German ballads that are now getting into fashion. In fact, it is the tone of society that mannerism of the world she is deficient in more than anything else.” “She certainly could not study in a better school than yours, Lady Hester; but I see some very great objections to the whole scheme, and without alluding to such as relate to ourselves, but simply those that regard the young lady herself. Would it be a kindness to withdraw her from the sphere wherein she is happy and contented, to mingle for a season or so in another and very different rank, contracting new habits of thought, new ideas, new associations, learning each day to look down upon that humble lot to which she must eventually return?” “She need not return to it. She is certain to marry, and marry well. A girl with so many attractions as she will possess may aspire to a very high match indeed!” “This is too hazardous a game of life to please my fancy,” said Sir Stafford, dubiously. “We ought to look every contingency in the face in such a matter as this.” “I have given the subject the very deepest consideration,” replied Lady Hester, authoritatively. “I have turned the question over and over in my mind, and have not seen a single difficulty for which there is not an easy remedy.” “Sydney certainly ought to be consulted.” “I have done so already. She is charmed with the project. She sees, perhaps, how few companionable qualities she herself possesses, and anticipates that Miss Dalton will supply that place towards me that she is too indolent and too indifferent to fill.” “How would the family receive such a proposition? They seem to be very proud. Is it likely that they would listen to a project of this nature?” “There lies the only difficulty; nor need it be an insuperable one, if we manage cleverly. The affair will require delicate treatment, because if we merely invite her to accompany us, they will naturally enough decline an invitation, to comply with which would involve a costly outlay in dress and ornament, quite impossible in their circumstances. This must be a matter of diplomacy, of which the first step is, however, already taken.” “The first step! How do you mean?” “Simply, that I have already, but in the deepest confidence, hinted the possibility of the project to Kate Dalton, and she is wild with delight at the bare thought of it. The dear child! with what rapture she heard me speak of the balls, and fetes, and theatres of the great world! of the thousand fascinations society has in store for all who have a rightful claim to its homage, the tribute rendered to beauty, greater than that conceded to rank or genius itself! I told her of all these, and I showed her my diamonds!” Sir Stafford made, involuntarily, a slight gesture with his hand, as though to say, “This last was the coup de grace.” “So far, then, as Kate is concerned, she will be a willing ally; nor do I anticipate any opposition from her quiet, submissive sister, who seems to dote upon her. The papa, indeed, is like to prove refractory; but this must be our business to overcome.” Lady Hester, who at the opening of the interview had spoken with all the listlessness of ennui, had gradually worked herself up to a species of ardor that made her words flow rapidly, a sign well known to Sir Stafford that her mind was bent upon an object that would not admit of gainsay. Some experience had taught him the impolicy of absolute resistance, and trained him to a tactic of waiting and watching for eventualities, which, whether the campaign be civil, military, or conjugal, is not without a certain degree of merit. In the present case there were several escape-valves. The Daltons were three in number, and should be unanimous. All the difficulties of the plan should be arranged, not alone to their perfect satisfaction, but without a wound to their delicacy. Grounsell was certain to be a determined opponent to the measure, and would, of course, be consulted upon it. And, lastly, if everything worked well and favorably, Lady Hester herself was by no means certain to wish for it the day after she had conquered all opposition. These, and many similar reasons, showed Sir Stafford that he might safely concede a concurrence that need never become practical, and making a merit of his necessity, he affected to yield to arguments that had no value in his eyes. “How do you propose to open the campaign, Hester?” asked he, after a pause. “I have arranged it all,” said she, with animation. “We must visit the Daltons together, or better still you shall go alone. No, no; a letter will be the right thing, a very carefully written letter, that shall refute by anticipation every possible objection to the plan, and show the Daltons the enormous advantages they must derive from it.” “As, for instance?” said Sir Stafford, with apparent anxiety to be instructed. “Enormous they certainly will be!” exclaimed she. “First of all, Kate, as I have said, is certain to marry well, and will be thus in a position to benefit the others, who, poor things, can do nothing for themselves.” “Very true, my dear, very true. You see all these things far more rapidly and more clearly than I do.” “I have thought so long and so much about it, I suppose there are few contingencies of the case have escaped me; and now that I learn how you once knew and were attached to the poor girl's mother--” “I am sorry to rob you of so harmless an illusion,” interrupted he, smiling; “but I have already said I never saw her.” “Oh, you did say so! I forget all about it. Well, there was something or other that brought the families in relation, no matter what, and it must be a great satisfaction to you to see the breach restored, and through my intervention, too; for I must needs say, Sir Stafford, there are many women who would entertain a silly jealousy respecting one who once occupied the first place in their husband's esteem.” “Must I once more assure you that this whole assumption is groundless; that I never--” “Quite enough; more than I ask for, more than I have any right to ask for,” broke she in. “If you did not interrupt me, and pardon me if I say that this habit of yours is calculated to produce innumerable misconceptions, I say that, if I had not been interrupted, I would have told you that I regard such jealousies as most mean and unworthy. We cannot be the arbiters of our affections any more than of our fortunes; and if in early life we may have formed attachments imprudent attachments.” Here her Ladyship, who had unwittingly glided from the consideration of Sir Stafford's case to that of her own, became confused and flurried, her cheek flushing and her chest heaving. She looked overwhelmed with embarrassment, and it was only after a long struggle to regain the lost clew to her discourse she could falteringly say, “Don't you agree with me? I 'm sure you agree with me.” “I 'm certain I should if I only understood you aright,” said he, good-naturedly, and by his voice and look at once reassuring her. “Well, so far, all is settled,” said she, rising from her chair. “And now for this letter; I conclude the sooner it be done the better. When may we hope to get away from this dreary place?” “Grounsell tells me, by Friday or Saturday next I shall be able for the journey.” “If it had not been to provoke me, I 'm certain he would have pronounced you quite well ten days ago.” “You forget, Hester, my own sensations not to say sufferings could scarcely deceive me.” “On the contrary, Dr. Clarus assured me there is nothing in the world so very deceptive; that pain is only referred to the diseased part by the brain, and has no existence whatever, and that there is no such thing as pain at all. He explained it perfectly, and I understood it all at the time. He is so clever, Dr. Clarus, and gives people such insight into the nature of their malady, that it really becomes quite interesting to be ill under his care. I remember when William, the footman, broke his arm, Clarus used to see him every day; and to show that no union, as it is called, could take place so long as motion continued, he would gently grate the fractured ends of the bone together.” “And was William convinced of the no-pain doctrine?” cried Sir Stafford, his cheek flashing with momentary anger. “The ignorant creature actually screamed out every time he was touched; but Clarus said it would take at least two centuries to conquer the prejudices of the common people.” “Not improbable, either!” said Sir Stafford. “Dear me, how very late it is,” cried she, suddenly; “and we dine at six!” And with a graceful motion of the hand, she said, “By-by!” and left the room.	{ "id": "32061" }
16	THE “SAAL” OF THE “RUSSIE.”	HAS the observant reader ever remarked a couple of persons parading the deck of a ship at sea, walking step for step through half a day, turning with the same short jerk, to resume the same short path, and yet never interchanging a word, the rhythm of the footfall the only tie of companionship between them? They halt occasionally, too, to look over the bulwarks at some white sail far away, or some cloud-bank rising from the horizon; mayhap they linger to watch the rolling porpoises as they pass, or the swift nautilus as he glides along; but yet never a sound nor token of mutual intelligence escapes them. It is enough that they live surrounded by the same influences, breathe the same air, and step in the same time; they have their separate thoughts, wide, perhaps, as the poles asunder, and yet by some strange magnetism they feel there is a kind of sociality in their speechless intercourse. From some such cause, perhaps, it was that Colonel Haggerstone and Jekyl took their accustomed walk in the dreary dining-room of the “Hotel de Russie.” The evening was cold and cheerless, as on that when first we met them there, a drifting rain, mingled with sleet, beat against the windows, and the wind, in mournful cadences, sighed along the dreary and deserted corridors. It was a comfortless scene within doors and without. A chance glance through the window, an occasional halt to listen when the thunder rolled louder and nearer, showed that, to a certain extent, the same emotions were common to each; but nothing else betrayed any community of sentiment between them, as they paced the room from end to end. “English people come abroad for climate!” said Haggerstone, as he buttoned his collar tightly around his neck, and pressed his hat more firmly on his head. “But who ever saw the like of this in England?” “In England you have weather, but no climate!” said Jekyl, with one of his little smiles of self-approval; for he caressed himself when he uttered a mot, and seemed to feel no slight access of self-satisfaction. “It's not the worst thing we have there, sir, I promise you,” rejoined Haggerstone, authoritatively. “Our coughs and rheumatics are, indeed, sore drawbacks upon patriotism.” “I do not speak of them, sir; I allude to our insolent, overbearing aristocracy, who, sprung from the people as they are, recruited from the ranks of trade or law, look down upon the really ancient blood of the land, the untitled nobility. Who are they, sir, that treat us thus? The fortunate speculator, who has amassed a million; the Attorney-General, who has risen to a Chief-Justiceship; men without ancestry, without landed influence; a lucky banker, perhaps, like our friend upstairs, may stand in the 'Gazette' to-morrow or next day as Baron or Viscount, without one single requirement of the station, save his money.” “I confess, if I have a weakness, it is for lords,” said Jekyl, simperingly. “I suppose I must have caught it very early in life, for it clings to me like an instinct.” “I feel happy to avow that I have none, sir. Six centuries of gentry blood suffice for all my ambitions; but I boil over when I see the overweening presumption of these new people.” “After all, new people, like a new watch, a new coat, and a new carriage, have the best chance of lasting. Old and worn out are very nearly convertible terms.” “These are sentiments, sir, which would, doubtless, do you excellent service with the family upstairs, but are quite thrown away upon such a mere country gentleman as myself.” Jekyl smiled, and drew up his cravat, with his habitual simpering air, but said nothing. “Do you purpose remaining much longer here?” asked Haggerstone, abruptly. “A few days, at most.” “Do you turn north or south?” “I fancy I shall winter in Italy.” “The Onslows, I believe, are bound for Rome?” “Can't say,” was the short reply. “Just the sort of people for Italy. The fashionables of what the Chinese call 'second chop' go down admirably at Rome or Naples.” “Very pleasant places they are, too,” said Jekyl, with a smile. “The climate permits everything, even dubious intimacies.” Haggerstone gave a short “Ha!” at the heresy of this speech, but made no other comment on it. “They say that Miss Onslow will have about a hundred thousand pounds?” said Haggerstone, with an air of inquiry. “What a deal of maccaroni and parmesan that sum would buy!” “Would you have her marry an Italian, sir?” “Perhaps not, if she were to consult me on the matter,” said Jekyl, blandly; “but as this is, to say the least, not very probable, I may own that I like the mixed marriages well enough.” “They make miserable menages, sir,” broke in Haggerstone. “But excessively agreeable houses to visit at.” “The Onslows are scarcely the people to succeed in that way,” rejoined Haggerstone, whose thoughts seemed to revolve round this family without any power to wander from the theme. “Mere money, nothing but money to guide them.” “Not a bad pilot, either, as times go.” Haggerstone uttered another short, “Ha!” as though to enter a protest against the sentiment without the trouble of a refutation. He had utterly failed in all his efforts to draw Jekyl into a discussion of the banker's family, or even obtain from that excessively cautious young gentleman the slightest approach to an opinion about them; and yet it was exactly in search of this opinion that he had come down to take his walk that evening. It was in the hope that Jekyl might afford him some clew to these people's thoughts, or habits, or their intentions for the coming winter, that he had promenaded for the last hour and a half. “If he know anything of them,” thought Haggerstone, “he will be but too proud to show it, and display the intimacy to its fullest extent!” It was, then, to his utter discomfiture, he learned that Jekyl had scarcely spoken to Lady Hester, and never even seen Sir Stafford or Miss Onslow. It was, then, pure invention of the waiter to say that they were acquainted. “Jekyl has done nothing,” muttered he to himself, “and I suppose I need not throw away a dinner upon him to tell it.” Such were his reasonings; ana long did he balance in his own mind whether it were worth while to risk a bottle of Burgundy in such a cause; for often does it happen that the fluid thrown down the pump is utterly wasted, and that it is vain to moisten the sucker, if the well beneath be exhausted. To be, or not to be? was then the eventful point he deliberated with himself. Haggerstone never threw away a dinner in his life. He was not one of those vulgarly minded folk who ask you, in a parenthesis, to come in to “manger la soupe,” as they say, without more preparation than the spreading of your napkin. No; he knew all the importance of a dinner, and, be it acknowledged, how to give it also, and could have distinguished perfectly between the fare to set before an “habitual diner out,” and that suitable to some newly arrived Englishman abroad: he could have measured his guest to a truffle! It was his boast that he never gave a pheasant when a poulet would have sufficed, nor wasted his “Chablis” on the man who would have been contented with “Barsac.” The difficulty was not, then, how to have treated Jekyl, but whether to treat him at all. Indeed, the little dinner itself had been all planned and arranged that morning; and the “trout” from the “Murg,” and the grouse from Eberstein, had been “pricked off,” in the bill of fare, for “No. 24,” as he was unceremoniously designated, with a special order about the dish of whole truffles with butter, in the fair intention of inviting Mr. Albert Jekyl to partake of them. If a lady reveals some latent desire of conquest in the coquetry of her costume and the more than ordinary care of her appearance, so your male friend may be suspected of a design upon your confidence or your liberality by the studious propriety of his petit diner. Never fall into the vulgar error that such things are mere accident. As well ascribe to chance the rotations of the seasons, or the motions of the heavenly bodies. Your printaniere in January, your epigramme d'agneau with asparagus at Christmas, show a solicitude to please to the full as ardent, and not a whit less sincere, than the soft glances that have just set your heart a-beating from the recesses of yonder opera-box. “Will you eat your cutlet with me to-day, Mr. Jekyl?” said Haggerstone, after a pause, in which he had weighed long and well all the pros and cons of the invitation. “Thanks, but I dine with the Onslows!” lisped out Jekyl, with a languid indifference, that however did not prevent his remarking the almost incredulous amazement in the colonel's face; “and I perceive,” added he, “that it 's time to dress.” Haggerstone looked after him as he left the room; and then ringing the bell violently, gave orders to his servant to “pack up,” for he would leave Baden next morning.	{ "id": "32061" }
17	A FAMILY DISCUSSION.	SOMETHING more than a week after the scenes we have just related had occurred, the Daltons were seated round the fire, beside which, in the place of honor, in an old armchair, propped by many a cushion, reclined Hans Roeckle. A small lamp of three burners such as the peasants use stood upon the table, of which only one was lighted, and threw its fitful gleam over the board, covered by the materials of a most humble meal. Even this was untasted; and it was easy to mark in the downcast and depressed countenances of the group that some deep care was weighing upon them. Dalton himself, with folded arms, sat straight opposite the fire, his heavy brows closely knit, and his eyes staring fixedly at the blaze, as if expecting some revelation of the future from it; an open letter, which seemed to have dropped from his hand, was lying at his feet. Nelly, with bent-down head, was occupied in arranging the little tools and implements she was accustomed to use in carving; but in the tremulous motion of her fingers, and the short, quick heaving of her chest, might be read the signs of a struggle that cost heavily to subdue. Half-concealed beneath the projection of the fireplace sat Kate Dalton she was sewing. Although to all seeming intent upon her work, more than once did her fingers drop the needle to wipe the gushing tears from her eyes, while at intervals a short sob would burst forth, and break the stillness around. As for Hans, he seemed lost in a dreamy revery, from which he rallied at times to smile pleasantly at a little wooden figure the same which occasioned his disaster placed beside him. There was an air of sadness over everything; and even the old spaniel, Joan, as she retreated from the heat of the fire, crept with stealthy step beneath the table, as if respecting the mournful stillness of the scene. How different the picture from what that humble chamber had so often presented! What a contrast to those happy evenings, when, as the girls worked, Hans would read aloud some of those strange mysteries of Jean Paul, or the wild and fanciful imaginings of Chamisso, while old Dalton would lay down his pipe and break in upon his memories of Ireland, to ask at what they were laughing, and Frank look up distractedly from his old chronicles of German war to join in the mirth! How, at such moments, Hans would listen to the interpretation, and with what greedy ears follow the versions the girls would give of some favorite passage, as if dreading lest its force should be weakened or its beauty marred by transmission! And then those outbreaks of admiration that would simultaneously gush forth at some sentiment of high and glorious meaning, some godlike gleam of bright intelligence, which, though clothed in the language of a foreign land, spoke home to their hearts with the force that truth alone can speak! Yes, they were, indeed, happy evenings! when around their humble hearth came thronging the groups of many a poet's fancy, bright pictures of many a glorious scene, emotions of heart that seemed to beat in unison with their own. They felt no longer the poverty of their humble condition, they had no memory for the little straits and trials of the bygone day, as they trod with Tieck the alley beneath the lindens of some rural village, or sat with Auerbach beneath the porch of the Vorsteher's dwelling. The dull realities of life faded before the vivid conceptions of fiction, and they imbibed lessons of patient submission and trustfulness from those brothers and sisters who are poets' children. And yet what no darkness of adversity could rob them of the first gleam of what, to worldly minds at least, would seem better fortune, had already despoiled them. Like the traveller in the fable, who had grasped his cloak the faster through the storm, but who threw it away when the hot, rays scorched him, they could brave the hurricane, but not face the sunshine. The little wooden clock behind the door struck nine, and Dalton started up suddenly. “What did it strike, girls?” asked he, quickly. “Nine, papa,” replied Kate, in a low voice. “At what hour was he to come for the answer?” “At ten,” said she, still lower. “Well, you 'd better write it at once,” said he, with a peevishness very different from his ordinary manner. “They've remained here already four days isn't it four days she says? to give us time to make up our minds; we cannot detain them any longer.” “Lady Hester has shown every consideration for our difficulty,” said Kate. “We cannot be too grateful for her kindness.” “Tell her so,” said he, bitterly. “I suppose women know when to believe each other.” “And what reply am I to make, sir?” said she, calmly, as having put aside her work, she took her place at the writing-table. “Faith, I don't care,” said he, doggedly. “Nor is it much matter what opinion I give. I am nobody now; I have no right to decide upon anything.” “The right and duty are both yours, papa.” “Duty! So I'm to be taught my duty as well as the rest!” said he, passionately. “Don't you think there are some others might remember that they have duties also?” “Would that I could fulfil mine as my heart dictates them!” said Ellen; and her lip trembled as she spoke the words. “Faith! I scarce know what 's my duty, with all the drilling and dictating I get,” muttered he, sulkily. “But this I know, there 's no will left me I dare not budge this side or that without leave.” “Dearest papa, be just to yourself, if not to me.” “Isn't it truth I'm saying?” continued he, his anger rising with every word he spoke. “One day, I'm forbid to ask my friends home with me to dinner. Another, I 'm told I ought n't to go dine with them. I 'm tutored and lectured at every hand's turn. Never a thought crosses me, but it 's sure to be wrong. You din into my ears, how happy it is to be poor when one 's contented.” “The lesson was yours, dear papa,” said Nelly, smiling. “Don't disavow your own teaching.” “Well, the more fool me. I know better now. But what's the use of it? When the prospect of a little ease and comfort was offered to me, you persuaded me to refuse it. Ay, that you did! You began with the old story about our happy hearth and contentment; and where is it now?” A sob, so low as to be scarcely heard, broke from Nelly, and she pressed her hand to her heart with a convulsive force. “Can you deny it? You made me reject the only piece of kindness ever was shown me in a life long. There was the opportunity of spending the rest of my days in peace, and you wouldn't let me take it. And the fool I was to listen to you!” “Oh, papa, how you wrong her!” cried Kate, as, in a torrent of tears, she bent over his chair. “Dearest Nelly has no thought but for us. Her whole heart is our own.” “If you could but see it!” cried Nelly, with a thick utterance. “'T is a droll way of showing affection, then,” said Dal ton, “to keep me a beggar, and you no better than a servant-maid. It's little matter about me, I know. I'm old, and worn out, a reduced Irish gentleman, with nothing but his good blood remaining to him. But you, Kate, that are young and handsome, ay, faith! a deal sight better-looking than my Lady herself, it's a little hard that you are to be denied what might be your whole fortune in life.” “You surely would not stake all her happiness on the venture, papa?” said Nelly, mildly. “Happiness!” said he, scornfully; “what do you call happiness? Is it dragging out life in poverty like this, with the proudest friend in our list an old toy-maker?” “Poor Hanserl!” murmured Nelly, in a low voice; but soft as were the accents, the dwarf heard them, and nodded his head twice, as though to thank her for a recognition of whose import he knew nothing. “Just so! You have pity enough for strangers, but none for your own people,” said Dalton, as he arose and paced the room, the very act of motion serving to increase his anger. “He was never used to better; he's just what he always was. But think of me! think of the expectations I was reared to, the place I used to hold, and see me now!” “Dearest, best papa, do not say those bitter words,” cried Kate, passionately. “Our own dear Nelly loves us truly. What has her life been but self-denial?” “And have I not had my share of self-denial?” said he, abruptly. “Is there left a single one of the comforts I was always accustomed to? ' T is sick I am of hearing about submission, and patience, and resignation, and the like, and that we never were so happy as now. Faith! I tell you, I 'd rather have one day at Mount Dalton, as it used to be long ago, than I 'd have twenty years of the life I spend here.” “No, papa, no,” said Nelly, winding her arm around his waist, “you'd rather sit at the window yonder, and listen to a song from Kate, one of your own favorites, or take a stroll with us after sunset of a summer's evening, and talk of Frank, than go back to all the gayety of that wild life you speak of.” “Who says so?” asked he, roughly. “You yourself. Nay, don't deny it,” said she, smiling. “If I did I was wrong, then,” rejoined he, pushing her rudely away. “It was because I believed my children were affectionate and fond, and that whatever I set my heart on they 'd be sure to wish just as much as myself.” “And when has that time ceased to be?” said she, calmly. “What! when has it ceased to be?” said he, sharply. “Is it you that asks that question, you that made me refuse the legacy?” “Nay, papa, be just,” interrupted she, mildly. “The merit of that refusal was all your own. I did but explain to you the circumstances under which this gift it was no less was offered, and your own right feeling dictated the reply.” Dalton was silent, a struggling sense of pride in his imputed dignity of behavior warring with the desire of fault-finding. “Maybe I did!” said he, at last, self-esteem gaining the mastery. “Maybe I saw my own reasons for what I was going to do. A Daltou is not the man to mistake what 's due to his name and family; but this is a different case. Here 's an invitation, as elegant a piece of politeness as I have seen, from one our own equal in every respect; she calls herself a connection too, we won't say much about that, for we never reckoned the English relations anything, asking my daughter to join them in their visit to Italy. When are we to see the like of that again? Is it every day that some rich family will make us the same offer? It's not to cost us a sixpence; read the letter, and you 'll see how nicely it 's hinted that her Ladyship takes everything upon herself. Well, if any one objected it might be myself; 'tis on me will fall the heaviest part of the blow. It was only the other day Frank left me; now I 'm to lose Kate, not but I know very well Nelly will do her best.” Slight as was the praise, she kissed his hand passionately for it; and it was some seconds ere he could proceed. “Yes, I 'm sure you 'll do all you can; but what is it after all? Won't I miss the songs she sings for me; won't I miss her laughing voice and her sprightly step?” “And why should you encounter such privations, papa?” broke Nelly in. “These are, as you justly say, the greatest sources of your happiness. Why separate from them? Why rob this humble chamber of its fairest ornament? Why darken our hearth by an absence for which nothing can requite us?” “I 'll tell you why, then,” said he, and a sparkling gleam of cunning lit up his eye, as the casuistry crossed his mind. “Just because I can deny myself anything for my children's sake. ' T is for them I am thinking always. Give old Peter Dalton his due, and nobody can call him selfish, not the worst enemy he had! Let me feel that my children are benefited, and you may leave me to trudge along the weary path before me.” “Then there only remains to see if this promise of benefit be real,” said Nelly. “And why wouldn't it? Doesn't everybody know that travelling and seeing foreign parts is equal to any education? How many things haven't I seen myself since I came abroad, that I never dreamed about before I left home! Look at the way they dress the peas with sugar in them. See how they shoe a horse with a leg tied up to a post, as if they were going to cut it off. Mind the droll fashion they have of fastening a piece of timber to the hind wheel of a coach, by way of a drag! There 's no end to their contrivances.” “Let us forget every consideration but one,” said Nelly, earnestly. “What are the dangers that may beset Kate, in a career of such difficulty, when, without an adviser, miles away from us all, she may need counsel or comfort. Think of her in sickness or in sorrow, or, worse than both, under temptation. Picture to yourself how dearly bought would be every charm of that refinement you covet for her, at the price of a heart weakened in its attachment to home, bereft of the simple faith that there was no disgrace in poverty. Think, above all,” cried she and for the first time her lips trembled, and her eyes swam “think, above all, we cannot give her up forever; and yet how is she to come back again to these humble fortunes, and the daily toil that she will then regard with shame and disgust? I ask not how differently shall we appear in her eyes, for I know that, however changed in her habits, how wide soever be the range of thought knowledge may have imparted, her fond, true heart will still be all our own; but can you risk her fortunes on an ocean like this; can you peril all her future for so little?” “To hear you talk, Nelty, one might think she was going to Jerusalem or Australia; sure, after all, it's only a few days away from us she 'll be; and as for the dangers, devil a one of them I see. Peter Dalton's daughter is not likely to be ill-treated anywhere. I 'e were always a 'good warrant' for taking care of our own; and, to make short of it, I wish it, and Kate herself wishes it, and I don't see why our hopes should not be as strong as your fears.' “You remember, too, papa, that Dr. Grounsell agreed with me, and spoke even more strongly than I did against the scheme?” “And did n't I pay him off for his interference? Did n't I give him a bit of my mind about it, and tell him that, because a man was employed as a doctor in a family, he ought not to presume to advise them on their own affairs? Faith, I don't think he'll trouble another patient with his counsel.” “We must not forget, sir, that if his counsel came unasked, his skill was unrequited; both came from a nature that wished us well.” “The advice and the physic were about the same value both made me sick; and so you 're like to do if you worry me any longer. I tell you now, my mind 's made up, and go she shall!” “Oh, papa, not if dear Nelly thinks--” “What's that to me don't I know more of the world than she does? Am I come to this time of life to be taught by a slip of a girl that never was ten miles out of her home? Sit down here now, and write the answer.” There was a stern determination in the way these last words were uttered that told Nelly how fruitless would be all further opposition. She had long since remarked, besides, how her father's temper reacted upon his health, and how invariably any prolonged excitement terminated in an attack of gout. Increasing age gave to these accesses of malady a character of danger, which she already began to remark with deep anxiety. Now she saw that immediate compliance with his wishes was the only alternative left. She seated herself at the table, and prepared to write. For some seconds the disturbance of her thoughts, the mingled crowd of sensations that filled her mind, prevented all power of calm consideration; but the struggle was soon over, and she wrote on rapidly. So silent was the chamber, so hushed was all within it, that the scratching noise of the pen alone broke the stillness. Speedily glided her hand across the paper, on which two heavy tears had already fallen, burning drops of sorrow that gushed from a fevered brain! A whole world of disaster, a terrible catalogue of ill, revealed itself before her; but she wrote on. She felt that she was to put in motion the series of events whose onward course she never could control, as though she was to push over a precipice the rock that in its downward rush would carry ruin and desolation along with it; but she wrote on. At last she ceased, and all was still; not a sound was heard in the little room, and Nelly leaned her head down upon the table and wept. But while she wept she prayed, prayed that if the season of trouble her thoughts foreshadowed should be inevitable, and that if the cup of sorrow must, indeed, be drained, the strength might be sent them for the effort. It might have been that her mind exaggerated the perils of separation, and the dangers that would beset one of Kate's temper and disposition. Her own bereavement might have impressed her with the misery that follows an unhappy attachment; and her reflective nature, shadowed by an early sorrow, might have colored too darkly a future of such uncertainty. But a deep foreboding, like a heavy weight, lay upon her heart, and she was powerless to resist it. These instincts of our nature are not to be undervalued, nor confounded with the weak and groundless terrors of the frivolous. The closing petals of the flower as the storm draws nigh, the wild cry of the sea-bird as the squall is gathering, the nestling of the sheep within the fold while yet the hurricane has not broke, are signs that, to the observant instincts, peril comes not unannounced. “Shall I read it, papa?” said she, as she raised her head, and turned towards him a look of calm and beaming affection. “You need n't,” said he, roughly. “Of course, it 's full of all the elegant phrases women like to cheat each other with. You said she will go; that's enough.” Nelly tried to speak, but the words would not come, and she merely nodded an acquiescence. “And, of course, too, you told her Ladyship that if it wasn't to a near relation of the family one that had a kind of right, as I may say, to ask her that I 'd never have given my consent. Neither would I!” “I said that you could give no higher proof of your confidence in Lady Hester's goodness and worth, than in committing to her charge all that we hold so dear. I spoke of our gratitude” her voice faltered here, and she hesitated a second or so; our gratitude! strange word to express the feeling with which we part from what we cling to so fondly! “and I asked of her to be the mother of her who had none!” “Oh, Nelly, I cannot go I cannot leave you!” burst out Kate, as she knelt down, and buried her head in her sister's lap. “I feel already how weak and how unable I am to live among strangers, away from you and dear papa. I have need of you both!” “May I never leave this spot if you're not enough to drive me mad!” exclaimed Dalton. “You cried two nights and a day because there was opposition to your going. You fretted till your eyes were red, and your cheeks all furrowed with tears; and now that you get leave to go now that I consent to to to sacrifice ay, to sacrifice my domestic enjoyments to your benefit you turn short round and say you won't go!” “Nay, nay, papa,” said Nelly, mildly; “Kate but owns with what fears she would consent to leave us, and in this shows a more fitting mind to brave what may come, than if she went forth with a heart brimful of its bright anticipations, and only occupied with a future of splendor and enjoyment.” “I ask you again, is it into the backwoods of Newfoundland is it into the deserts of Arabia she is going?” said Dalton, ironically. “The country before her has perils to the full as great, if not greater than either,” rejoined Nelly, lowly. “There's a ring at the bell,” said Dalton, perhaps not sorry to cut short a discussion in which his own doubts and fears were often at variance with his words; for while opposing Nelly with all his might, he was frequently forced to coincide secretly with that he so stoutly resisted. Vanity alone rose above every other motive, and even hardened his heart against separation and absence from his favorite child, vanity to think that his daughter would be the admired beauty in the salons of the great and highly born; that she would be daily moving in a rank the most exalted; that his dear Kate would be the attraction of courts, the centre of adulation wherever she went. So blinded was he by false reasoning, that he actually fancied himself a martyr to his daughter's future advancement, and that this inveterate egotism was a high and holy self-denial! “My worst enemy never called me selfish,” was the balm that he ever laid on his chafed spirit, and always with success. It would, however, have been rather the part of friend, than of enemy, to have whispered that selfishness was the very bane and poison of his nature. It was his impulse in all the wasteful extravagance of his early life; it was his motive in all the struggles of his adversity. To sustain a mock rank, to affect a mock position, to uphold a mock standard of gentility, he was willing to submit to a thousand privations of his children and himself; and to gratify a foolish notion of family pride, he was ready to endure anything, even to separation from all he held dearest. “Lady Hester's courier has come for the answer to her note, papa,” said Nelly, twice over, before Dalton heard her, for he was deep sunk in his own musings. “Let him come in and have a glass of wine,” said Dalton. “I 'd like to ask him a few questions about these people.” “Oh, papa!” whispered Nelly, in a tone at once so reproachful, that the old man colored and looked away. “I meant about what time they were to start on the journey,” said he, confusedly. “Lady Hester told us they should leave this to-morrow, sir.” “Short notice for us. How is Kate to have all her clothes packed, and everything arranged? I don't think that is treating us with much respect, Nelly.” “They have waited four days for our decision, papa remember that.” “Ay, to be sure. I was forgetting that; and she came every day to press the matter more and more; and there was no end to the note-writing besides. I must say that nothing could beat their politeness. It was a mighty nice attention, the old man coming himself to call here; and a fine, hale, good-looking man he is! a better figure than ever his son will be. I don't much like Mr. George, as they call him.” “Somewhat colder, and more reserved, I think, than the other,” said Nelly. “But about this answer, papa?” “What a hurry they're in. Is it a return to a writ, that they must press for it this way? Well, well, I ought to be used to all manner of interruptions and disturbances by this time. Fetch me a caudle, till I seal it;” and he sighed, as he drew forth his old-fashioned watch, to which, by a massive steel chain, the great family seal was attached', firmly persuaded that in the simple act he was about to perform he was achieving a mighty labor, at the cost of much fatigue. “No rest for the wicked! as my old father used to say,” muttered he, in a happy ignorance whether the philosophy emanated from his parent, or from some higher authority. “One would think that at my time of life a man might look for a little peace and ease; but Peter Dalton has n't such luck! Give me the letter,” said he, querulously. “There is Peter Dalton's hand and seal, his act and will,” muttered he, with a half-solemnity, as he pressed the wax with his heavy signet. “'Semper eadem;' there 's the ancient motto of our house, and, faith, I believe Counsellor O'Shea was right when he translated it 'The devil a better!'” He read the address two or three times over to himself, as if there was something pleasurable in the very look of the words, and then he turned his glance towards Hans, as in a dreamy half-consciousness he sat still, contemplating the little statue of Marguerite. “Is n't it droll to think we 'd be writing to the first in the land, and an old toy-maker sitting beside the fire all the time,” said Dalton, as he shook his head thoughtfully, in the firm conviction that he had uttered a very wise and profound remark. “Well well well! Life is a queer thing!” “Is it not stranger still that we should have won the friendship of poor Hanserl than have attracted the notice of Lady Hester?” said Nelly. “Is it not a prouder thought that we have drawn towards us from affectionate interest the kindness that has no touch of condescension?” “I hope you are not comparing the two,” said Dalton, angrily. “What's the creature muttering to himself?” “It 'B Gretchen's song he 's trying to remember,” said Kate. “Nach ihm nur schau' ich Zum Feuster hinaus!” said Hans, in a low, distinct voice. “'Was kommt nach,' what comes next, Fraulein?” “You must ask sister Nelly, Hanserl,” said Kate; but Nelly was standing behind the massive stove, her face covered with her hands. “Zum Fenster hinaus,” repeated he, slowly; “and then, Fraulein? and then?” “Tell him, Nelly; tell him what follows.” “Nach ihm nur schau' ich Zum Fenster hinaus; Nach ihm nur geh' ich Aus dem Haus!” repeated she. “Ja, ja!” cried Hans, delightedly, “Nach ihm nur geh' ich Aus dem Haus!” “What does that mean?” said Dalton, with impatience. “It's Gretchen's song, papa,” said Nelly. “His figure I gaze on, O'er and o'er; His step I follow From the door.” “I hope it isn't in love the creature is,” said Dalton; and he laughed heartily at the conceit, turning at the same time his look from the dwarf, to bestow a most complacent glance at the remains of his own once handsome stature. “Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed he; “isn't it wonderful, but there isn't a creth or a cripple that walks the earth that hasn't a sweetheart!” A cough, purposely loud enough to announce his presence, here came from the courier in the antechamber, and Dalton remembered that the letter had not yet been despatched. “Give it to him, Nelly,” said he, curtly. She took the letter in her hand, but stood for a second or two, as if powerless to move. “Must it be so, dearest papa?” said she, and the words almost choked her utterance. Dalton snatched the letter from her fingers, and left the room. His voice was heard for an instant in conversation with the courier, and the moment after the door banged heavily, and all was still. “It is done, Kate!” said she, throwing her arms around her sister's neck. “Let us now speak of the future; we have much to say, and short time to say it; and first let us help poor Hans downstairs.” The dwarf, clutching up the wooden image, suffered himself to be aided with all the submissiveness of a patient child, and, with one at either side of him, slowly crept down the stairs to his own chamber. Disengaging himself by a gentle effort as he gained his door, Hans removed his cap from his head and made a low and deep obeisance to each of the girls separately, while he bade them a good-night. “Leb wohl, Hanserl, Leb wohl!” said Kate, taking his hand affectionately. “Be ever the true friend that thou hast proved hitherto, and let me think of thee, when far away, with gratitude.” “Why this? How so, Fraulein?” said Hans, anxiously; “why farewell? Why sayest thou 'Leb wohl,' when it is but 'good-night'?” “Kate is about to leave us for a short space,” said Nelly, affecting to appear at ease and calm. “She is going to Italy, Hanserl.” “Das schone Land! that lovely land!” muttered he, over and over. “Dahin, dahin,” cried he, pointing with his finger to the southward, “where the gold orange blooms. There would I wander too.” “You'll not forget me, Hanserl?” said the young girl, kindly. “Over the great Alps and away!” said Hans, still talking to himself; “over the high snow-peaks which cast their shadows on our cold land, but have terraces for the vine and olive-garden, yonder! Thou 'It leave us, then, Fraulein?” “But for a little while, Hans, to come back afterwards and tell thee all I have seen.” “They come not back from the sunshine to the shade,” said Hans, solemnly. “Thou 'It leave not the palace for the peasant's hut; but think of us, Fraulein; think sometimes, when the soft sirocco is playing through thy glossy hair; when sounds of music steal over thy senses among the orange groves, and near the shadows of old temples, think of this simple Fatherland and its green valleys. Think of them with whom thou wert so happy, too! Splendor thou mayst have it is thy beauty's right; but be not proud, Fraulein. Remember what Chamisso tells us, 'Das Noth lehrt beten,' 'Want teaches Prayer,' and to that must thou come, however high thy fortune.” “Kate will be our own wherever she be,” said Nelly, clasping her sister affectionately to her side. “Bethink thee well, Fraulein, in thy wanderings, that the great and the beautiful are brethren of the good and the simple. The cataract and the dewdrop are kindred. Think of all that teaches thee to think of home; and remember well, that when thou losest the love of this humble hearth thou art in peril. If to any of thy childish toys thou sayest 'Ich Hebe dich nicht mehr,' then art thou changed indeed.” Hans sat down upon his little bed as he spoke, and covered his face with his hands. Nelly watched him silently for a few seconds, and then with a gentle hand closed the door and led Kate away.	{ "id": "32061" }
18	CARES AND CROSSES	THE lamp in Kate Dalton's chamber was still burning when the morning dawned, and by its uncertain flicker might be seen the two sisters, who, clasped in each other's arms, sat upon the low settle-bed. Nelly, pale and motionless, supported Kate, as, overcome by watching and emotion, she had fallen into a heavy slumber. Not venturing to stir, lest she should awaken her, Nelly had leaned against the wall for support, and, in her unmoved features and deathly pallor, seemed like some monumental figure of sorrow. It was not alone the grief of an approaching separation that oppressed her. Sad as it was to part from one to whom she had been mother and sister too, her affliction was tinged with a deeper coloring in her fears for the future. Loving Kate dearer than anything in the world, she was alive to all the weak traits of her character: her credulity, her trustfulness, her fondness for approbation, even from those whose judgments she held lightly, her passion for admiration even in trifles, were well known to her; and while, perhaps, these very failings, like traits of childish temperament, had actually endeared her the more to Nelly, she could not but dread their effect when they came to be exercised in the world of strangers. Not that Nelly could form the very vaguest conception of what that world was like. Its measures and its perils, its engagements and hazards, were all unknown to her. It had never been even the dream-land of her imagination. Too humble in spirit, too lowly by nature, to feel companionship with the great and titled, she had associated all her thoughts with those whose life is labor; with them were all her sympathies. There was a simple beauty in the unchanging fortune of the peasant's life such as she had seen in the Schwarzwald, for instance that captivated her. That peaceful domesticity was the very nearest approach to happiness, to her thinking, and she longed for the day when her father might consent to the obscurity and solitude of some nameless “Dorf” in the dark recesses of that old forest. With Frank and Kate, such a lot would have been a paradise. But one was already gone, and she was now to lose the other too. “Strange turn of fortune,” as she said, “that prosperity should be more cruel than adversity. In our days of friendless want and necessity we held together; it is only when the promise of brighter destinies is dawning that we separate. It is but selfishness after all,” thought she, “to wish for an existence like this; such humble and lowly fortunes might naturally enough become 'lame Nelly,' but Frank, the high-hearted, daring youth, with ambitious hopes and soaring aspirations, demands another and a different sphere of action; and Kate, whose attractions would grace a court, might well sorrow over a lot of such ignoble obscurity. What would not my sorrow and self-reproach be if I saw that, in submitting to the same monotony of this quietude, they should have become wearied and careless, neither taking pleasure in the simple pastimes of the people, nor stooping to their companionship! And thus all may be for the best,” said she, half aloud, “if I could but feel courage to think so. We may each of us be but following his true road in life.” A long intimacy with affliction will very frequently be found to impress even a religiously-disposed mind with a strong tinge of fatalism. The apparent hopelessness of all effort to avert calamity, or stem the tide of evil fortune, often suggests, as its last consolation, the notion of a predetermined destiny, to which we are bound to submit with patient trustfulness; a temperament of great humility aids this conviction. Both of these conditions were Nelly's; she had “supped sorrow” from her cradle, while her estimate of herself was the very lowest possible. “I suppose it is so,” said she again; “all is for the best.” She already pictured to herself the new spring this change of fortune would impart to her father's life: with what delight he would read the letters from his children; how he would once more, through them, taste of that world whose pleasures he was so fondly attached to. “I never could have yielded him a gratification like this,” said Nelly, as the tears rose in her eyes. “I am but the image of our fallen fortunes, and in me, 'poor lame Nelly,' he can but see reflected our ruined lot. All is for the best it must be so!” sighed she, heavily; and just as the words escaped, her father, with noiseless step, entered the chamber. “To be sure it is, Nelly darling,” said he, as he sat down near her, “and glad I am that you 've come to reason at last. ' T is plain enough this is n't the way the Daltons ought to be passing their life, in a little hole of a place, without society or acquaintance of any kind. You and I may bear it, not but it's mighty hard upon me sometimes, too, but Kate there just look at her and say, is it a girl like that should be wasting away her youth in a dreary village? Lady Hester tells me and sure nobody should know better that there never was the time in the world when real beauty had the same chance as now, and I 'd like to see the girl that could stand beside her. Do you know, Nelly,” here he drew closer, so as to speak in a whisper, “do you know, that I do be fancying the strangest things might happen to us yet, that Frank might be a great general, and Kate married to God knows what sort of a grandee, with money enough to redeem Mount Dalton, and lay my old bones in the churchyard with my ancestors? I can't get it out of my head but it will come about, somehow. What do you think yourself?” “I'm but an indifferent castle-builder, papa,” said she, laughing softly. “I rarely attempt anything beyond a peasant hut or a shealing.” “And nobody could make the one or the other more neat and comfortable, that I 'll say for you, Nelly. It would have a look of home about it before you were a day under the roof.” The young girl blushed deeply; for, humble as the praise might have sounded to other ears, to hers it was the most touching she could have listened to. “I 'm not flattering you a bit. ' T is your own mother you take after; you might put her down in the bleakest spot of Ireland, and 't is a garden she 'd make it. Let her stop for shelter in a cabin, and before the shower was over you 'd not know the place. It would be all swept and clean, and the dishes ranged neatly on the dresser; and the pig she could n't abide a pig turned out, and the hens driven into the cowshed, and the children's faces washed, and their hair combed, and, maybe, the little gossoon of five years old upon her knee, saying his 'Hail, Mary,' or his 'A B C,' while she was teaching his mother how to wind the thread off the wheel; for she could spin a hank of yarn as well as any cottier's wife in the townland. The kind creature she was! But she never had a taste for real diversion; it always made her low-spirited and sad.” “Perhaps the pleasures you speak of were too dearly purchased, papa,” said Nelly. “Indeed, maybe they were,” said he, dubiously, and as though the thought had now occurred for the first time; “and, now that you say it, I begin to believe it was that same that might have fretted her. The way she was brought up made her think so, too. That brother was always talking about wastefulness, and extravagance, and so on; and, if it was in her nature, he 'd have made her as stingy as himself; and look what it comes to after all. We spent it when we had it, the Daltons are a good warrant for that; and there was he grubbing and grabbing all his days, to leave it after him to a rich man, that does n't know whether he has so many thousands more or not.” Nelly made no reply, not wishing to encourage, by the slightest apparent interest, the continuance on the theme which invariably suggested her father's gloomiest reveries. “Is that her trunk, Nelly?” said Dalton, breaking silence after a long interval, and pointing to an old and journey-worn valise that lay half-open upon the floor. “Yes, papa,” said Nelly, with a sigh. “Why, it's a mean-looking, scrubby bit of a thing; sure it 's not the size of a good tea-chest,” said he, angrily. “And yet too roomy for all its contents, papa. Poor Kate's wardrobe is a very humble one.” “I 'd like to know where 's the shops here; where 's the milliners and the haberdashers? Are we in College Green or Grafton Street, that we can just send out and have everything at our hand's turn? ' T is n't on myself I spend the money. Look at these gaiters; they 're nine years old next March; and the coat on my back was made by Peter Stevens, that 's in his grave now. The greatest enemy ever I had could not face me down that I only took care of myself. If that was my way would I be here now? See the rag I 'm wearing round my throat, a piece of old worsted like a rug a thing--” He stopped, and stammered, and then was silent altogether, for he suddenly remembered it was Nelly herself who had worked the article in question. “Nay, papa,” broke she in, with her own happy smile, “you may give it to Andy to-morrow, for I 've made you a smart new one, of your own favorite colors, too, the Dalton green and white.” “Many a time I 've seen the same colors coming in first on the Corralin course!” cried Dalton, with enthusiasm; for at the impulse of a new word his mind could turn from a topic of deep and painful interest to one in every way its opposite. “You were too young to remember it; but you were there, in the 'landau,' with your mother, when Baithershin won the Murra handicap, the finest day's flat racing I have it from them that seen the best in England that ever was run in the kingdom. I won eight hundred pounds on it, and, by the same token, lost it all in the evening at 'blind hookey' with old Major Haggs, of the 5th Foot, not to say a trifle more besides. And that 's her trunk!” said he, after another pause, his voice dropping at the words, as though to say, “What a change of fortune is there! I wonder neither of you hadn't the sense to take my old travelling chest; that's twice the size, and as heavy as a lead coffin, besides. Sorrow one would ever know if she hadn't clothes for a whole lifetime! Two men wouldn't carry it upstairs when it's empty.” “When even this valise is too large, papa?” “Oh dear, oh dear!” broke in Dalton; “you've no contrivance, after all. Don't you see that it 's not what 's inside I 'm talking about, at all, but the show before the world? Did n't I live at Mount Dalton on the fat of the laud, and every comfort a gentleman could ask, five years and eight months after I was ruined? And had n't I credit wherever I went, and for whatever I ordered? And why? Because of the house and place! I was like the big trunk beyond; nobody knew how little there was in it. Oh, Nelly dear, when you 've seen as much of life as me, you 'll know that one must be up to many a thing for appearance' sake.” Nelly sighed, but made no reply. Perhaps in secret she thought how much trouble a little sincerity with the world would save us. “We 'll be mighty lonesome after her,” said he, after a pause. Nelly nodded her head in sadness. “I was looking over the map last night, and it ain't so far away, after all,” said Dalton. “'T is n't much more than the length of my finger on the paper.” “Many a weary mile may lie within that space,” said Nelly, softly. “And I suppose we'll hear from her every week, at least?” said Dalton, whose mind vacillated between joy and grief, but still looked for its greatest consolations from without. Poor Nelly was, however, little able to furnish these. Her mind saw nothing but sorrow for the present; and, for the future, difficulty, if not danger. “You give one no comfort at all,” said Dalton, rising impatiently. “That's the way it will be always now, when Kate goes. No more gayety in the house; not a song nor a merry laugh! I see well what a dreary life there is before me.” “Oh, dearest papa, I 'll do my very best, not to replace her, for that I never could do; but to make your days less wearisome. It will be such pleasure, too, to talk of her, and think of her! To know of her happiness, and to fancy all the fair stores of knowledge she will bring back with her when she comes home at last!” “If I could only live to see them back again, Frank and Kate, one at each side of me, that 's all I ask for in this world now,” muttered he, as he stole noiselessly away and closed the door behind him.	{ "id": "32061" }
19	PREPARATIONS FOR THE ROAD.	IF the arrival of a great family at an hotel be a scene of unusual bustle and excitement, with teeming speculations as to the rank and the wealth of the new-comers, the departure has also its interests, and even of a higher nature. In the former case all is vague, shadowy, and uncertain. The eye of the spectator wanders from the muffled figures as they descend, to scrutinize the lackeys, and even the luggage, as indicative of the strangers' habits and condition; and even to the shrewd perceptions of that dread functionary, the head waiter, the identity of the traveller assumes no higher form nor any more tangible shape than that they are No. 42 or 57. When the hour of leave-taking has come, however, their characters have become known, their tastes and habits understood, and no mean insight obtained into their prejudices, their passions, and their pursuits. The imposing old gentleman, whose rubicund nose and white waistcoat are the guarantees for a taste in port, has already inspired the landlord with a sincere regard. “My Lady's” half-invalid caprices about diet, and air, and sunshine, have all written themselves legibly in “the bill.” The tall son's champagne score incurred of a night, and uncounted of a morning, are not unrecorded virtues; while even the pale young ladies, whose sketching propensities involved donkeys, and ponies, and picnics, go not unremembered. Their hours of rising and retiring, their habits of society or seclusion, their preferences for the “Post” or the “Times,” have all silently been ministering to the estimate formed of them; so that in the commonest items of the hotel ledger are the materials for their history. And with what true charity are their characters weighed! How readily does mine host forgive the transgressions which took their origin in his own Burgundy! how blandly smile at the follies begotten of his Johannisberg! With what angelic temper does the hostess pardon the little liberties “young gentlemen from college will take!” Oh, if our dear, dear friends would but read us with half the charity, or even bestow upon our peccadilloes a tithe of this forgiveness! And why should it not be so? What are these same friends and acquaintances but guests in the same great inn which we call “the world”? and who, as they never take upon them to settle our score, need surely not trouble themselves about the “items.” While the Daltons were still occupied in the manner our last chapter has described, the “Hotel de Russie” was a scene of considerable bustle, the preparations for departure engaging every department of the household within doors and without. There were carriage-springs to be lashed with new cordage, drag-chains new tipped with steel, axles to smear, hinges to oil, imperials to buckle on, cap-cases to be secured; and then what a deluge of small articles to be stowed away in most minute recesses, and yet be always at hand when called for! cushions and cordials, and chauffe-pieds and “Quarterlies,” smelling-boxes and slippers, and spectacles and cigar-cases, journals and “John Murrays,” to be disposed of in the most convenient places. Every corridor and landing was blocked up with baggage, and the courier wiped his forehead, and “sacre'd” in half desperation at the mountain of trunks and portmanteaus that lay before him. “This is not ours,” said he, as he came to a very smart valise of lacquered leather, with the initials A. J. in brass on the top. “No, that 's Mr. Jekyl's,” said Mr. George's man, Twig. “He ain't a-goin' with you; he travels in our britzska.” “I'm more like de conducteur of a diligenz than a family courier,” muttered the other, sulkily. “I know noting of de baggage, since we take up strangers at every stage! and always some Teufeln poor devils that have not a sou en poche!” “What's the matter now, Mister Greg'ry?” said Twig, who very imperfectly understood the other's jargon. “The matter is, I will resign my 'fonction' je m'en vais dat 's all! This is noting besser than an 'Eil wagen' mil passengers! Fust of all we have de doctor, as dey call him, wid his stuff birds and beasts, his dried blumen and sticks, till de roof is like de Jardin des Plantes at Paris, and he himself like de bear in de middle. Den we have das verfluchte parroquet of milady, and Flounce, de lapdog, dat must drink every post-station, and run up all de hills for exercise. Dam! Ich bin kein Hund, and need n't run up de hills too! Mademoiselle Celestine have a what d' ye call 'Affe' a ape; and though he be little, a reg'lar teufelchen to hide de keys and de money, when he find 'em. And den dere is de yong lady collectin' all de stones off de road, lauter paving-stones, which she smash wid a leetle hammer! Ach Gott, what is de world grow when a Fraulein fall in love wid Felsen and Steine!” “Monsieur Gregoire! Monsieur Gregoire!” screamed out a sharp voice from a window overhead. “Mademoiselle,” replied he, politely touching his cap to the femme-de-chambre. “Be good enough, Monsieur Gregoire, to have my trunks taken down; there are two in the fourgon, and a cap-case on the large carriage.” “Hagel and Sturm! dey are under everything. How am I--” “I can't possibly say,” broke she in; “but it must be done.” “Can't you wait, Mademoiselle, till we reach Basle?” “I'm going away, Monsieur Gregoire. I'm off to Paris,” was the reply, as the speaker closed the sash and disappeared. “What does she say?” inquired Twig, who, as this dialogue was carried on in French, was in total ignorance of its meaning. “She has given her demission,” said the courier, pompously. “Resign her portefeuille, and she have made a very bad affair; dat's all. Your gros milor is very often bien bete; he is very often rude, savage, forget his manners, and all dat but” and here his voice swelled into the full soundness of a perfect connection “but he is alway rich. Ja ja, immer reich!” said he over to himself. “Allons! now to get at her verdammte baggage, de two trunks, and de leetle box, and de ape, and de sac, and de four or five baskets. Diable d'affaire! Monsieur Tig, do me de grace to mount on high dere, and give me dat box.” “I 've nothing to say to your carriage, Mister Greg'ry. I 'm the captain's gentleman, and never do take any but a single-handed situation;” and with this very haughty speech Mr. Twig lighted a fresh cigar and strolled away. “Alle bose Teufeln holen de good for nichts,” sputtered Gregoire, who now waddled into the house to seek for assistance. Whatever apathy and indifference he might have met with from the English servants, the people of the hotel were like his bond-slaves. Old and young, men and women, the waiter, and the ostler, and the chambermaid, and that strange species of grande utilite, which in German households goes by the name of “Haus-knecht,” a compound of boots, scullion, porter, pimp, and drudge, were all at his command. Nor was he an over-mild monarch; a running fire of abuse and indignity accompanied every order he gave, and he stimulated their alacrity by the most insulting allusions to their personal defects and deficiencies. Seated upon a capacious cap-case, with his courier's cap set jauntily on one side, his meerschaum like a sceptre in his hand, Gregoire gave out his edicts right royally, and soon the courtyard was strewn with trunks, boxes, and bags of every shape, size, and color. The scene, indeed, was not devoid of tumult; for, while each of the helpers screamed away at the top of his throat, and Gregoire rejoined in shouts that would have done credit to a bull, the parrot gave vent to the most terrific cries and yells as the ape poked him through the bars of his cage with the handle of a parasol. “There, that's one of them,” cried out Monsieur Gregoire; “that round box beside you; down with it here.” “Monsieur Gregoire! Monsieur Gre'goire!” cried Mademoiselle from the window once more. The courier looked up, and touched his cap. “I'm not going, Monsieur Gregoire; the affair is arranged.” “Ah! I am charmed to hear it, Mademoiselle,” said he, smiling in seeming ecstasy, while he muttered a malediction between his teeth. “Miladi has made submission, and I forgive everything. You must pardon all the trouble I 've given you.” “These happy tidings have made me forget it,” said he, with a smile that verged upon a grin. “Peste!” growled he, under his breath, “we 'd unpacked the whole fourgon.” “Ah, que vous etes aimable!” said she, sighing. “Belle tigresse!” exclaimed he, returning the leer she bestowed; and the window was once more closed upon her exit. “I submitted to the labor, in the hope we had done with you forever,” said he, wiping his forehead; “and la voila there you are back again. Throw that ape down; away wid him, cursed beast!” cried he, venting his spite upon the minion, since he dare not attack the mistress. “But what have we here?” This latter exclamation was caused by the sudden entrance into the courtyard of two porters carrying an enormous trunk, whose iron fastenings and massive padlock gave it the resemblance of an emigrant's sea-chest. A few paces behind walked Mr. Dalton, followed again by Old Andy, who, with a huge oil-silk umbrella under one arm, and a bundle of cloaks, shawls, and hoods on the other, made his way with no small difficulty. Gregoire surveyed the procession with cool amazement, and then, with a kind of mock civility, he touched his cap, and said, “You have mistak de road, saar; de diligenz-office is over de way.” “And who told you I wanted it?” said Dalton, sternly. “Maybe I'm just where I ought to be! Isn't this Sir Stafford Onslow's coach?” “Yes, saar; but you please to remember it is not de 'Eil wagen. '” “Just hold your prate, my little chap, and it will be pleasanter, and safer, ay, safer, too, d'ye mind? You see that trunk there; it 's to go up with the luggage and be kept dry, for there 's valuable effects inside.” “Datis not a trunk; it is a sentry-house, a watch-box. No gentleman's carriage ever support a ting of dat dimension!” “It 's a trunk, and belongs to me, and my name is Peter Dalton, as the letters there will show you; and so no more about it, but put it up at once.” “I have de orders about a young lady's luggage, but none about a great coffin with iron hoops,” said Gregoire, tartly. “Be quiet, now, and do as I tell you, my little chap. Put these trifles, too, somewhere inside, and this umbrella in a safe spot; and here 's a little basket, with a cold pie and a bottle of wine in it.” “Himmel und Erde! how you tink milady travel mit dass schweinerei?” “It 's not pork; 't is mutton, and a pigeon in the middle,” said Dalton, mistaking his meaning. “I brought a taste of cheese, too; but it 's a trifle high, and maybe it 's as well not to send it.” “Is the leetle old man to go too?” asked Gregoire, with an insolent grin, and not touching the profanation of either cheese or basket. “That 's my own servant, and he 's not going,” said Dalton; “and now that you know my orders, just stir yourself a little, my chap, for I 'm not going to spend my time here with you.” A very deliberate stare, without uttering a word, was all the reply Gregoire returned to this speech; and then, addressing himself to the helpers, he gave some orders in German about the other trunks. Dalton waited patiently for some minutes, but no marks of attention showed that the courier even remembered his presence; and at last he said, “I 'm waiting to see that trunk put up; d' ye hear me?” “I hear ver well, but I mind noting at all,” said Gregoire, with a grin. “Oh, that 's it,” said Dalton, smiling, but with a twinkle in his gray eyes that, had the other known him better, he would scarcely have fancied, “that's it, then!” And taking the umbrella from beneath Andy's arm, he walked deliberately across the yard to where a large tank stood, and which, fed from a small jet d'eau, served as a watering-place for the post-horses. Some taper rods of ice now stood up in the midst, and a tolerably thick coating covered the surface of the basin. Gregoire could not help watching the proceedings of the stranger, as with the iron-shod umbrella he smashed the ice in one or two places, piercing the mass till the water spouted up through the apertures. “Have you any friend who live dere?” said the courier, sneeringly, as the sound of the blows resembled the noise of a door-knocker. “Not exactly, my man,” said Dalton, calmly; “but something like it.” “What is 't you do, den?” asked Gregoire, curiously. “I'll tell you,” said Dalton. “I'm breaking the ice for a new acquaintance;” and, as he spoke, he seized the courier by the stout leather belt which he wore around his waist, and, notwithstanding his struggles and his weight, he jerked him off the ground, and, with a swing, would have hurled him head foremost into the tank, when, the leather giving way, he fell heavily to the ground, almost senseless from shock and fright together. “You may thank that strap for your escape,” said Dalton, contemptuously, as he threw towards him the fragments of broken leather. “I will have de law, and de polizei, and de Gericht. I will have you in de Kerker, in chains, for dis!” screamed Gregoire, half choked with passion. “May I never see peace, but if you don't hold your prate I 'll put you in it! Sit up there, and mind your business; and, above all, be civil, and do what you 're bid.” “I will fort; I will away. Noting make me remain in de service,” said Gregoire, brushing off the dirt from his sleeve, and shaking his cap. “I am respectable courier travel wid de Fursten vom Koniglichen Hatisen mit Russen, Franzosen, Ostereichen; never mit barbaren, never mit de wilde animalen.” “Don't, now don't, I tell you,” said Dalton, with another of those treacherous smiles whose expression the courier began to comprehend. “No balderdash! no nonsense! but go to your work, like a decent servant.” “I am no Diener; no serve anybody,” cried the courier, indignantly. [Illustration: 222] But somehow there was that in old Dalton's face that gave no encouragement to an open resistance, and Monsieur Gregoire knew well the case where compliance was the wisest policy. He also knew that in his vocation there lay a hundred petty vengeances more than sufficient to pay off any indignity that could be inflicted upon him. “I will wait my times,” was the reflection with which he soothed down his rage, and affected to forget the insult he had just suffered under. Dalton, whose mind was cast in a very different mould, and who could forgive either himself or his neighbor without any great exertion of temper, turned now coolly away, and sauntered out into the street. The flush of momentary anger that colored his cheek had fled, and a cast of pale and melancholy meaning sat upon his features, for his eye rested on the little wooden bridge which crossed the stream, and where now two muffled figures were standing, that he recognized as his daughters. They were leaning on the balustrade, and gazing at the mountain that, covered with its dense pine-wood, rose abruptly from the river-side. It had been the scene of many a happy ramble in the autumn, of many a delightful excursion, when, with Frank, they used to seek for fragments of wood that suited Nelly's sculptures. How often had they carried their little basket up yonder steep path, to eat their humble supper upon the rock, from which the setting sun could be seen! There was not a cliff nor crag, not a mossy slope, not a grass bank, they did not know; and now, as they looked, all the past moments of pleasure were crowding upon their memory, tinged with the sad foreboding that they were never again to be renewed. “That's the Riesen Fels, Nelly, yonder,” said Kate, as she pointed to a tall dark rock, on whose slopes the drifting snow had settled. “How sad and dreary it is, compared with what it seemed on Frank's birthday, when the nightingale was singing overhead, and the trickling stream came sparkling along the grass when we sat together. I can bear to part with it better thus than if all were as beautiful as then.” Nelly sighed, and grasped her sister's hand closer, but made no answer. “Do you remember poor Hanserl's song, and his little speech all about our meeting there again in the next year, Nelly?” “I do,” said Nelly, in a low and whispering voice. “And then Frank stood up, with his little gilt goblet, and said, 'With hearts as free from grief or care, Here 's to our happy--'” “Wiederkehr,” cried Hanserl, supplying the word so aptly. How we all laughed, Nelly, at his catching the rhyme!” “I remember!” sighed Nelly, still lower. “What are you thinking of, Nelly dearest?” said Kate, as she stood for a few seconds gazing at the sorrow-struck features of the other. “I was thinking, dearest,” said Nelly, “that when we were met together there on that night, none of us foresaw what since has happened. Not the faintest suspicion of a separation crossed our minds. Our destinies, whatever else might betide, seemed at least bound up together. Our very poverty was like the guarantee of our unity, and yet see what has come to pass Frank gone; you, Kate, going to leave us now. How shall we speculate on the future, then, when the past has so betrayed us? How pilot our course in the storm, when, even in the calm, still sea, we have wandered from the track?” “Nelly! Nelly! every moment I feel more faint-hearted at the thought of separation. It is as though, in the indulgence of a mere caprice, I were about to incur some great hazard. Is it thus it appears to you?” “With what expectations do you look forward to this great world you are going to visit, Kate? Is it mere curiosity to see with your own eyes the brilliant scenes of which you have only read? Is it with the hope of finding that elegance and goodness are sisters, that refinement of manners is the constant companion of noble sentiments and right actions; or, does there lurk in your heart the longing for a sphere wherein you yourself might contest for the prize of admiration? Oh, if this have a share in your wishes, my own dear sister, beware of it. The more worthy you are of such homage, the greater is your peril! It is not that I am removed from all temptations of this kind; it is not because I have no attractions of beauty, that I speak thus even poor, lame Nelly cannot tear from her woman's heart the love of admiration. But for me, I fear, for you, Kate, to whom these temptations will be heightened by your own deservings. You are beautiful, and you blush as I speak the word; but what if the time come when you will hear it unmoved? The modest sense of shame gone, what will replace it? Pride yes, my dear sister, Pride and Ambition! You will long for a station more in accordance with your pretensions, more suited to your tastes.” “How you wrong me, Nelly!” burst Kate in. “The brightest dream of all this brilliant future is the hope that I may come back to you more worthy of your love; that, imbibing some of those traits whose fascinations we have already felt, I may bring beneath our humble roof some memories, at least, to beguile your toil.” “Oh, if that time should come!” “And it will come, dearest Nelly,” said Kate, as she threw her arms around her, and kissed her affectionately. “But, see! there is papa yonder; he is beckoning to us to join him;” and the two girls hastened forward to where Dalton was standing, at the corner of the street. “I'm thinking we ought to go up there, now,” said Dalton, with a motion of his hand in the direction of the hotel. “Take my arm, each of you.” They obeyed, and walked along in silence, till they reached the inn, where Dalton entered, with a certain assumed ease and confidence, that very commonly, with him, covered a weak purpose and a doubting spirit. “Is Sir Stafford at home, or Lady Onslow?” asked he of Mr. Twig, who, with a cigar in his mouth, and a “Galignani” in his hand, never rose from the seat he occupied. “Can't say, sir,” was the cool response, which he delivered without lifting his eyes from the newspaper. “Do you know, ma'am?” said he, addressing Mademoiselle Celestine, who happened to pass at the moment “do you know, ma'am, if Lady Onslow 's at home?” “She never receive in de morning,” was the curt reply. And, with a very impudent stare at the two sisters, whose dress imposed no restraint upon her insolence, mademoiselle flounced past. “Come along, girls,” said Dalton, angrily, and offended that he should appear to his children as if wanting in worldly tact and knowledge “come with me;” and he proceeded boldly up stairs. A folding-door lay open before them into a large chamber, littered with boxes, trunks, and travelling gear of all kinds. Making his way through these, while he left his daughters outside, Dalton approached a door that led into an inner room, and knocked sharply at it with his knuckles. “You may take it away now; I 've used cold water!” cried a voice from within, that at once proclaimed Dr. Grounsell. Dalton repeated his summons more confidently. “Go to the devil, I say,” cried the doctor; “you've made me cut my chin;” and the enraged Grouusell, with his face covered with lather, and streaming with blood, flung open the door in a passion. “Oh, Dalton, this you, and the ladies here!” said he, springing back ashamed, as Kate's hearty burst of laughter greeted him. “Come in, Dalton, come in,” said he, dragging the father forward and shutting the door upon him. “I was longing to see you, man; I was just thinking how I could have five minutes' talk with you. What answer have you given to the letter they 've sent you?” “What d' ye think?” said Dalton, jocularly, as he seated himself in a comfortable chair. “What do I think?” repeated he, twice or thrice over. “Egad, I don't know what to think! I only know what to hope, and wish it may have been!” “And what's that?” said Dalton, with a look of almost sternness, for he was not ignorant of the doctor's sentiments on the subject. “A refusal, of course,” said Grounsell, who never yet was deterred by a look, a sign, or an innuendo, from any expression of his sentiments. “And why so, sir?” rejoined Dalton, warmly. “On every ground in the world: What has your fine, generous-hearted, dear child in common with that vile world of envy, malice, and all wickedness you 'd throw her amongst? What similarity in thought, feeling, or instinct between her and that artificial class with whom you would associate her, with their false honor, false principle, and false delicacy nothing real and substantial about them but their wickedness? If you were a silly woman, like the mother in the 'Vicar of Wakefield,' I could forgive you; but a man a hardened, worldly man, that has tasted poverty, and knows the rubs of life. I 've no patience with you, d--n me if I have!” “A little more of this, and I 'll have none with you,” said Dalton, as he clenched his fist, and struck his knee a hard blow. “You presume to talk of us as people whose station was always what our present means imply; but I 'd have you to know that we 've better blood in our veins--” “Devil take your blood! you've made me spill mine again,” cried Grounsell, as he sliced a piece off his chin, and threw down the razor in a torrent of anger, while Dalton grinned a look of malicious satisfaction. “Could n't your good blood have kept you above anything like dependence?” Dalton sprang to his feet, and clutching the chair, raised it in the air; but as suddenly dashed it on the floor again, without speaking. “Go on,” cried Grounsell, daring him. “I'd rather you 'd break my skull than that dear girl's heart; and that 's what you 're bent on. Ay, break her heart! no less. You can't terrify me, man, by those angry looks. You can't wound me, either, by retaliating, and calling me a dependant. I know I am such. I know well all the ignominy, all the shame; but I know, too, all the misery of the position. But, mark me, the disgrace and the sorrow end where they begin, with myself alone. I have none to blush for me; I stand alone in the world, a poor, scathed, sapless, leafless trunk. But it is not so with you. Come, come, Dalton, you fancy that you know something of life because you have passed so many years of it among your equals and neighbors in your own 'country; but you know nothing absolutely nothing of the world as it exists here.” A hearty but contemptuous laugh broke from Dalton as he heard this speech. It was indeed somewhat of a surprise to listen to such a charge. He, Peter Dalton, that knew a spavined horse, or could detect a windgall better than any man in the county; he, that never was “taken in” by a roarer, nor deceived by a crib-biter, to tell him that he knew nothing of life! “That'll do, doctor, that'll do,” said he, with a most compassionating smile at the other's ignorance. “I hope you know more about medicine than you seem to do about men and women;” and, with these words, he left the room, banging the door after him as he went, and actually ashamed that he had been betrayed into warmth by one so evidently deficient in the commonest knowledge of the world. [Illustration: 228] “I 'm sorry I kept you waiting, girls,” said he, approaching them. “And, indeed, I might have spent my time better, too. But no matter; we must try and find out her Ladyship now, for the morning is slipping over.” As he spoke, George Onslow appeared, and recognizing the party with much cordiality, conducted them to the breakfast-room, where Sir Stafford, Lady Hester, and Miss Onslow were seated. If Sydney's reception of the two sisters was less enthusiastic than Lady Hester's, it was not less kind. Nelly was won almost instantaneously by the unaffected ease and simplicity of her manner. As for Dalton himself, her Ladyship had determined to carry him by storm. She suffered him to declaim about his ancestors and their wealth; heard him with assumed interest in all his interminable stories of Dal tons for six generations; and artfully opposed to his regrets at the approaching departure of his daughter the ingenious consolation that she was not about to sojourn with mere strangers, but with those united to her by the ties of kindred. George had, meanwhile, made two or three efforts to engage Kate in conversation; but, whether from the preoccupation of her mind, agitated as it well might be at such a moment, or that his topics were so utterly new and strange to her, his attempt was not attended with any signal success. A sense of shame, too, at the disparity of her own and her sister's appearance, in contrast with the quiet elegance of Lady Hester and Miss Onslow's dress, oppressed her. Strange was it that this feeling should have agitated her now, she who always hitherto had never wasted a thought on such matters, and yet she felt it acutely; and as she glanced from the rustling robe of silk to the folds of her own homely costume, her heart beat painfully, and her breathing came short. Was she already changed, that thoughts tike these could impress her so strongly? Had Adam's first shame descended to his daughter? “How unlike I am to them!” was the bitter thought that rose to her mind, and ate like a cancer into her heart. The sense of inferiority, galling and torturing as it is, becomes infinitely more unendurable when connected with matters of trivial importance. There is a sense of indignant anger in the feeling that we are surpassed by what seem the mere conventionalities and tricks of society, and although Kate knew not the source of her unhappiness, some of it lay in this fact. Every little gesture, every motion, the merest peculiarities of voice or accent, now struck her as distinctive of a class, a class to which no imitation would ever give her a resemblance. If it were not for very shame, she would have drawn back now at the eleventh hour. More than once was she on the verge of confessing what was passing within her mind; but fears of various kinds, of her father's anger, of ridicule, of the charge of frivolity, all conspired to keep her silent, and she sat and listened to descriptions of pleasure and scenes wherein she had already lost every interest, and which somehow came associated with a sense of her own inferiority. Never did home seem so regrettable as in that moment: the humble fireside in winter; the happy evenings with little Hanserl; the summer's day rambles in the forest; their little feasts beside the waterfall, under the ivy-clad walls of Eberstein, all rose before her. They were pleasures which had no alloy in her own humble lot, and why desert them? She had almost gained courage to say that she would not, when a chance word caught her ear one word how little to hang a destiny upon! It was Lady Hester, who, conversing in a half-whisper with Mr. Dalton, said, “She will be perfectly beautiful when dressed becomingly.” Was this, then, all that was needed to give her the stamp and semblance of the others? Oh, if she could believe it! If she could but fancy that, at some future time, such graceful elegance should be her own, that gentle languor, that chastened quietude of Sydney, or that sparkling lightness of Lady Hester herself! “What time de horses, saar?” said the courier, popping his head into the room. “I scarcely know what do you say, Lady Hester?” “I 'm quite ready this instant if you like indeed, I 'm always the first,” said she, gayly; “nobody travels with less preparation than I do. There, see all I want!” and she pointed to a fan, and a book, and a smelling-bottle, as if all her worldly effects and requirements went no further, and that four great imperials and a dozen capacious boxes were not packed with her wardrobe. “I do detest the worry and fuss some people make about a journey for a week, or even a month beforehand; they unsettle themselves and every one around them; putting under lock and key half the things of every-day utility, and making a kind of 'jail-delivery' of all the imprisoned old cloaks and dresses of the toilet. As for me, I take the road as I 'd go to the Opera, or drive out in the Park I ask for my bonnet, that's all.” There was some truth in this. Her Ladyship did, in fact, give herself not a whit more thought or consideration for preparation of any kind, than if the excursion had been a promenade. “It is now two o'clock,” said Sir Stafford, “and if we mean to reach Offenburg to-night we must not lose more time. Isn't it Offenburg you advise as our halt, Mr. Jekyl?” “Yes, Sir Stafford,” simpered out that bland personage. “It is a most comfortable little inn, and a very praiseworthy cook.” “By the bye, has any one thought of ordering luncheon here?” cried George. Jekyl gave a nod, to intimate that he had taken that precaution. “And, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, “what of those bullfinches, for I must have them?” “They are safely caged and packed in our britzska, madam. You 'll also find that your sketch-book and the water-colors are available at any moment, Miss Onslow,” said he, with a respectful gesture. She smiled, and bowed her thanks in silence. “And de horses, saar?” asked the courier once more, for during this colloquy he had been standing in expectation of his orders. “Do tell him, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, with that tone of languor that bespoke her dislike to the trouble of even a trifling degree of resolution. “I think we shall say in one hour, Gregoire,” said Jekyl, mildly. “And, perhaps, it would be better that you should see--” What this matter was that the courier should bestow his special attention upon is not on record in this history, inasmuch as that when the speaker had reached thus far, he passed out of the door, talking as he went, in a low and confidential voice. “Capital fellow Jekyl!” exclaimed George; “he forgets nothing.” “He appears to be a most accomplished traveller,” said Sir Stafford. “And such a linguist!” said Sydney. “And so amusing!” added my Lady. “And such a rogue!” muttered Dalton to himself, who, although so open to any imposition that took the form of flattery, could at once detect the knavery that was practised upon others, and who, at a glance, read the character of the new acquaintance. “Don't you like the stir and excitement of the road, my dear child?” said Lady Hester to Kate, who, with very red eyes and very pale cheeks, stood in a window to avoid being observed. “There is something so adventurous about a journey always. One may be robbed, you know, or the carriage upset, as happened to ourselves t' other day; or mistaken for somebody else, and carried off to prison. It gives such a flurry to the spirits to think of these things, and a life of monotony is so very detestable.” Kate tried to smile an assent, and Lady Hester ran on in the same strain, extolling the delights of anything and everything that promised an excitement. “You know, my dear child, that this little place has almost been the death of me,” added she. “I never was so bored in all my life; and I vow I shall detest a mill and a pine-forest to the last day I live. If it had not been for you and your sweet sister, I do not know what we should have clone; but it 's all over now. The dreary interval is passed, and when we turn the foot of that hill yonder, we shall have seen the last of it.” Kate's heart was almost bursting as she heard these words. To speak thus of the little valley would have been a profanation at any time, but to do so now, when she was about to leave it, when she was about to tear herself away from all the ties of love and affection, seemed an actual cruelty. “Small places are my aversion,” continued Lady Hester, who, when satisfied with her own talk, never cared much what effect it was producing upon others. “One grows down insensibly to the measure of a petty locality, with its little interests, its little people, and its little gossip don't you think so, dear?” “We were so happy here!” murmured Kate, in a voice that a choking fulness of her throat almost stifled. “Of course you were, child, very happy; and it was very good of you to be so. Yes, very good and very right.” Here Lady Hester assumed a peculiar tone, which she always put on whenever she fancied that she was moralizing. “Natural amiability of disposition, and all that sort of thing, is very nice indeed; but there 's luncheon, I see, and now, my dear, let us take our places without loss of time. George, will you give your arm to Miss Dalton? Mr. Dalton but where 's Mr. Dalton?” “Papa has taken him with him to his dressing-room,” answered Sydney, “but begged you'd not wait; they'll be back presently.” “No lady does wait at luncheon,” said Lady Hester, snappishly, while, drawing Kate's arm within her own, she led her into the adjoining room. The party had scarcely seated themselves at table when they were joined by Jekyl. Indeed, Lady Hester had only time to complain of his absence when he appeared; for it was a trick of that gentleman's tact merely to make himself sufficiently regretted not to be blamed. And now he came to say that everything was ready, the postilions in the saddle, the carriages drawn up before the door, the relays all been ordered along the road, the supper bespoken for the end of the journey. These pleasant facts he contrived to season with a running fire of little gossip and mimicry, in which the landlord, and Gregoire, and Mademoiselle Celestine were the individuals personated. Never were Mr. Jekyl's peculiar abilities more in request; for the moment was an awkward and embarrassing one for all, and none, save himself, were able to relieve its seriousness. Even Nelly smiled at the witty sallies and playful conceits of this clever talker, and felt almost grateful to him for the momentary distraction he afforded her from gloomier thoughts. With such success did he exert himself, that all the graver sentiments of the occasion were swallowed up in the pleasant current of his small-talk, and no time given for a thought of that parting which was but a few minutes distant. Sir Stafford and Mr. Dalton were not sorry to discover the party in this pleasant humor, and readily chimed in with the gayety around them. The bugle of the postilions at length announced that “time was up,” and the half-hour, which German politeness accords to leave-taking, expired. A dead silence succeeded the sound, and, as if moved by the same instinctive feeling, the two sisters arose and withdrew into a window. Close locked in each other's arms, neither could speak. Kate's thick sobs came fast and full, and her heart beat against her sister's side as though it were bursting. As for Nelly, all that she had meant to say, the many things she had kept for the last moment, were forgotten, and she could but press the wet cheek to her own, and murmur a tremulous blessing. “Oh, if I could but remain with you, Nelly dearest,” sobbed Kate; “I feel even already my isolation. Is it too late, sister dear, is it too late to go back?” “Not if this be not a sudden impulse of sorrow for parting, Kate; not if you think you would be happier here.” “But papa! how will he--what will he--” She had not time for more, when her father joined them. A certain flurry of his manner showed that he was excited by talking and wine together. There was that in the expression of his features, too, that betokened a mind ill at ease with itself a restless alternating between two courses. “'Tis you are the lucky girl, Kate,” said he, drawing his arm around her, and pressing her to him. “This day's good luck pays me off for many a hard blow of fortune. They 're kind people you are going with, real gentry, and our own blood into the bargain.” A thick heavy sob was all the answer she could make. “To be sure you're sorry; why would n't you be sorry, leaving your own home and going away among strangers? and 't is I am sorry to let you go.” “Are you so, dearest papa? Are you really sorry to part with me? Would you rather I 'd stay behind with you and Nelly?” cried she, looking up at him with eyes swimming in tears. “Would it, is it?” said he, eagerly, as he kissed her forehead twice; then, suddenly checking himself, he said, in an altered voice, “but that would be selfish, Kate, nothing else than downright selfish. Ask Nelly, there, if that's my nature? Not that Nelly will ever give me too good a character!” added he, bitterly. But poor Ellen neither heard the question nor the taunt; her mind was travelling many a long mile away in realms of dreary speculation. “I 'm sorry to interrupt a moment like this,” said Sir Stafford, “but I believe I must take you away, Miss Dalton; our time is now of the shortest.” One fond and long embrace the sisters took, and Kate was led away between Sir Stafford and her father, while Nelly went through a round of leave-takings with the others in a state of semi-consciousness that resembled a dream. The courteous flatteries of Lady Hester fell as powerless on her ear as the rougher good wishes of Grounsell. George Onslow's respectful manner was as unnoticed as the flippant smartness of Albert Jekyl's. Even Sydney's gentle attempt at consolation was heard without heeding; and when one by one they had gone and left her alone in that dreary room, she was not more aware of her solitude than when they stood around her. Couriers and waiters passed in and out to see that nothing had been forgotten. Doors were slammed on every side, loud voices were calling, all the turmoil of a departure was there; but she knew nothing of it. Even when the loud cracking of the postilions' whips echoed in the courtyard, and the quick clatter of horses' feet and heavy wheels resounded through the arched doorway, she was still unmoved; nor did she recover full liberty of thought till her father stood beside her, and said, “Come, Nelly, let us go home.” Then she arose, and took his arm without a word. She would have given her life to have been able to speak even a few words of comfort to the poor old man, whose cheeks were wet with tears, but she could not utter a syllable. “Ay, indeed,” muttered he, “it will be a dreary home now.” Not another word was spoken by either as they trod their way along the silent streets, over which the coming gloom of evening threw a mournful shadow. They walked, with bent-down heads, as if actually fearing to recognize the objects that they had so often looked upon with her, and, slowly traversing the little Platz, they gained their own door. There they halted, and, from habit, pulled the bell. Its little tinkle, heard in the stillness, seemed suddenly to recall them both to thought; for Dalton, with a melancholy smile, said, “'T is old Andy is coming now! ' T is n't her foot I hear! Oh, Nelly, Nelly, how did you ever persuade me to this! Sure, I know I 'll never be happy again!” Nelly made no answer. The injustice of the speech was well atoned for in her mind by the thought that, in shifting the blame from himself to her, her father might find some sort of consolation; well satisfied to become the subject of his reproach if the sacrifice could alleviate his sorrow. “Take that chair away; throw it out of the window,” cried he, angrily. “It breaks my heart to look at it.” And with this he leaned his head upon the table, and sobbed like a child.	{ "id": "32061" }
20	A VERY SMALL “INTERIOR.”	IN one of the most favored spots of that pleasant quay which goes by the name of the Lungo l'Arno, at Florence, there stood a small, miserable-looking, rickety old building, of two stories high, wedged in between two massive and imposing palaces, as though a buffer to deaden the force of collision. In all probability it owed its origin to some petty usurpation, and had gradually grown up, from the unobtrusive humility of a cobbler's bulk, to the more permanent nuisance of stone and mortar. The space occupied was so small as barely to permit of a door and a little window beside it, within which hung a variety of bridles, halters, and such-like gear, with here and there the brass-mounted harnessing of a Calasina, or the gay worsted tassels and fringed finery of a peasant's Barroccino. The little spot was so completely crammed with wares, that for all purposes of traffic it was useless; hence, everything that pertained to sale was carried on in the street, thus contributing by another ingredient to the annoyance of this misplaced residence. Threats, tyranny, bribery, seductions of twenty kinds, intimidation in as many shapes, had all failed in inducing its owner to remove to another part of the town. Gigi every one in Florence is known by his Christian name, and we never heard him called by any other resisted oppressions as manfully as he was proof against softer influences, and held his ground, hammering away at his old “demi-piques,” burnishing bits and scouring housings, in utter indifference to the jarred nerves and chafed susceptibilities of his fine neighbors. It was not that the man was indifferent to money. It was not that the place was associated with any family reminiscences. It was not from its being very favorable to the nature of his dealings, since his chief customers were usually the frequenters of the less fashionable localities. It was the simple fact that Gigi was a Florentine, and, like a Florentine, he saw no reason why he should n't have the sun and the Arno as well as the Guiciardoni, who lived at his right, or the Rinuncini, who dwelt on his left hand. Small and contracted as that miserable frontage was, the sun did shine upon it just as pleasantly as on its proud neighbors, and the bright Arno glided by with its laughing ripples; while, from the little window above stairs, the eye ranged over the cypress-clad hill of San Miniato and the fair gardens of the Boboli. On one side lay the quaint old structure of the Ponte Vecchio, with its glittering stores of jewelry, and on the other the graceful elliptic arches of St. Trinita spanned the stream. The quay before the door was the chosen rallying-point of all Florence; the promenade where lounged all its fashionables of an evening, as they descended from their carriages after the accustomed drive in the Cascini. The Guardie Nobili passed daily, in all their scarlet bravery, to and from the Pitti Palace; the Grand Ducal equipage never took any other road. A continual flow of travellers to the great hotels on the quay contributed its share of bustle and animation to the scene; so that here might be said to meet, as in a focus, all that made up the life, the stir, and the movement of the capital. Full of amusement and interest as that morning panorama often is, our object is less to linger beside it, than, having squeezed our way between the chaotic wares of Gigi's shop, to ascend the little, dark, and creaking stairs which lead to the first story, and into which we now beg to introduce our reader. There are but two rooms, each of them of the dimensions of closets, but furnished with a degree of pretension that cannot fail to cause amazement as you enter. Silk draperies, carved cabinets, bronzes, china, chairs of ebony, tables of buhl, a Persian rug on the floor, an alabaster lamp suspended from the ceiling, miniatures in handsome frames, and armor, cover the walls; while, scattered about, are richly bound books, and prints, and drawings in water-color. Through the half-drawn curtain that covers the doorway for there is no door you can peep into the back room, where a lighter and more modern taste prevails; the gold-sprigged curtains of a French bed, and the Bohemian glass that glitters everywhere, bespeaking another era of decorative luxury. It is not with any invidious pleasure for depreciation, but purely in the interests of truth, that we must now tell our reader that, of all this seeming elegance and splendor, nothing absolutely nothing is real. The brocaded silks have been old petticoats; the ebony is lacquer; the ivory is bone; the statuettes are plaster, glazed so as to look like marble; the armor is papier mache, even to the owner himself, all is imposition, for he is no other than Albert Jekyl. Now, my dear reader, you and I see these things precisely in the same light. The illusion of a first glance stripped off, we smile as we examine, one by one, the ingenious devices meant to counterfeit ancient art or modern elegance. It is possible, too, that we derive as much amusement from the ingenuity exercised, as we should have had pleasure in contemplating the realities so typified. Still, there is one individual to whom this consciousness brings no alloy of enjoyment; Jekyl has persuaded himself to accept all as fact. Like the Indian, who first carves and then worships his god, he has gone through the old process of fabrication, and now gazes on his handiwork with the eyes of a true believer. Gracefully reclined upon an ottoman, the mock amber mouthpiece of a gilt hooka between his lips, he dreams, with half-closed eyes, of Oriental luxury! A Sybarite in every taste, he has invented a little philosophy of his own. He has seen enough of life to know that thousands might live in enjoyment out of the superfluities of rich men, and yet make them nothing the poorer. What banquet would not admit of a guest the more? What fete to which another might not be added? What four-in-hand prances by without some vacant seat, be it even in the rumble? What gilded gondola has not a place to spare? To be this “complement” to the world's want is then his mission. No man invents a metier without a strong element of success. The very creative power is an earnest of victory. It is true that there had been great men before Agamemnon. So had there been a race of “diners-out” before Jekyl; but he first reduced the practice to system, showing that all the triumphs of cookery, all the splendor of equipage, all the blandishments of beauty, all the fascinations of high society, may be enjoyed by one who actually does not hold a “share in the company,” and, without the qualification of scrip, takes his place among the directors. Had he brought to this new profession commonplace abilities and inferior acquirements, he would have been lost amid that vulgar herd of indistinguishables which infest every city, and whose names are not even “writ in water.” Jekyl, however, possessed many and varied gifts. He might have made a popular preacher in a watering-place; a very successful doctor for nervous invalids; a clever practitioner at the bar; an admirable member of the newspaper press. He might have been very good as an actor; he would have been glorious as an auctioneer. With qualities of this order, a most plastic wit, and an india-rubber conscience, what bound need there be to his success! Nor was there. He was, in all the society of the capital, not alone an admitted and accepted, but a welcome guest. He might have failed to strike this man as being clever, or that as being agreeable. Some might be disappointed in his smartness; some might think his social claims overrated; none were ever offended by anything that fell from him. His great secret seemed to lie in the fact that, if generally easy to be found when required, he was never in the way when not wanted. Had he possessed the gift of invisibility, he could scarcely have been more successful in this latter good quality. He never interrupted a confidence; never marred a tete-a-tete. A kind of instinct would arrest his steps as he approached a boudoir where his presence would be undesirable; and he has been known to retire from a door on which he had already placed his hand, with a sudden burst of intelligence suggesting “to come another day.” These, however, seem mere negative qualities; his positive ones were, however, not less remarkable. The faculties which some men might have devoted to abstract science or metaphysical inquiry, he, with a keen perception of his own fitness, resolved to exercise upon the world around him. His botany was a human classification, all his chemistry an analysis of men's motives. It is true, perhaps, that the poet's line may have been received by him with a peculiar limitation, and that, if “the proper study of mankind is man,” his investigations took a shape scarcely contemplated by the writer. It was not man in his freedom of thought and action, not man in all the consciousness of power, and in the high hope of a great destiny that attracted him; no! it was for small humanity that he cared, for all the struggles and wiles and plots and schemings of this wicked world; for man amid its pomps and vanities, its balls, its festivals, its intrigues, and its calamities. He felt, with the great dramatist, that “all the world's a stage,” and, the better to enjoy the performance, he merely took a “walking character,” that gave him full leisure to watch the others. Such was our friend Albert Jekyl, or, as he was popularly called by his acquaintance, Le Due de Dine-out, to distinguish him from the Talleyrands, who are Dues de Dino. Let us now, without further speculation, come back to him, as with his window open to admit the “Arno sun,” he lay at full length upon his ottoman, conning over his dinner list. He had been for some time absent from Florence, and in the interval a number of new people had arrived, and some of the old had gone away. He was, therefore, running over the names of the present and the missing, with a speculative thought for the future. “A bad season, it would seem!” muttered he, as his eye traced rapidly the list of English names, in which none of any distinction figured. “This comes of Carbonari and Illuminati humbug. They frighten John Bull, and he will not come abroad to see a barricade under his window. Great numbers have gone away, too, the Scotts, the Carringdons, the Hopleys! three excellent houses; and those dear Milnwoods, who, so lately 'reconciled to Rome,' as the phrase is, 'took out their piety' in Friday fish-dinners. “The Russians, too, have left us; the Geroboffskys gone back to their snows again, and expiating their 'liberal tendencies' by a tour in Siberia. The Chaptowitsch, recalled in disgrace for asking one of Louis Philippe's sons to a breakfast! We have got in exchange a few Carlists, half a dozen 'Legitimists,' with very stately manners and small fortunes. But a good house to dine at, a good salon for a lounge, a pleasant haunt for all seasons and at all hours, what is there? Nothing, absolutely nothing. And what a city this was once! crammed, as it used to be, with dear, delightful 'ruined families;' that is, those who left ruin to their creditors at home, to come out and live gloriously abroad. And now I look down my list, and, except my little Sunday dinner at 'Marescotte's,' and that half luncheon thing I take at the Villa Pessarole, I really see nothing for the whole week. The Onslows, alone, figure in strong capitals. Let me see, then, how they must be treated. I have already housed them at the Palazzo Mazzarini, and, for some days at least, their time will be filled up with upholsterers, decorators, and such-like. Then the campaign will open, and I can but watch eventualities, and there will be no lack of these. The young Guardsman likes play. I must see that Prince Carini does not get hold of him. Miss Onslow has a taste for Gothic and stained glass; that, nowadays, often ends in a love of saints' shin-bones and other relics. My lady is disposed to be a 'fast one;' and, in fact, except the gruff old doctor, who is a confounded bore, the whole craft is deficient in ballast. But I was forgetting 'the Dalton,' shame on me, for she is very pretty, indeed!” He seemed to ruminate and reflect for some minutes, and then said aloud, “Yes, ma belle Catharine, with the aid of Albert Jekyl, with his counsel to guide, and his head to direct you, there 's no saying what your destiny might not be! It would be, I know well, very hard to convince you of the fact, and, possibly, were I to try it, you 'd be silly enough to fancy me in love with you!” Albert Jekyl in love! The idea was so excellent that he lay back and laughed heartily at it. “And yet,” said he, after a pause, “you 'll see this fact aright one of these days. You 'll learn the immense benefit my knowledge would be when joined to your own beauty. Ay, Kate! but it will be too late, just so, too late; then, like every one else, you 'll have played all your trumps before you begin to learn the game. A girl who has caught up every trick of manner, every little tactic of society within a month, and who, at this hour, would stand the scrutiny of the most fastidious eye, is a great prize in the wheel. This aptitude might lead to great things, though, in all probability, it will never conduce, save to very little ones!” With this reflection Jekyl arose to begin his toilet, an occupation which, less from dandyism than pure self-love, he usually prolonged during the whole morning. It was to him a period of self-examination. He seemed, to use a mercantile figure, to be taking stock of his own capabilities, and investigating his own means of future success. It was an “open day,” that is, he knew not where he should dine; so that his costume, while partaking of all the characteristics of the morning, had yet combined certain little decorative traits that would not be unsuitable if pressed to accept an unpremeditated hospitality. There were very few, indeed, with whom Jekyl would have condescended so to dine, not only from the want of dignity incurred, but that on principle he would have preferred the humblest fare at home to the vulgarity of a pot-luck dinner, which invariably, as he said himself, deranged your digestion, and led to wrong intimacies. His dress being completed, he looked out along the crowd to see in whose carriage he was to have a seat to the Cascini. More than one inviting gesture motioned him to a place, as equipage after equipage passed on; but although some of those who sought him were high in rank, and others distinguished for beauty and attraction, Jekyl declined the courtesies with that little wave of the hand so significative in all Italian intercourse. Occasionally, indeed, a bland, regretful smile seemed to convey the sorrow the refusal cost him; and once he actually placed his hand over where his heart might be, as though to express a perfect pang of suffering; but still he bided his time. At last a very dark visage, surrounded by a whisker of blackest hair, peeped from beneath the head of a very shabby caleche, whose horse and coachman were all of the “seediest;” and Jekyl cried out, “Morlache!” while he made a sign towards the Cascini. The other replied by spreading out his hand horizontally from his mouth, and blowing along the surface, a pantomime meant to express a railroad. Jekyl immediately descended and took his place beside him.	{ "id": "32061" }
21	A FAMILY PICTURE	THE fashionable life of a great city has a character of sameness which defies all attempts at portraiture. Well-bred people, and their amusements, are all constructed so perfectly alike, certain family traits pervading them throughout, that every effort at individualization is certain to be a failure. You may change the venue, if you will, from London to Paris, to Vienna, or St. Petersburg, but the issue is always the same; the very same interests are at work, and the same passions exercised, by the self-same kind of people. If such be the rule among the first-rate capitals of Europe, it is very far from being the case in those smaller cities which belong to inferior States, and which, from reasons of health, pleasure, or economy, are the resort of strangers from different parts of the world. In these society is less disciplined, social rank less defined; conflicting claims and rival nationalities disturb the scene, and there is, so to say, a kind of struggle for pre-eminence, which in better regulated communities is never witnessed. If, as is unquestionably true, such places rarely present the attractions of good society, they offer to the mere observer infinitely more varied and amusing views of life than he would ever expect to see elsewhere. As in the few days of a revolution, when the “barricades are up,” and all hurrying to the conflict, more of national character will be exhibited than in half a century of tame obedience to the law; so here are displayed, to the sun and the noonday, all those passions and pretensions which rarely see the light in other places. The great besetting sin of this social state is the taste for NOTORIETY. Everything must contribute to this. Not alone wealth, splendor, rank, and genius, but vice, in all its shapes and forms, must be notorious. “Better be calumniated in all the moods and tenses than untalked of,” is the grand axiom. Do something that can be reported of you, good, if you will, bad, if you must; but do it. If you be not rich enough to astonish by the caprices of your wealth, do something by your wits, or even your whiskers. The color of a man's gloves has sufficed to make his fortune. Upon this strange ocean, which, if rarely storm-shaken, was never perfectly tranquil, the Onslows were now launched, as well pleased as people usually are who, from being of third or fourth-rate importance in their own country, suddenly awake to the fact that they are celebrities abroad. The Mazzarini Palace had long been untenanted; its last occupant had been one of the Borghese family, whose princely fortune was still unable to maintain the splendor of a residence fitted only for royalty. To learn, therefore, that a rich “milordo” had arrived there with the intention of passing his winter, was a piece of news that occupied every tongue in the city. Gossips were questioned about the private history, the peerage consulted for such facts as were public. Sir Stafford's wealth was actively discussed, and all possible inroads upon it his son's extravagance might have made debated and decided on. A minute investigation into their probable reasons for leaving England was also instituted, in which conjectures far more ingenious than true figured prominently. What they were like what they said, did, and meant to do was the sole table-talk of the capital. “They've had their horses out from England,” said one; “They 've taken the best box at the Pergola,” said another; “They've engaged Midchekoff's cook,” said a third; “They 've been speaking to Gridani about his band,” chimed in a fourth; and so on. All their proceedings were watched and followed by that eager vulturehood which hungers for ortolans, and thirsts for iced champagne. Nor were the Onslows without offering food for this curious solicitude. From the hour of her arrival, Lady Hester had been deeply engaged, in concert with her grand vizier, Albert Jekyl, in preparations for the coming campaign. An army of upholsterers, decorators, and such-like, beset the Palazzo with enormous vans crammed full of wares. Furniture, that had served royal guests, and was even yet in high preservation, was condemned, to give way to newer and more costly decoration. Rich stuffs and hangings that had been the admiration of many a visitor, were ruthlessly pulled down, to be replaced by even more gorgeous materials; till at last it was whispered about that, except some antique cabinets, the pictures, and a few tables of malachite or marble, little or nothing remained of what once constituted the splendor of the place. These were mere rumors, however; for as yet, none, save Albert Jekyl himself, had seen the interior; and from him, unless disposed to accord it, all Confidence was hopeless. Indeed, his little vague stare when questioned; his simpering, “I shouldn't wonder,” “It is very likely,” or “Now that you mention it, I begin to think so too,” would have disarmed the suspicion of all who had not studied him deeply. What the Onslows were going to do, and when they would do it, were, then, the vexed questions of every coterie. In a few days more the Carnival would begin, and yet no announcement of their intentions had yet gone forth, no programme of future festivities been issued to the world. A vague and terrible fear began to prevail that it was possible they meant all these splendid preparations for themselves alone. Such a treason was incredible at first; but as day followed day, and no sign was made, suspicion ripened into actual dread; and now the eager expectants began to whisper among themselves dark reasons for a conduct so strange and inexplicable. Haggerstone contributed his share to these mysterious doublings, for, while not confessing that his acquaintance with the Onslows was of the very slightest, and dated but from a week before, he spoke of them with all the affected ease and information of one who had known them for years. Nor were his comments of the most flattering kind, for seeing how decidedly every effort he made to renew acquaintance was met by a steady opposition, he lost no time in assuming his stand as enemy. The interval of doubt which had occurred as to their probable mode of life was favorable for this line of action. None knew if they were ever to partake of the splendor and magnificence of the Mazzarini; none could guess what chance they had of the sumptuous banquets of the rich man's table. It was a lottery, in which, as yet, they had not even a ticket; and what so natural as to depreciate the scheme! If the courts of law and equity be the recognized tribunals by which the rights of property are decided, so there exists in every city certain not less decisive courts, which pronounce upon all questions of social claims, and deliver judgments upon the pretensions of every new arrival amongst them. High amid the number of these was a certain family called Ricketts, who had been residents of Florence for thirty-odd years back. They consisted of three persons, General Ricketts, his wife, and a maiden sister of the General. They inhabited a small house in a garden within the boulevard, dignified by the name of the “41 Villino Zoe.” It had originally been the humble residence of a market-gardener, but, by the aid of paint and plaster, contrived to impose upon the world almost as successfully as did the fair owner herself by the help of similar adjuncts. A word, however, for the humanities before we speak of their abiding-place. The “General” Heaven alone knew when, where, or in what service he became so was a small, delicate little man, with bland manners, a weak voice, a weak stomach, and a weaker head; his instincts all mild, gentle, and inoffensive, and his whole pursuit in life a passion for inventing fortifications, and defending passes and tetes-du-pont by lines, circumvallations, and ravelins, which cost reams of paper and whole buckets of water-color to describe. The only fire which burned within his nature was a little flickering flame of hope, that one day the world would awake to the recognition of his great discoveries, and his name be associated with those of Vauban and Carnot. Sustained by this, he bore up against contemporary neglect and actual indifference; he whispered to himself, that, like Nelson, he would one day “have a gazette of his own,” and in this firm conviction, he went on with rule and compass, measuring and daubing and drawing from morn till night, happy, humble, and contented: nothing could possibly be more inoffensive than such an existence. Even the French our natural enemies or the Russians our Palmerstonian Betes noires would have forgiven, had they but seen, the devices of his patriotism. Never did heroic ardor burn in a milder bosom, for, though his brain revelled in all the horrors of siege and slaughter, he would not have had the heart to crush a beetle. Unlike him in every respect was the partner of his joys: a more bustling, plotting, scheming existence it was hard to conceive. Most pretenders are satisfied with aspiring to one crown; her ambitions were “legion.” When Columbus received the taunts of the courtiers on the ease of his discovery, and merely replied, that the merit lay simply in the fact that he alone had made it, he was uttering a truth susceptible of very wide application. Nine tenths of the inventions which promote the happiness or secure the ease of mankind have been not a whit more difficult than that of balancing the egg. They only needed that some one should think of them “practically.” Thousands may have done so in moods of speculation or fancy; the grand requisite was a practical intelligence. Such was Mrs. Ricketts's. As she had seen at Naples the lava used for mere road-making, which in other hands, and by other treatment, might have been fashioned into all the shapes and colors of Bohemian glass, so did she perceive that a certain raw material was equally misapplied and devoted to base uses, but which, by the touch of genius, might be made powerful as the wand of an enchanter. This was “Flattery.” Do not, like the Spanish courtiers, my dear reader, do not smile at her discovery, nor suppose that she had been merely exploring an old and exhausted mine. Her flattery was not, as the world employs it, an exaggerated estimate of existing qualities, but a grand poetic and creative power, that actually begot the great sublime it praised. Whatever your walk, rank, or condition in life, she instantly laid hold of it to entrap you. No matter what your size, stature, or symmetry, she could costume you in a minute! Her praises, like an elastic-web livery, fitted all her slaves; and slaves were they of the most abject slavery, who were led by the dictation of her crafty intelligence! A word about poor Martha, and we have done; nor, indeed, is there any need we should say more than that she was universally known as “Poor Martha” by all their acquaintance. Oh! what patience, submission, and long suffering it takes before the world will confer its degree of Martyr, before they will condescend to visit, even with so cheap a thing as compassion, the life of an enduring self-devotion. Martha had had but one idol all her life, her brother; and although, when he married late in years, she had almost died broken-hearted at the shock, she clung to him and his fortunes, unable to separate from one to whose habits she had been ministering for above thirty years. It was said that originally she was a person of good common faculties, and a reasonably fair knowledge of the world; but to see her at the time of which we now speak, not a vestige remained of either, not a stone marked where the edifice once stood. Nor can this ba matter of wonderment. Who could have passed years amid all the phantasmagoria of that unreal existence, and either not gone clean mad, or made a weak compromise with sanity, by accepting everything as real? Poor Martha had exactly these two alternatives, either to “believe the crusts mutton,” or be eternally shut out from all hope. Who can tell the long and terrible struggle such a mind must have endured? what little bursts of honest energy repelled by fear and timidity? what good intentions baffled by natural humility, and the affection she bore her brother? It may have nay, it did cost her much to believe this strange creed of her sister-in-law; but she ended by doing so. So implicit was her faith, that, like a true devotee, she would not trust the evidence of her own senses, if opposed by the articles of her belief. The very pictures at whose purchase she had been present, and whose restoration and relacquering had been the work of her own hands, she was willing to aver had been the gifts of royal and princely personages. The books for which she had herself written to the publishers, she would swear all tributes offered by the respective writers to the throne of taste and erudition. Every object with whose humble birth and origin she was familiar, was associated in her mind with some curious history, which, got off by rote, she repeated with full credulity. Like the well-known athlete, who lifted a bull because he had accustomed himself to the feat since the animal had been a calf, rising from small beginnings, she had so educated her faculties that now nothing was above her powers. Not all the straits and contrivances by which this motley display was got up, not all the previous schemings and plottings, not all the discussions as to what King or Kaiser this should be attributed, by what artist that was painted, who carved this cup, who enamelled that vase, could shake the firmness of her faith when the matter was once decided. She might oppose the Bill in every stage; she might cavil at it in Committee, and divide on every clause; but when it once became law, she revered it as a statute of the land. All her own doubts faded away on the instant; all her former suggestions vanished at once; a new light seemed to break on her mind, and she appeared to see with the eyes of truth and discernment. We have been led away beyond our intention in this sketch, and have no space to devote to that temple wherein the mysteries were celebrated. Enough if we say that it was small and ill-arranged, its discomfort increased by the incongruous collection of rare and curious objects by which it was filled. Stuffed lions stood in the hall; mock men in armor guarded the entrance to the library; vast glass cases of mineralogical wealth, botanical specimens, stuffed birds, impaled butterflies, Indian weapons, Etrurian cups, Irish antiquities, Chinese curiosities, covered the walls on every side. Not a specimen amongst them that could not trace its presentation to some illustrious donor. Miniatures of dear, dear friends everywhere; and what a catholic friendship was that which included every one, from Lord Byron to Chalmers, and took in the whole range of morals, from Mrs. Opie to Fanny Elssler. Indeed, although the fair Zoe was a “rigid virtue,” her love of genius, her “mind-worship,” as she called it, often led her into strange intimacies with that intellectual class whose strength lies in pirouettes, and whose gifts are short petticoats. In a word, whatever was “notorious” was her natural prey; a great painter, a great radical, a great basso, a great traveller; any one to lionize, anything to hang history upon; to enlist, even “for one night only,” in that absurd comedy which was performed at her house, and to display among her acquaintances as another in that long catalogue of those who came to lay the tribute of their genius at her feet. That a large section of society was disposed to be rude and ungenerous enough to think her a bore, is a fact that we are, however unwilling, obliged to confess; but her actual influence was little affected by the fact. The real serious business of life is often carried on in localities surrounded by innumerable inconveniences. Men buy and sell their millions, subsidize states, and raise loans in dens dark and dismal enough to be prison-cells. In the same way, the Villino was a recognized rendezvous of all who wanted to hear what was going on in the world, and who wished to be d la hauteur of every current scandal of the day. Not that such was ever the tone of the conversation; on the contrary, it was “all taste and the musical glasses,” the “naughty talk” being the mere asides of the scene. Now, in that season of foreign life which precedes the Carnival, and on those nights when there is no opera, any one benevolent enough to open his doors to receive is sure of full houses; so the Villino “improved the occasion,” by announcing a series of Tuesdays and Fridays, which were, as the papers say, frequented by all the rank and fashion of the metropolis. It is at one of these “at homes” that we would now present our reader, not, indeed, during the full moon of the reception, when the crowded rooms, suffocating with heat, were crammed with visitors, talking in every tongue of Europe, and every imaginable dialect of each. The great melee tournament was over, and a few lingered over the now empty lists, discussing in familiar converse the departed guests and the events of the evening. This privy council consisted of the reader's old acquaintance, Haggerstone, a Russo-Polish Count Petrolaffski, a dark, sallow-skinned, odd-looking gentleman, whose national predilections had raised him to the rank of an enemy to the Emperor, but whose private resources, it was rumored, came from the Imperial treasury to reward his services as a spy; a certain Mr. Scroope Purvis, the brother of Mrs. Ricketts, completing the party. He was a little, rosy-cheeked old man, with a limp and a stutter, perpetually running about retailing gossip, which, by some accident or other, he invariably got all wrong, never, on even the most trifling occasion, being able to record a fact as it occurred. Such were the individuals of a group which sat around the fire in close and secret confab., Mrs. Ricketts herself placed in the midst, her fair proportions gracefully disposed in a chair whose embroidery displayed all the quarterings and emblazonment of her family for centuries back. The “Bill” before the house was the Onslows, whose res gestee were causing a most intense interest everywhere. “Have dey return your call, madam?” asked the Pole, with an almost imperceptible glance beneath his dark brows. “Not yet, Count; we only left our cards yesterday.” This, be it said in parenthesis, was “inexact,” the visit had been made eight days before. “Nor should we have gone at all, but Lady Foxington begged and entreated we would. 'They will be so utterly without guidance of any kind,' she said, 'you must really take them in hand.'” “And you will take dem in your hand eh?” “That depends, my dear Count, that depends,” said she, pondering. “We must see what line they adopt here; rank and wealth have no influence with us if ununited with moral and intellectual excellence.” “I take it, then, your circle will be more select than amusing this winter,” said Haggerstone, with one of his whip-cracking enunciations. “Be it so, Colonel,” sighed she, plaintively. “Like a lone beacon on a rock, with I forget the quotation.” “With the phos-phos-phos-phate of lime upon it?” said Purvis, “that new discov-co-covery?” “With no such thing! A figure is, I perceive, a dangerous mode of expression.” “Ha! ha! ha!” cried he, with a peculiar cackle, whose hysteric notes always carried himself into the seventh heaven of enjoyment, “you would cut a pretty figure if you were to be made a beacon of, and be burned like Moses. Ha! ha! ha!” The lady turned from him in disdain, and addressed the Colonel. “So you really think that they are embarrassed, and that is the true reason of their coming abroad?” “I believe I may say I know it, ma'am!” rejoined he. “There is a kind of connection between our families, although I should be very sorry they 'd hear of it, the Badelys and the Harringtons are first cousins.” “Oh, to be sure!” broke in Purvis. “Jane Harrington was father; no, no, not father she was mo-mo-mother of Tom Badely; no! that is n't it, she was his aunt, or his brother-in-law, I forget which.” “Pray be good enough, sir, not to involve a respectable family in a breach of common law,” said Haggerstone, tartly, “and leave the explanation to me.” “How I do dislike dat English habit of countin' cousins,” said the Pole; “you never see tree, four English togeder without a leetle tree of genealogie in de middle, and dey do sit all round, fighting for de fruit.” “Financial reasons, then, might dictate retirement,” said Mrs. Ricketts, coming back to the original theme. A very significant nod from Haggerstone inferred that he concurred in the remark. “Four contested elections for a county, ma'am, a spendthrift wife, and a gambling son, rarely increase a man's income,” said he, sententiously. “Do he play? What for play is he fond of?” asked the Pole, eagerly. “Play, sir? There is nothing an Englishman will not play at, from the turf, to tossing for sovereigns.” “So Hamlet say, in Shakspeare, 'de play is de ting,'” cried the Count, with the air of a man who made a happy quotation. “They are going to have plays,” broke in Purvis; “Jekyl let it out to-night. They 're going to get up a Vauvau-vau-vau--” “A tete de veau, probably, sir,” said Haggerstone; “In which case,” continued he, in a whisper, “you would be invaluable.” “No, it is n't that,” broke in Purvis; “they are to have what they call Proverbs.” “I trust they have engaged your services as Solomon, sir,” said Haggerstone, with that look of satisfaction which always followed an impudent speech. “I heard the subject of one of them,” resumed the other, who was far too occupied with his theme to bestow a thought upon a sarcasm. “There's a lady in love with with with her Mam-mam-mam--” “Her mamma,” suggested the Pole. “No, it is n't her mamma; it's her Mam-ame-ameluke her Mameluke slave; and he, who is a native prince, with a great many wives of his own--” “Oh, for shame, Scroope, you forget Martha is here,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who was always ready to suppress the bore by a call to order on the score of morals. “It isn't wrong, I assure you; just hear me out; let me only explain--” “There, pray don't insist, I beg you,” said Mrs. Ricketts, with a regal wave of her hand. “Why, it's Miss Dalton is to play it, Jekyl says,” cried Purvis, in a tone of most imploring cadence. “And who may Miss Dalton be?” asked Mrs. Ricketts. “She is the niece no, she's the aunt or rather her father is aunt to to--” “He may be an old lady, sir; but, surely--” “Oh, I have it now!” broke in Purvis. “It was her mother; Miss Da-a-alton's mother was uncle to a Stafford.” “Perhaps I can shorten the pedigree,” said Haggerstone, tartly. “The young lady is the daughter of a man whom this same Sir Stafford tricked out of his fortune; they were distant relatives, so he had n't even the plea of blood-relationship to cover his iniquity. It was, however, an Irish fortune, and, like a Spanish chateau, its loss is more a question of feeling than of fact. The lawyers still say that Dalton's right is unimpeachable, and that the Onslows have not even the shadow of a case for a jury.” “An' have de lady no broder nor sister?” asked the Count, who had heard this story with much attention. “She has, sir, both brother and sister, but both illegitimate, so that this girl is the heiress to the estate.” “And probably destined to be the wife of the young Guardsman,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Guessed with your habitual perspicuity, madam,” said Haggerstone, bowing. “How very shocking! What worldliness one sees everywhere!” cried she, plaintively. “The world is excessively worldly, madam,” rejoined Haggerstone; “but I really believe that we are not a jot worse than were the patriarchs of old.” “Ah, oui, les patriarches!” echoed the Pole, laughing, and always ready to seize upon an allusion that savored of irreverence. “Count! Colonel Haggerstone!” cried Mrs. Ricketts, in reproof, and with a look to where Martha sat at her embroidery-frame. “And this Miss Dalton is she pretty?” “She is pretty at this moment, madam; but, with a clever hairdresser and a good milliner, would be downright beautiful. Of course these are adjuncts she is little likely to find during her sojourn with the Onslows.” “Poor thing! how glad one would be to offer her a kinder asylum,” said Mrs. Ricketts, while she threw her eyes over the cracked china monsters and mock Vandykes around her; “a home,” added she, “where intellectuality and refinement might compensate for the vulgar pleasures of mere wealth!” “She may want such, one of these days, yet, or I'm much mistaken,” said Haggerstone. “Onslow has got himself very deep in railway speculations; he has heavy liabilities in some Mexican mining affairs too. They 've all been living very fast; and a crash a real crash” this word he gave with a force of utterance that only malignity could compass “is almost certain to follow! What an excellent stable will come to the hammer then! There 's a 'Bone setter' colt worth a thousand guineas, with his engagements.” And now there was a little pause in the dialogue, while each followed out the thoughts of his own mind. Haggerstoue's were upon the admirable opportunity of picking up a first-rate batch of horses for a fourth of their value; Mrs. Ricketts was pondering over the good policy of securing possession of a rich heiress as a member of her family, to be held in bondage as long as possible, and eventually if it must be given in marriage to some unprovided-for cousin; the Pole's dreams were of a rich wife; and Purvis, less ambitious than the rest, merely revelled in the thought of all the gossip this great event, when it should come off, would afford him; the innumerable anecdotes he would have to retail of the family and their wastefulness; the tea-parties he should enliven by his narratives; the soirees he would amuse with his sallies. Blessed gift of imbecility! how infinitely more pleasurable to its possessor than all the qualities and attributes of genius! “Dat is ver pretty indeed, tres jolie!” said the Count, bestowing a look of approval at the embroidery-frame, whereupon, for eight mortal months, poor Martha labored at the emblazonment of the Ricketts' arms; “de leetle dogs are as de life.” “They are tigers, Monsieur le Comte,” replied she, modestly. “Oh, pardon! dey are tigres!” “Most puppies are somewhat tigerish nowadays,” chimed in Haggerstone, rising to take his leave. “You are leaving us early, Colonel,” said the old General, as he awoke from a long nap on the little corner sofa, which formed his resting-place. “It is past two, sir; and, even in your society, one cannot cheat time.” Then, having acquitted himself of his debt of impertinence, he wished them good-night. The others, also, took their leave and departed.	{ "id": "32061" }
22	KATE.	LET us now return to Kate Dalton, whose life, since we last saw her, had been one round of brilliant enjoyment. To the pleasure of the journey, with all its varied objects of interest, the picturesque scenery of the Via Mala, the desolate grandeur of the Splugen, the calm and tranquil beauty of Como, succeeded the thousand treasures of art in the great cities where they halted. At first every image and object seemed associated by some invisible link with thoughts of home. What would Nelly think or say of this? was the ever-recurring question of her mind. How should she ever be able to treasure up her own memories and tell of the wonderful things that every moment met her eyes? The quick succession of objects, all new and dazzling, were but so many wonders to bring back to that “dear fireside” of home. The Onslows themselves, who saw everything without enthusiasm of any kind, appeared to take pleasure in the freshness of the young girl's admiration. It gave them, as it were, a kind of reflected pleasure, while, amid galleries and collections of all that was rare and curious, nothing struck them as half so surprising as the boundless delight of her unhackneyed nature. Educated to a certain extent by watching the pursuits of her sister, Kate knew how to observe with taste, and admire with discrimination. Beauty of high order would seem frequently endowed with a power of appreciating the beauty of art, a species of relation appearing almost to subsist between the two. Gifted with this instinct, there was an intensity in all her enjoyments, which displayed itself in the animation of her manner and the elevated expression of her features. The coldest and most worldly natures are seldom able to resist the influence of this enthusiasm; however hard the metal of their hearts, they must melt beneath this flame. Lady Hester Onslow herself could not remain insensible to the pure sincerity and generous warmth of this artless girl. For a time the combat, silent, unseen, but eventful, was maintained between these two opposite natures, the principle of good warring with the instincts of evil. The victory might have rested with the true cause there was every prospect of its doing so when Sydney Onslow, all whose sympathies were with Kate, and whose alliance had every charm of sisterhood, was suddenly recalled to England by tidings of her aunt's illness. Educated by her aunt Conway, she had always looked up to her as a mother, nor did the unhappy circumstances of her father's second marriage tend to weaken this feeling of attachment. The sad news reached them at Genoa; and Sydney, accompanied by Dr. Grounsell, at once set out for London. If the sudden separation of the two girls, just at the very moment of a budding friendship, was sorrowfully felt by both, to Lady Hester the event was anything but unwelcome. She never had liked Sydney; she now detested the notion of a step-daughter, almost of her own age, in the same society with herself; she dreaded, besides, the influence that she had already acquired over Kate, whose whole heart and nature she had resolved on monopolizing. It was not from any feeling of attachment or affection, it was the pure miser-like desire for possession that animated her. The plan of carrying away Kate from her friends and home had been her own; she, therefore, owned her; the original title was vested in her: the young girl's whole future was to be in her hands; her “road in life” was to be at her dictation. To be free of Sydney and the odious doctor by the same event was a double happiness, which, in spite of all the decorous restraints bad news impose, actually displayed itself in the most palpable form. The Palazzo Mazzarini was now to be opened to the world, with all the splendor wealth could bestow, untrammelled by any restriction the taste of Sydney or the prudence of the doctor might impose. Sir Stafford, ever ready to purchase quiet for himself at any cost of money, objected to nothing. The cheapness of Italy, the expectations formed of an Englishman, were the arguments which always silenced him if he ventured on the very mildest remonstrance about expenditure; and Jekyl was immediately called into the witness-box, to show that among the economies of the Continent nothing was so striking as the facilities of entertaining. George, as might be supposed, had no dislike to see their own house the great centre of society, and himself the much sought-after and caressed youth of the capital. As for Kate, pleasure came associated in her mind with all that could elevate and exalt it, refinement of manners, taste, luxury, the fascinations of wit, the glitter of conversational brilliancy. She had long known that she was handsome, but she had never felt it till now; never awoke to that thrilling emotion which whispers of power over others, and which elevates the possessor of a great quality into a species of petty sovereignty above their fellows. Her progress in this conviction was a good deal aided by her maid; for, at Jekyl's suggestion, a certain Mademoiselle Nina had been attached to her personal staff. It was not easy at first for Kate to believe in the fact at all that she should have a peculiar attendant; nor was it without much constraint and confusion that she could accept of services from one whose whole air and bearing bore the stamp of breeding and tact. Mademoiselle Nina had been the maid of the Princess Menzikoff, the most distinguished belle of Florence, the model of taste and elegance in dress; but when the Princess separated from her husband, some unexplained circumstances had involved the name of the femme de chambre, so that, instead of “exchanging without a difference,” as a person of her great abilities might readily have done, she had disappeared for a while from the scene and sphere in which habitually she moved, and only emerged from her seclusion to accept the humble position of Kate Dalton's maid. She was a perfect type of her own countrywomen in her own class of life. Small and neatly formed, her head was too large for her size, and the forehead over-large for the face, the brows and temples being developed beyond all proportion. Her eyes, jet black and deeply set, were cold, stern-looking, and sleepy, sadness, or rather weariness, being the characteristic expression of the face. Her mouth, however, when she smiled, relieved this, and gave a look of softness to her features. Her manner was that of great distance and respect, the trained observance of one who had been always held in the firm hand of discipline, and never suffered to assume the slightest approach to a liberty. She contrived, however, even in her silence, or in the very few words she ever uttered, to throw an air of devotion into her service that took away from the formality of a manner that at first seemed cold and even repulsive. Kate, indeed, in the beginning, was thrown back by the studied reserve and deferential distance she observed; but as days went over, and she grew more accustomed to the girl's manner, she began to feel pleased with the placid and unchanging demeanor that seemed to bespeak a mind admirably trained and regulated to its own round of duties. While Kate sat at a writing-table, adding a few lines to that letter which, began more than a week ago, was still far from being completed, Nina, whose place was beside the window, worked away with bent-down head, not seeming to have a thought save for the occupation before her. Not so Kate; fancies came and went at every instant, breaking in upon the tenor of her thoughts, or wending far away on errands of speculation. Now she would turn her eye from the page to gaze in wondering delight at the tasteful decorations of her little chamber, a perfect gem of elegance in all its details; then she would start up to step out upon the terrace, where even in winter the orange-trees were standing, shedding their sweet odor at every breeze from the Arno. With what rapturous delight she would follow the windings of that bright river, till it was lost in the dark woods of the Cascini! How the sounds of passing equipages, the glitter and display of the moving throng, stirred her heart; and then, as she turned back within the room, with what a thrill of ecstasy her eyes rested on the splendid ball-dress which Nina had just laid upon the sofa! With a trembling hand she touched the delicate tissue of Brussels lace, and placed it over her arm in a graceful fold, her cheek flushing and her chest heaving in consciousness of heightening beauty. [Illustration: 262] Nina's head was never raised, her nimble fingers never ceased to ply; but beneath her dark brows her darker eyes shot forth a glance of deep and subtle meaning, as she watched the young girl's gesture. “Nina,” cried she, at last, “it is much too handsome for me; although I love to look at it, I actually fear to wear it. You know I never have worn anything like this before.” “Mademoiselle is too diffident and too unjust to her own charms; beautiful as is the robe, it only suits the elegance of its wearer.” “One ought to be so graceful in every gesture, so perfect in every movement beneath folds like these,” cried Kate, still gazing at the fine tracery. “Mademoiselle is grace itself!” said she, in a low, soft voice, so quiet in its utterance that it sounded like a reflection uttered unconsciously. “Oh, Nina, if I were so! If I only could feel that my every look and movement were not recalling the peasant girl; for, after all, I have been little better, our good blood could not protect us from being poor, and poverty means so much that lowers!” Nina sighed, but so softly as to be inaudible; and Kate went on: “My sister Nelly never thought so; she always felt differently. Oh, Nina, how you would love her if you saw her, and how you would admire her beautiful hair, and those deep blue eyes, so soft, so calm, and yet so meaning.” Nina looked up, and seemed to give a glance that implied assent. “Nelly would be so happy here, wandering through these galleries, and sitting for hours long in those beautiful churches, surrounded with all that can elevate feeling or warm imagination; she, too, would know how to profit by these treasures of art. The frivolous enjoyments that please me would be beneath her. Perhaps she would teach me better things; perhaps I might turn from mere sensual pleasure to higher and purer sources of happiness.” “Will Mademoiselle permit me to try this wreath?” said Nina, advancing with a garland of white roses, which she gracefully placed around Kate's head. A half cry of delight burst from Kate as she saw the effect in the glass. “Beautiful, indeed!” said Nina, as though in concurrence with an unspoken emotion. “But, Nina, I scarcely like this it seems as though I cannot tell what I wish as though I would desire notice I, that am nothing that ought to pass unobserved.” “You, Mademoiselle,” cried Nina, and for the first time a slight warmth coloring the tone of her manner, “you, Mademoiselle, the belle, the beauty, the acknowledged beauty of Florence!” “Nina! Nina!” cried Kate rebukingly. “I hope Mademoiselle will forgive me. I would not for the world fail in my respect,” said Nina, with deep humility; “but I was only repeating what others spoke.” “I am not angry, Nina, at least, not with you,” said Kate, hurriedly. “With myself, indeed, I 'm scarcely quite pleased. But who could have said such a silly thing?” “Every one, Mademoiselle, every one, as they were standing beneath the terrace t' other evening. I overheard Count Labinski say it to Captain Onslow; and then my Lady took it up, and said, 'You are quite right, gentlemen; there is nothing that approaches her in beauty.'” “Nina! dear Nina!” said Kate, covering her flushed face with both hands. “The Count de Melzi was more enthusiastic than even the rest. He vowed that he had grown out of temper with his Raffaelles since he saw you.” A hearty burst of laughter from Kate told that this flattery, at least, had gone too far. And now she resumed her seat at the writing-table. It was of the Splugen Pass and Como she had been writing; of the first burst of Italy upon the senses, as, crossing the High Alps, the land of the terraced vine lay stretched beneath. She tried to fall back upon the memory of that glorious scene as it broke upon her; but it was in vain. Other and far different thoughts had gained the mastery. It was no longer the calm lake, on whose mirrored surface snow-peaks and glaciers were reflected; it was not of those crags, over which the wild-fig and the olive, the oleander and the mimosa, are spreading, she could think. Other images crowded to her brain; troops of admirers were before her fancy; the hum of adulation filled her ears; splendid salons, resounding with delicious music, and ablaze with a thousand wax-lights, rose before her imagination, and her heart swelled with conscious triumph. The transition was most abrupt, then, from a description of scenery and natural objects to a narrative of the actual life of Florence: “Up to this, Nelly, we have seen no one, except Mr. Jekyl, whom you will remember as having met at Baden. He dines here several days every week, and is most amusing with his funny anecdotes and imitations, for he knows everybody, and is a wonderful mimic. You 'd swear Dr. Grounsell was in the next room if you heard Mr. Jekyl' s imitation. There has been some difficulty about an opera-box, for Mr. Jekyl, who manages everybody, will insist upon having Prince Midchekoff's, which is better than the royal box, and has not succeeded. For this reason we have not yet been to the Opera; and, as the Palace has been undergoing a total change of decoration and furniture, there has been no reception here as yet; but on Tuesday we are to give our first ball. All that I could tell you of splendor, my dearest Nelly, would be nothing to the reality of what I see here. Such magnificence in every detail; such troops of servants, all so respectful and obliging, and some dressed in liveries that resemble handsome uniforms! Such gold and silver plate! such delicious flowers everywhere on the staircase, in the drawing-room, here, actually, beside me as I write! And, oh, Nelly, if you could see my dress! Lace, with bouquets of red camellia, and looped up with strings of small pearls. Think of me, of poor Kate Dal ton, wearing such splendor! And, strange enough, too, I do not feel awkward in it. My hair, that you used to think I dressed so well myself, has been pronounced a perfect horror; and although I own it did shock me at first to hear it, I now see that they were perfectly right. Instead of bands, I wear ringlets down to my very shoulders; and Nina tells me there never was such an improvement, as the character of my features requires softening. Such quantities of dress as I have got, too! for there is endless toilette here; and although I am now growing accustomed to it, at first it worried me dreadfully, and left me no time to read. And, a propos of reading, Lady Hester has given me such a strange book, 'Mathilde,' it is called; very clever, deeply interesting, but not the kind of reading you would like; at least, neither the scenes nor the characters such as you would care for. Of course I take it to be a good picture of life in another sphere from what I have seen myself; and if it be, I must say there is more vice in high society than I believed. One trait of manners, however, I cannot help admiring, the extreme care that every one takes never to give even the slightest offence; not only that the wrong thing is never said, but ever even suggested. Such an excessive deference to others' feelings bespeaks great refinement, if not a higher and better quality. Lady Hester is delightful in this respect. I cannot tell you how the charm of her manner grows into a fascination. Captain Onslow I see little of, but he is always good-humored and gay; and as for Sir Stafford, he is like a father in the kindliness and affection of his cordiality. Sydney I miss greatly; she was nearly of my own age, and although so much superior to me in every way, so companionable and sisterlike. We are to write to each other if she does not return soon. I intended to have said so much about the galleries, but Mr. Jekyl does quiz so dreadfully about artistic enthusiasm, I am actually ashamed to say a word; besides, to me, Nelly, beautiful pictures impart pleasure less from intrinsic merit than from the choice of subject and the train of thoughts they originate; and for this reason I prefer Salvator Rosa to all other painters. The romantic character of his scenery, the kind of story that seems to surround his characters, the solemn tranquillity of his moonlights, the mellow splendor of his sunsets, actually heighten one's enjoyment of the realities in nature. I am ashamed to own that Raffaelle is less my favorite than Titian, whose portraits appear to reveal the whole character and life of the individual represented. In Velasq'uez there is another feature--” Here came an interruption, for Nina came with gloves to choose, and now arose the difficult decision between a fringe of silver filigree and a deep fall of Valenciennes lace, a question on both sides of which Mademoiselle Nina had much to say. In all these little discussions, the mock importance lent to mere trifles at first amused Kate, and even provoked her laughter; but, by degrees, she learned not only to listen to them with attention, but even to take her share in the consultation. Nina's great art lay in her capacity for adapting a costume to the peculiar style and character of the wearer; and, however exaggerated were some of her notions on this subject, there was always a sufficiency of shrewd sense and good taste in her remarks to overbear any absurdity in her theory. Kate Dalton, whose whole nature had been simplicity and frankness itself, was gradually brought to assume a character with every change of toilette; for if she came down to breakfast in a simple robe of muslin, she changed it for a costume de paysanna to walk in the garden, and this again for a species of hunting-dress to ride in the Cascini, to appear afterwards at dinner in some new type of a past age; an endless variety of these devices at last engaging attention, and occupying time, to the utter exclusion of topics more important and interesting. The letter was now to be resumed; but the clew was lost, and her mind was only fettered with topics of dress and toilette. She walked out upon the terrace to recover her composure; but beneath the window was rolling on that endless tide of people and carriages that swells up the great flood of a capital city. She turned her steps to another side, and there, in the pleasure-ground, was George Onslow, with a great horse-sheet round him, accustoming a newly purchased Arabian to the flapping of a riding-skirt. It was a present Sir Stafford had made her the day before. Everything she saw, everything she heard, recalled but one image, herself! The intoxication of this thought was intense. Life assumed features of delight and pleasure she had never conceived possible before. There was an interest imparted to everything, since in everything she had her share. Oh! most insidious of all poisons is that of egotism, which lulls the conscience by the soft flattery we whisper to ourselves, making us to believe that we are such as the world affects to think us. How ready are we to take credit for gifts that have been merely lent us by a kind of courtesy, and of which we must make restitution, when called upon, with what appetite we may. For the time, indeed, the ecstasy of this delusion is boundless. Who has not, at some one moment or other of his life, experienced the entrancing delight of thinking that the world is full of his friends and admirers, that good wishes follow him as he goes, and kind welcomes await his coming? Much of our character for good or evil, of our subsequent utility in life, or our utter helplessness, will depend upon how we stand the season of trial. Kate Daiton possessed much to encourage this credulity; she was not only eminently handsome, but she had that species of fascination in her air which a clever French writer defines as the feminine essence, “plus femme que les autres femmes.” If a very critical eye might have detected in her manner and address certain little awkwardnesses, a less exacting judgment would have probably been struck with them as attractions, recalling the fact of her youth, her simplicity, and the freshness of her nature. Above all other charms, however, was the radiant happiness that beamed out in every word and look and gesture; such a thorough sense of enjoyment, so intense a pleasure in life, is among the very rarest of all gifts. There was enough of singularity, of the adventurous, in the nature of her position, to excel all the romance of her nature; there was more than enough of real splendor around her to give an air of fact and truth to the highest flights of her imagination. Had she been the sole daughter of the house and name, flatteries and caresses could not have been lavished on her more profusely; her will consulted, her wishes inquired, her taste evoked on every occasion. And yet, with all these seductions about her, she was not yet spoiled not yet! Home and its dear associations were ever present to her mind; her humble fortune, and that simple life she used to lead, enforcing lessons of humility not yet distasteful. She could still recur to the memory of the little window that looked over the “Murg,” and think the scenery beautiful. Her dear, dear papa was still all she had ever thought him. Nelly was yet the sweet-tempered, gentle, gifted creature she worshipped as a sister; even Hanserl was the kind, quaint emblem of his own dreamy “Vaterland.” As yet no conflict had arisen between the past and the present, between the remembrance of narrow fortune and all its crippling exigencies, and the enjoyment of wealth that seems to expand the generous feelings of the heart. The lustre of her present existence threw, as yet, no sickly light over the bygone; would it might have been always so!	{ "id": "32061" }
23	A SMALL SUPPER PARTY.	THE great ball at the Mazzarini Palace “came off” just as other great balls have done, and will continue to do, doubtless, for ages hence. There was the usual, perhaps a little more than the usual, splendor of dress and diamonds; the same glare and crash and glitter and crowd and heat; the same buoyant light-heartedness among the young; the same corroding ennui of the old; taste in dress was criticised, looks were scanned, flirtations detected, quarrels discovered, fans were mislaid, hearts were lost, flounces were torn, and feelings hurt. There was the ordinary measure of what people call enjoyment, mixed up with the ordinary proportion of envy, shyness, pretension, sarcasm, coldness, and malice. It was a grand tournament of human passions in white satin and jewels; and if the wounds exchanged were not as rudely administered, they were to the full as dangerous as in the real lists of combat. Yet, in this mortal conflict, all seemed happy. There was an air of voluptuous abandonment over everything; and whatever cares they might have carried within, as far as appearance went, the world went well and pleasantly with them. The ball was, however, a splendid one; there was everything that could make it such. The salons were magnificent in decoration; the lighting a perfect blaze. There was beauty in abundance, diamonds in masses, and a Royal Highness from the Court, an insignificant little man, it is true, with a star and a stutter, who stared at every one, and spoke to nobody. Still he was the centre of a glittering group of handsome aides-de-camp, who displayed their fascinations in every gesture and look. Apart from the great flood-tide of pleasure, down which so many float buoyantly, there is ever on these occasions a deeper current that flows beneath, of human wile and cunning and strategy, just as, in many a German fairy tale, some curious and recondite philosophy lies hid beneath the little incidents related to amuse childhood. It would lead us too far from the path of our story were we to seek for this “tiny thread amid the woof;” enough for our present purpose if we slightly advert to it, by asking our reader to accompany us to the small chamber which called Albert Jekyl master, and where now, at midnight, a little table of three covers was laid for supper. Three flasks of champagne stood in a little ice-pail in one corner, and on a dumbwaiter was arranged a dessert, which, for the season, displayed every charm of rarity. A large bouquet of moss-roses and camellias ornamented the centre of the board, and shed a pleasant odor through the room. The servant, whose dress and look bespoke him a waiter from a restaurant in the neighborhood, had just completed all the arrangements of the table, placing chairs around it, and heaped fresh wood upon the hearth, when a carriage drew up at the door. The merry sound of voices and the step of feet were heard on the stairs, and the next moment a lady entered, whose dress of black lace, adorned with bouquets of blue flowers, admirably set off a figure and complexion of Spanish mould and character. To this, a black lace veil fastened to the hair behind, and worn across the shoulders, contributed. There was a lightness and intrepidity in her step, as she entered the room, that suited the dark, flashing, steady glance of her full black eyes. It would have, indeed, been difficult to trace in that almost insolent air of conscious beauty the calm, subdued, and almost sorrow-struck girl whom we have seen as Nina in a former chapter; but, however dissimilar in appearance, they were the same one individual; and the humble femme de chambre of Kate Dalton was the celebrated ballet-dancer of the great theatre of Barcelona. The figure which followed was a strange contrast to that light and elegant form. He was an old, short man, of excessive corpulence in body, and whose face was bloated and purple by intemperance. He was dressed in the habit of a priest, and was in reality a canon of the Dome Cathedral. His unwieldy gait, his short and labored respiration, increased almost to suffocation by the ascent of the stairs and his cumbrous dress, seemed doubly absurd beside the flippant lightness of the “Ballarina.” Jekyl came last, mimicking the old canon behind his back, and putting the waiter's gravity to a severe test by the bloated expansion of his cheek and the fin-like motion of his hands as he went. “Ecco me!” cried he out, with a deep grunt, as he sank into a chair and wiped the big drops from his forehead with the skirt of his gown. “You tripped up the stairs like a gazelle, padre,” said the girl, as she arranged her hair before the glass, and disposed the folds of her veil with all the tact of coquetry. A thick snort, like the ejaculation a hippopotamus might have uttered, was the only reply, and Jekyl, having given a glance over the table to see all was in order, made a sign for Nina to be seated. “Accursed be the stairs and he that made them!” muttered the padre. “I feel as if my limbs had been torn on the rack. I have been three times up the steps of the high altar already to-day, and am tired as a dog.” “Here is your favorite soup, padre,” said Jekyl, as he moved the ladle through a smoking compound, whence a rich odor of tomato and garlic ascended. “This will make you young again.” “And who said I would wish to be young again?” cried the priest, angrily. “I have experience of what youth means every day in the confessional, and I promise you age has the best of it.” “Such a ripe and ruddy age as yours, padre!” said the girl, with affected simplicity. [Illustration: 274] “Just so, minx,” rejoined he; “such ripeness as portends falling from the tree! Better even that than to be worm-eaten on the stalk; ay, or a wasp's nest within, girl, you understand me.” “You will never be good friends for half an hour together,” said Jekyl, as he filled their glasses with champagne, and then touching his own to each, drank off a bumper. “These are from Savoy, these truffles, and have no flavor,” said the padre, pushing away his plate. “Let me taste that lobster, for this is a half-fast to-day.” “They are like the priests,” said Nina, laughing; “all black without and rotten within!” “The ball went off admirably last night,” interposed Jekyl, to stop what he foresaw might prove a sharp altercation. “Yes,” said Nina, languidly. “The dresses were fresher than the wearers. It was the first time for much of the satin, the same could not be said for many of the company.” “The Balderoni looked well,” said Jekyl. “Too fat, caro mio, too fat!” replied Nina. “And she has eight penances in the week,” grunted out the canon. “There 's nothing like wickedness for embonpoint, padre,” said Nina, laughing. “Angels always are represented as chubby girls,” said the priest, whose temper seemed to improve as he ate on. “Midchekoff, I thought, was out of temper all the evening,” resumed Jekyl; “he went about with his glass in his eye, seeking for flaws in the lapis lazuli, or retouches in the pictures; and seemed terribly provoked at the goodness of the supper.” “I forgive him all, for not dancing with 'my Lady,'” said Nina. “She kept herself disengaged for the prince for half the night, and the only reward was his Russian compliment of, 'What a bore is a ball when one is past the age of dancing!'” “Did the Noncio eat much?” asked the padre, who seemed at once curious and envious about the dignitary. “He played whist all night,” said Jekyl, “and never changed his partner!” “The old Marchesa Guidotti?” “The same. You know of that, then, padre?” asked Jekyl. A grunt and a nod were all the response. “What a curious chapter on 'La vie privee' of Florence your revelations might be, padre!” said Jekyl, as if reflectingly. “What a deal of iniquity, great and small, comes to your ears every season!” “What a vast amount of it has its origin in that little scheming brain of thine, Signor Jekyli, and in the fertile wits of your fair neighbor. The unhappy marriages thou hast made; the promising unions thou hast broken; the doubts thou hast scattered here, the dark suspicions there; the rightful distrust thou hast lulled, the false confidences encouraged, youth, youth, thou hast a terrible score to answer for!” “When I think of the long catalogue of villany you have been listening to, padre, not only without an effort, but a wish to check; when every sin recorded has figured in your ledger, with its little price annexed; when you have looked out upon the stormy sea of society, as a wrecker ranges his eye over an iron-bound coast in a gale, and thinks of the 'waifs' that soon will be his own; when, as I have myself seen you, you have looked indulgently down on petty transgressions, that must one day become big sins, and, like a skilful angler, throw the little fish back into the stream, in the confidence that when full-grown you can take them, when you have done all these things and a thousand more, padre, I cannot help muttering to myself, Age, age, what a terrible score thou hast to answer for!” “I must say,” interposed Nina, “you are both very bad company, and that nothing can be in worse taste than this interchange of compliments. You are both right to amuse yourselves in this world as your faculties best point out, but each radically wrong in attributing motives to the other. What, in all that is wonderful, have we to do with motives? I'm sure _I_ have no grudges to cherish, no debts of dislike to pay off, anywhere. Any diablerie I take part in, is for pure mischief sake. I do think it rather a hard case, that, with somewhat better features, and I know a far shrewder wit than many others, I should perform second and third rate parts in this great comedy of life, while many without higher qualifications are 'cast for the best characters.' This little score I do try and exact, not from individuals, but the world at large. Mischief with me is the child's pleasure in deranging the chessmen when the players are most intent on the game.” “Now, as to these Onslows, for we must be practical, padre mio,” said Jekyl, “let us see what is to be done with them. As regards matrimony, the real prize has left for England, this Dalton girl may or may not be a 'hit;' some aver that she is heiress to a large estate, of which the Onslows have obtained possession, and that they destine her for the young Guardsman. This must be inquired into. My Lady has 'excellent dispositions,' and may have become anything or everything.” “Let her come to 'the Church,' then,” growled out the canon. “Gently, padre, gently,” said Jekyl, “you are really too covetous, and would drag the river always from your own net. We have been generous, hugely generous, to you for the last three seasons, and have made all your converts the pets of society, no matter how small and insignificant their pretensions. The vulgar have been adopted in the best circles, the ugly dubbed beautiful, the most tiresome of old maids have been reissued from the mint as new coinage. We have petted, flattered, and fawned upon those 'interesting Christians,' as the 'Tablet' would call them, till the girls began to feel that there were no partners for a polka outside the Church of Rome, and that all the 'indulgences' of pleasure, like those of religion, came from the Pope. We cannot give you the Onslows, or, at least, not yet. We have yet to marry the daughter, provide for the friend, squeeze the sou.” “Profligate young villain! Reach me the champagne, Nina; and, Nina, tell your young mistress that it is scarcely respectful to come on foot to the mid-day mass; that the clergy of the town like to see the equipages of the rich before the doors of the cathedral, as a suitable homage to the Church. The Onslows have carriages in abundance, and their liveries are gorgeous and splendid!” “It was her own choice,” said Nina; “she is a singular girl for one that never before knew luxury of any kind.” “I hate these simple tastes,” growled out the padre; “they bespeak that obstinacy which people call a 'calm temperament.' Her own dress, too, has no indication of her rank, Nina.” “That shall be cared for, padre.” “Why shouldn't that young soldier come along with her? Tell him that our choir is magnificent; whisper him that the beautiful Marchesa di Guardoni sits on the very bench beside Miss Dalton.” Nina nodded an assent. “The young girl herself is lax enough about her duties, Nina; she has not been even once to confession.” “That comes of these English!” cried Nina; “they make our service a constant jest. There is always some vulgar quizzing about saint-worship, or relic reverence, or the secrets of the confessional, going on amongst them.” “Does she permit this?” asked the priest, eagerly. “She blushes sometimes, occasionally she smiles with a good-humor meant to deprecate these attacks, and now and then, when the sallies have been pushed too far, I have seen her in tears some hours after.” “Oh, if these heretics would but abstain from ridicule!” cried the canon. “The least lettered amongst them can scoff and gibe and rail. They have their stock subjects of sarcasm, too, handed down from father to son, poor, witless little blasphemies, thefts from Voltaire, who laughed at themselves, and much mischief do they work! Let them begin to read, however, let them commence to 'inquire,' as the phrase has it, and the game is our own.” “I think, padre,” said Jekyl, “that more of your English converts are made upon principles of pure economy. Popery, like truffles, is so cheap abroad!” “Away with you! away with you!” cried the padre, rebukingly. “They come to us as the children seek their mother's breast. Hand me the maccaroni.” “Padre mio,” broke in Jekyl, “I wish you would be Catholic enough to be less Popish. We have other plots in hand here, besides increasing the funds of the 'Holy Carmelites;' and while we are disputing about the spoil, the game may betake themselves to other hunting-grounds. These Onslows must not be suffered to go hence.” “Albert is right,” interposed Nina. “When the 'Midchekoff' condescends to think himself in love with the Dalton girl, when the Guardsman has lost some thousands more than he can pay, when my Lady has offended one half of Florence and bullied the other, then the city will have taken a hold upon their hearts, and you may begin your crusade when you please. Indeed, I am not sure, if the season be a dull one, I would not listen to you myself.” “As you listened once before to the Abbe D'Esmonde,” said the canon, maliciously. The girl's cheek became deep red, and even over neck and shoulders the scarlet flush spread, while her eyes flashed a look of fiery passion. “Do you dare are you insolent enough to--” Her indignation had carried her thus far, when, by a sudden change of temper, she stopped, and clasping her hands over her face, burst into tears. Jekyl motioned the priest to be silent, while, gently leading the other into the adjoining room, he drew the curtain, and left her alone. “How could you say that?” said he, “you, padre, who know that this is more than jest?” “Spare not the sinner, neither let the stripes be light, 'Non sit levis flagella,' says Origen.” “Are the ortolans good, padre?” asked Jekyl, while his eye glittered with an intense appreciation of the old canon's hypocrisy. “They, are delicious! succulent and tender,” said the priest, wiping his lips. “Francesco does them to perfection.” “You at least believe in a cook,” said Jekyl, but in so low a voice as to escape the other's notice. “She is sobbing still,” said the canon, in a whisper, and with a gesture towards the curtained doorway. “I like to hear them gulping down their sighs. It is like the glug-glug of a rich flask of 'Lagrime.'” “But don't you pity them, padre?” asked Jekyl, in mock earnestness. “Never! never! First of all, they do not suffer in all these outbursts. It is but decanting their feelings into another vessel, and they love it themselves! I have had them for hours together thus in the confessional, and they go away after, so relieved in mind and so light of heart, there 's no believing it.” “But Nina,” said Jekyl, seriously, “is not one of these.” “She is a woman,” rejoined the padre, “and it is only a priest can read them.” “You see human nature as the physician does, padre, always in some aspect of suffering. Of its moods of mirth and levity you know less than we do, who pass more butterfly lives!” “True in one sense, boy; ours are the stony paths, ours are the weary roads in life! I like that Burgundy.” “It 's very pleasant, padre. It is part of a case I ordered for the Onslows, but their butler shook the bottle when bringing it to table, and they begged me to get rid of it.” “These wines are not suited to Italy generally,” said the canon; “but Florence has the merit of possessing all climates within the bounds of a single day, and even Chambertin is scarcely generous enough when the Tramontana is blowing!” “Well, have you become better mannered? May I venture to come in?” cried Nina, appearing at the doorway. “'Venga pure! Venga pure!'” growled out the canon. “I forgive thee everything. Sit down beside me, and let us pledge a friendship forever.” “There, then, let this be a peace-offering,” said she, taking the wreath of flowers from her own head and placing it on the brows of the padre. “You are now like the old Bacchus in the Boboli.” “And thou like--” “Like what? Speak it out!” cried she, angrily. “Come, come, do, I beseech you, be good friends,” interposed Jekyl. “We have met for other objects than to exchange reproaches.” “These are but the 'iras amantium.' boy,” said the priest; “the girl loves me with her whole heart.” “How you read my most secret thoughts!” said she, with a coquettish affectation of sincerity. “Lectiones pravissimae would they be!” muttered he, between his teeth. “What is that? What is he mumbling there, Albert?” cried she, hastily. “It is a benediction, Nina,” replied Jekyl; “did you not hear the Latin?” Peace was at last restored, and what between the adroit devices of Jekyl and the goodness of his champagne, a feeling of pleasant sociality now succeeded to all the bickering in which the festivity was prolonged to a late hour. The graver business which brought them together the Onslows and their affairs being discussed, they gave way to all the seductions of their exalted fancies. Jekyl, taking up his guitar, warbled out a French love song, in a little treble a bullfinch might have envied; Nina, with the aid of the padre's beads for castanets, stepped the measure of a bolero; while the old priest himself broke out into a long chant, in which Ovid, Petrarch, Anacreon, and his breviary alternately figured, and under the influence of which he fell fast asleep at last, totally unconscious of the corked moustaches and eyebrows with which Nina ornamented his reverend countenance. The sound of wheels in the silent street at last admonished them of the hour, and opening the window, Jekyl saw a brougham belonging to Sir Stafford just drawing up at the door. “Francois is punctual,” said Nina, looking at her watch; “I told him five o'clock.” “Had we not better set him down first?” said Jekyl, with a gesture toward the priest; “he does not live far away.” “With all my heart,” replied she; “but you're not going to wash his face?” “Of course I am, Nina. The jest might cost us far more than it was worth.” And so saying, Jekyl proceeded to arrange the disordered dress and dishevelled hair of the padre, during the performance of which the old priest recovered sufficient consciousness to permit himself to be led downstairs and deposited in the carriage. An hour later and all was still! Jekyl slumbering peacefully on his little French bed, over which the rose-colored mosquito curtains threw a softened half-sunset hue; a gentle smile parted his lips, as in his dreams the dreams of a happy and contented nature he wove pleasant fancies and devised many a future scheme. In his own dreary little den, behind the “Duomo,” the padre also slept heavily, not a thought, not a single passing idea breaking the stagnant surface of his deep lethargy. Nina, however, was wakeful, and had no mind for repose. Her brilliant costume carefully laid aside, she was arranging her dark hair into its habitually modest braid; her very features composing themselves, as she did so, into their wonted aspect of gentleness and submission. All the change of dress being little in comparison with the complete alteration now observable in her whole air and demeanor, she seemed a totally different being. And she was so, too; for while hypocrites to the world, we completely forget that we share in the deception ourselves.	{ "id": "32061" }
24	A MIDNIGHT RECEPTION	IT was past midnight, the Opera was just over, and the few privileged guests who were permitted to pay their visits to Lady Hester Onslow were assembled in the little drawing-room and boudoir sacred to these exclusive receptions. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the gorgeous splendor of the apartment and the half-dressed, careless, lounging ease of the men as they stretched themselves on the ottomans, lounged on the sofas, or puffed their cigars, alike indifferent to the place and the presence of two ladies who, dressed in the very perfection of “toilette,” did the honors of the reception. Lady Hester, who wore a small embroidered velvet cap, coquettishly set on one side of the head, and a species of velvet jacket, such as is common in Greece, lay upon a sofa beneath a canopy of pink silk covered with lace; a most splendidly ornamented hooka, the emerald mouthpiece of which she held in her hand, stood on a little cushion beside her; while grouped around in every attitude that taste and caprice suggested on chairs, on cushions, squabs, “Prie-Dieu” and other drawing-room devices of a like nature were some half-dozen men, whose air and bearing pronounced them long habituated to all the usages of society. One stamp of feature and style pervaded all; pale, dark-eyed, black-bearded, and weary-looking, they seemed as though they were tired of a life of dissipation, and yet utterly incapable of engaging in any other. All born to high rank, some to large fortune, they found that no other career was open to them except vice in one shape or other. The policy of their rulers had excluded them from every road of honorable ambition; neither as statesmen nor soldiers could they hope to win fame or glory. Their habits of life and the tone of society gave no impulse to the cultivation of science or literature. The topics discussed in their circle never by chance adverted to a book; and there they were, with heads whose development indicated all that was intellectual, with brows and foreheads that betokened every gift of mental excellence, wearing away life in the dullest imaginable routine of dissipation, their minds neglected, their hearts corrupted, enervated in body, and deprived of all energy of character; they wore, even in youth, the exhausted look of age, and bore in every lineament of their features the type of lassitude and discontent. In the adjoining room sat Kate Dalton at a tea-table. She was costumed for we cannot use any milder word in a species of “moyen-age” dress, whose length of stomacher and deep-hanging sleeves recalled the portraits of Titian's time; a small cap covered the back of her head, through an aperture in which the hair appeared, its rich auburn masses fastened by a short stiletto of gold, whose hilt and handle were studded with precious stones; a massive gold chain, with a heavy cross of the same metal, was the only ornament she wore. Widely different as was the dress from that humble guise in which the reader first knew her, the internal change was even greater still; no longer the bashful, blushing girl, beaming with all the delight of a happy nature, credulous, light-hearted, and buoyant, she was now composed in feature, calm, and gentle-mannered; the placid smile that moved her lips, the graceful motion of her head, her slightest gestures, her least words, all displaying a polished ease and elegance which made even her beauty and attraction secondary to the fascination of her manner. It is true the generous frankness of her beaming eyes was gone; she no longer met you with a look of full and fearless confidence: the cordial warmth, the fresh and buoyant sallies of her ready wit, had departed, and in their place was a timid reserve, a cautious, shrinking delicacy, blended with a quiet but watchful spirit of repartee, that flattered by the very degree of attention it betokened. Perhaps our reader will not feel pleased with us for saying that she was more beautiful now than before; that intercourse with the world, dress, manners, the tact of society, the stimulus of admiration, the assured sense of her own charms, however they may have detracted from the moral purity of her nature, had yet invested her appearance with higher and more striking fascinations. Her walk, her courtesy, the passing motion of her hand, her attitude as she sat, were perfect studies of grace. Not a trace was left of her former manner; all was ease, pliancy, and elegance. Two persons were seated near her: one of these, our old acquaintance, George Onslow; the other was a dark, sallow-visaged man, whose age might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, for, while his features were marked by the hard lines of time, his figure had all the semblance of youth. By a broad blue ribbon round his neck he wore the decoration of Saint Nicholas, and the breast of his coat was covered with stars, crosses, and orders of half the courts of Europe. This was Prince Midchekoff, whose grandfather, having taken an active part in the assassination of the Emperor Paul, had never been reconciled to the Imperial family, and was permitted to reside in a kind of honorable banishment out of Russia; a punishment which he bore up under, it was said, with admirable fortitude. His fortune was reputed to be immense, and there was scarcely a capital of Europe in which he did not possess a residence. The character of his face was peculiar, for while the forehead and eyes were intellectual and candid, the lower jaw and mouth revealed his Calmuck origin, an expression of intense, unrelenting cruelty being the impression at once conveyed by the thin, straight, compressed lips, and the long, projecting chin, seeming even longer from the black-pointed beard he wore. There was nothing vulgar or common-place about him; he never could have passed unobserved anywhere, and yet he was equally far from the type of high birth. His manners were perfectly well bred; and although he spoke seldom, his quiet and attentive air and his easy smile showed he possessed the still rarer quality of listening well. There was another figure, not exactly of this group, but at a little distance off, beside a table in a recess, on which a number of prints and drawings were scattered, and in the contemplation of which he affected to be absorbed; while, from time to time, his dark eyes flashed rapidly across to note all that went forward. He was a tall and singularly handsome man, in the dress of a priest. His hair, black and waving, covered a forehead high, massive, and well developed; his eyes were deep-set, and around the orbits ran lines that told of long and hard study, for the Abbe D'Esmonde was a distinguished scholar; and, as a means of withdrawing him for a season from the overtoil of reading, he had been attached temporarily as a species of Under-secretary to the Mission of the “Nonce.” In this guise he was admitted into all the society of the capital, where his polished address and gentle manner soon made him a general favorite. Equally removed from the flippant levity of the abbe as a class, and the gross and sensual coarseness of the “old priest,” D'Esmonde was a perfect man of the world, so far as taking a lively interest in all the great events of politics, watching eagerly the changeful features of the times, and studying acutely the characters of the leading men, at whose dictates they were modified. Its pleasures and amusements, too, he was willing to partake of moderately and unobtrusively; but he held himself far apart from all those subjects of gossip and small-talk which, in a society of lax morality, occupy so considerable a space, and in which the great dignitaries who wear scarlet and purple stockings are often seen to take a lively and animated share. Some ascribed this reserve to principle; others called it hypocrisy; and some, again, perhaps with more truth, deemed it the settled line of action of one who already destined himself for a high and conspicuous station, and had determined that his character should add weight and dignity to his talents. It might have been thought that he was a singular guest to have been admitted to receptions like the present; but Jekyl, who managed everything, had invited him, on the principle, as he said, that a gourmand has a decanter of water always beside him at dinner, “not to drink, but because it looks temperate.” The abbe's presence had the same effect; and, certainly, his calm and dignified demeanor, his polished address, and cultivated tone, were excellent certificates of good character for the rest. At the tea-table the conversation languished, or only went forward at intervals. Onslow's French was not fluent, and he was silent from shame. Kate felt that she ought not to take the lead; and the Prince, habitually reserved, spoke very little, and even that in the discursive, unconnected tone of a man who was always accustomed to find that any topic he started should be instantly adopted by the company. The cold and steady stare with which he surveyed her would, but a short time back, have covered her face with a blush; she could not have borne unabashed the glance of searching, almost insolent meaning he bestowed upon her; but now, whatever her heart might have felt, her features were calm and passionless; nor did she in the slightest degree show any consciousness of a manner that was costing Onslow a struggle whether to laugh at or resent. In one sense these two men were rivals, but each so impressed with proud contempt for the other, their rivalry was unknown to both. Kate, however, with her woman's tact, saw this, and knew well how her least smile or slightest word inclined the balance to this side or to that. The Prince was inveighing against the habit of wintering in Italy as one of the most capital blunders of the age. “We forget,” said he, “that, in our present civilization, art is always first and nature second, as we see evidenced in all the results of agriculture. It is not the most fertile soil, but the highest-labored one which produces the best fruits. So with respect to climate, we never bear in mind that, where nature does most, man always does least.” “According to that rule, Prince, we should winter at St. Petersburg, and spend the dog-days at Calcutta,” said Kate, smiling. “So we should,” replied he; “the appliances to resist heat or cold, of man's invention, are far better adapted to enjoyment than the accidental variations of climate.” “In my country,” said Onslow, tartly, “men study less how to avoid the inclemencies of weather than to become indifferent to them. Hunting, shooting, and deer-stalking are very sure methods to acquire this.” The Prince paid no attention to the remark, but turned the conversation into another channel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier's book. From this he wandered away to the characteristic differences of national music, thence to the discoveries then making in Central America, and lastly, engaged her in an animated discussion of the question of slavery. On none of these points was he deeply or even well informed, but he possessed that fluency and facility which intercourse with society confers; and as all his knowledge was derived from men, and not from books, it bore a certain stamp of originality about it that secured attention. Not, indeed, from George Onslow; he was the most bored of men. None of the topics were his topics. Of Tattersall's, the Guards' Club, the society of London, the odds on the “Derby,” he could have discoursed well and pleasantly. From what was “wrong” with the Sa'nbucca filly to what was not right with Lady Flutterton's niece, he could have told you everything; but all these other themes were, in his estimation, but sheer pedantry, and, indeed, they only lacked a little knowledge a very little would have sufficed to be so. “He is gone,” said the Prince, with a caustic smile which revealed a plan; “gone at last.” “So, then, this was a device of yours, Prince,” said she, laughing. “I really must call my cousin back and tell him so.” “No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won my battle, let me profit by my victory. Let me speak to you on another subject.” He drew his chair a little nearer to the table as he spoke, and laid his arm on it. Kate's heart beat fast and full; and the color came and went rapidly in her cheek. A vague sense of fear, of shame, and of triumphant pride were all at conflict within her. There was but one theme in the world that could have warranted such a commencement, so serious, so grave, so purpose-like. Was this, then, possible? The glittering stars all a blaze of brilliants that shone beside her seemed an emblem of that high state which was now within her reach; and what a torrent of varied emotions rushed through her heart! Of home, of her father, of Nelly, of Frank; and, lastly, what thoughts of George, poor George, whom she knew loved her, and to whom, without loving, she was not altogether indifferent. “Do not be agitated, Mademoiselle,” said the prince, laying the slightest touch of his jewelled fingers on her arm. “I ask a little patience and a little calm consideration for what I am about to say.” “Is that really like an Irish peasant's cottage, Miss Daiton?” said the abbe, as he held before her a drawing of one, in all the details of its most striking misery. “Yes, perfectly; not exaggerated in the least,” said she, hurriedly blushing alike at the surprise and the interruption. “You have no such misery, Monsieur le Prince, in Russia, I believe?” remarked the priest, with a courteous bend of the head. “We are well governed, sir; and nothing displays it more palpably than that no man forgets his station,” said the prince, with an insolent hauteur that made Kate blush over neck and forehead, while D'Esmonde stood calm and passionless under the sarcasm. “So I have always heard, sir,” said he, blandly. “I remember, when at Wredna--” “You have been at Wredna?” asked the Prince, in an altered voice. But the other, not heeding the interruption, went on: “I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard an anecdote which strikingly illustrates the rigid obedience yielded to power, and the condition of public opinion at the same time. A manumitted slave, who was raised to high rank and wealth by the favor of the Czar, had returned to Wredna in the capacity of governor. A short time after his arrival he was tormented by applications and letters from a woman in great poverty who asserted that she was his mother. Fedeorovna, of course in secret, proved the truth of her assertion; but the only answer she received was a significant caution to be silent, and not appeal to a relationship which could only prove offensive. Perhaps incredulous of the authentic character of so cruel a reply, perhaps stung to angry indignation by it, she carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables that she hawked for a livelihood before the door of the great mansion where her son resided; but, instead of advertising her wares, as is customary in these Muscovite markets, by some picture of a saint or some holy inscription, she carried a little placard, with the inscription, 'The Mother of Alexovitch,' the name of the Governor. A crowd soon gathered around this singular booth, heralded by so strange an announcement, and as speedily the police resorted to the spot, and carried the offender before the judge. The defence was the simple one that she had merely averred the truth. I need not weary you with the mockery of investigation that followed; the result is all I need tell. This woman was knouted and sent away to Siberia. So much for the Governor. As for the governed, they were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and clemency; for he might have ordered her to be beheaded.” “Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said the Prince, whose dark cheek became almost green in its sallowness as he spoke. “I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who received the woman's confession repeated the tale on his own deathbed, from whence it reached me.” “Priests can be liars, whether Greek or Roman,” said the Prince, in a voice almost suffocated with passion; and then, suddenly checking the course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a sickly smile, and said, “Mademoiselle will pardon a rudeness in her presence which nothing short of so gross a calumny could have elicited.” “I will furnish you with all the names to-morrow, Monsieur le Prince,” said D'Esmonde, in a whisper; and sauntered away into the adjoining room. “You look pale, Miss Dalton,” said the Prince. “That shocking story--” “Which of course you don't believe.” “The Abbe D'Esmonde I have always heard to be a person of strict veracity and of extreme caution.” “Be careful of him, Miss Dalton. It is not without good reason that I say this.” There was a degree of solemnity in the way he uttered these words that made Kate thoughtful and serious. Unaccustomed to see, in society, anything but features of pleasure and amusement, she was suddenly awakened to the conviction that its calm waters covered rocks and quicksands as perilous as stormier seas. Could people so full of amiabilities be dangerous acquaintances? Was there poison in this charmed cup? Was the doubt which sprang to her mind But she had not time for the inquiry, as the Prince offered her his arm to the supper-room.	{ "id": "32061" }
25	A “LEVANTER.”	IN our penal settlements nothing is more common than to find the places of honor and distinction filled by men who were once convicts, and who may date the favorable turn of their fortune to the day of their having transgressed the law. So in certain Continental cities are individuals to be found occupying conspicuous stations, and enjoying a large share of influence, whose misdeeds at home first made them exiles, and who, leaving England in shame, are received abroad with honor. There is this difference between the two cases; for while the convict owes all his future advancement to his own efforts at reformation, the absentee obtains his “brevet” of character by the simple fact of his extradition. He shakes off his rascalities as he does his rheumatism, when he quits the foggy climate of England, and emerges spotless and without stain upon the shores of Ostend or Boulogne. To do this, however, he must not bear a plebeian name, nor pertain to the undistinguishable herd of vulgar folk. He must belong to some family of mark and note, with peers for his uncles and peeresses for cousins; nor is he always safe if he himself be not a member of an hereditary legislature. We have been led to these reflections by having to chronicle the arrival in Florence of Lord Norwood; a vague and confused murmur of his having done something, people knew not what, in England having preceded him. Some called him “poor Norwood,” and expressed sorrow for him; others said he was a capital fellow, up to everything, and that they were delighted at his coming. A few, of very tender and languishing virtue themselves, wondered if they ought to meet him as before; but the prevailing impression was charitable. The affair at Graham's might have been exaggerated, the Newmarket business was possibly a mistake. “Any man might owe money, and not be able to pay it,” was a sentiment pretty generally repeated and as generally believed; and, in fact, if to be tried by one's peers be an English privilege, the noble Viscount here enjoyed it at the hands of a jury unimpeachable on the score of equality. We are far from suggesting that Norwood's character as a “shot” had any concern with this mild verdict; but certain it is, his merits in this capacity were frequently remembered, and always with honorable mention. “No man plays ecarte better,” said Haggerstone, while as yet the Viscount's arrival was unknown, and as he discussed the rumors upon him before a group of listening Englishmen at the door of the “Club”. “No man plays ecarte better, nor with better luck!” added he, with a chuckle that was intended to convey a meaning beyond the mere words. “Has he been a large winner, then?” asked one of the bystanders, respectfully, looking to the Colonel for information; for, in a certain set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly conversant man with all the faults and follies of high life. “No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of fashion in a tone of familiarity. “That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n't it?” broke in Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner. “Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival. He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no mistaking.” “By Jove, it's Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed, well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and touching his hat familiarly, said, “Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?” “Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have improved since you knew it a few years ago.” “Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?” “I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it flies.” “Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek. “Is there any play going on, Haggy?” “Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a round game at Sabloukoff's.” “Poor old fellow! and he 's alive still? And where 's the Jariominski?” “Gone back to Russia.” “And Maretti?” “In Saint Angelo, I believe.” “And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal of the Empire.” “D'Acosta.” “The same. Where is he?” “Shot himself this spring.” “Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?” “Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite.” “What a pity! So they 're all broken up, I see.” “Completely so.” “Then what have you got in their place?” “Nothing fast, my Lord, except, perhaps, your friends the Onslows.” “Yes; they 're going it, I hear. Is n't there a rich niece, or cousin, or something of that sort, with them?” “They've got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; but as to her being rich, I think it very unlikely, seeing that her family are living in Germany in a state of the very closest poverty.” “And Master George, how does he carry on the war?” said the Viscount, who seemed quite heedless of the other's correction. “He plays a little peddling ecarte now and then; but you can see that he has burned his fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he 's in love with the Dalton girl.” “Of course he is, if they live in the same house; and he 's just the kind of fool to marry her, too. Who 's that little fellow, listening to us?” “Purvis, my Lord; don't you remember him? He's one of the Ricketts's set.” “To be sure I do. How are you, Purvis? You look so young and so fresh, I could not persuade myself it could be my old acquaintance.” “I 've taken to homoe-homoe-homoe-homo--” Here he opened his mouth wide, and gasped till he grew black in the face. “What's the word? Give it him, Haggy. It's all up with him,” said the Viscount. “Homoeopathy, eh?” “Just so. Homeo-hom--” “Confound it, man, can't you be satisfied? when you're once over the fence, you need n't go back to leap it. And how is the dear what's her name Agathe? no, Zoe, how is she?” “Quite well, my Lord, and would be cha-cha-cha-rmed to see you.” “Living in that queer humbug still, eh?” “In the Vill-ino, my Lord, you mean?” “Egad! she seems the only thing left; like the dog on the wreck, eh, Haggy?” “Just so, my Lord,” said the other, with a complacent laugh. “What a mass of old crockery she must have got together by this time!” said the Viscount, yawning with a terrible recollection of her tiresomeness. “You came out with a yacht, my Lord?” asked Haggerstone. “Pretty well, for a man that they call ru-ru-ruined,” said Purvis, laughing. Norwood turned a look of angry indignation at him, and then, as if seeing the unworthiness of the object, merely said, “A yacht is the only real economy nowadays. You get rid at once of all trains of servants, household, stable people; even the bores of your acquaintance you cut off. By-by, Purvis.” And, with a significant wink at Haggerstone, he passed across the street, in time to overtake Onslow, who was just passing. “I think I ga-ga-gave it him there,” cried Purvis, with an hysteric giggle of delight; who, provided that he was permitted to fire his shot, never cared how severely he was himself riddled by the enemy's fire. Meanwhile, the Viscount and his friend were hastening forward to the Mazzarini Palace, as totally forgetful of Purvis as though that valuable individual had never existed. We may take this opportunity to mention, that when the rumors which attributed a grand breach of honorable conduct to Lord Norwood had arrived at Florence, Sir Stafford, who never had any peculiar affection for the Viscount, declared himself in the very strongest terms on the subject of his offending, and took especial pains to show the marked distinction between occasions of mere wasteful extravagance and instances of fraudulent and dishonest debt. It was in vain he was told that the rigid rule of English morality is always relaxed abroad, and that the moral latitude is very different in London and Naples. He was old-fashioned enough to believe that honor is the same in all climates; and having received from England a very detailed and specific history of the noble Lord's misdoings, he firmly resolved not to receive him. With all George Onslow's affection and respect for his father, he could not help feeling that this was a mere prejudice, one of the lingering remnants of a past age; a sentiment very respectable, perhaps, but totally inapplicable to present civilization, and quite impracticable in society. In fact, as he said himself, “Who is to be known, if this rule be acted on? What man or, further still, what woman of fashionable life will stand this scrutiny? To attempt such exclusiveness, one should retire to some remote provincial town, some fishing-village of patriarchal simplicity; and, even there, what security was there against ignoble offendings? How should, he stand the ridicule of his club and his acquaintance if he attempted to assume such a standard?” These arguments were strengthened by his disbelief, or rather his repugnance to believe the worst of Norwood; and furthermore, supported by Lady Hester's open scorn for all such “hypocritical trumpery,” and her avowal that the Viscount should be received, by her, at least. Exactly as of old, George Onslow's mind was in a state of oscillation and doubt now leaning to this side, now inclining to that when the question was decided for him, as it so often is in like cases, by a mere accident; for, as he loitered along the street, he suddenly felt an arm introduced within his own. He turned hastily round and saw Norwood, who, with, all his customary coolness, asked after each member of the family, and at once proposed to pay them a visit. Of all men living, none were less suited than Onslow for assuming any part, or taking any decisive line, which could possibly be avoided, or even postponed. He hated, besides, to do an ungracious thing anywhere, or to any one. It might be, thought he, that Norwood's scrape could all be explained away. Perhaps, after all, the thing is a mere trifle; and if he were to take the decided line of cutting a man without due cause, the consequences might be most injurious. These, and fifty such-like scruples, warred within him, and so engaged his attention that he actually heard not one word of all that “town gossip” which Norwood was retailing for his amusement. At last, while following out his own thoughts, George came to the resolution of finding out at once the precise position in which Norwood stood, and to this end asked the last news from Newmarket. Norwood's coolness never forsook him at a question whose very suddenness was somewhat awkward. “Bad enough,” said he, with an easy laugh. “We have all of us been 'hit hard.' Knolesby has lost heavily. Burchester, too, has had a smasher; and I myself have not escaped. In fact, George, the 'Legs' have had it all their own way. I suppose you heard something about it out here?” “Why, yes; there were reports--” “Oh, hang reports, man! Never trust to old women's tales. And that confounded fellow, Haggerstone, I 'm certain, has been spreading all kinds of stories. But the facts are simple enough.” “I 'm heartily glad you say so; for, to tell you the truth, Norwood, my father is one of the prejudiced about this affair, and I 'm dying to be able to give him a full explanation of the whole.” “Ah, Sir Stafford, too, among the credulous!” said Norwood, slowly. “I could scarcely have supposed so. No matter; only I did fancy that he was not exactly the person to form hasty conclusions against any man's character. However, you may tell him for, as for myself, I 'll not condescend to explain to any one but you the thing is a very simple one. There was a mare of Hopeton's, a Brockdon filly, entered for the Slingsby, and a number of us agreed to 'go a heavy thing' upon her against the field. A bold coup always, George, that backing against the field. Never do it, my boy, and particularly when you 've a set of rascally foreign Legs banded against you, Poles and Hungarian fellows, George; the downiest coves ever you met, and who, in their confounded jargon, can sell you before your own face. Nothing like John Bull, my boy. Straight, frank, and open John forever! Hit him hard and he 'll hit you again; but no treachery, no stab in the dark. Oh, no, no! The turf in England was another thing before these Continental rascals came amongst us. I was always against admitting them within the ring. I black-balled a dozen of them at the Club. But see what perseverance does; they're all in now. There's no John-Bull feeling among our set, and we 're paying a smart price for it. Never trust those German fellows, George. Out of England there is no truth, no honor. But, above all, don't back against the field; there are so many dodges against you; so many 'dark horses' come out fair. That 's it, you see; that 's the way I got it so heavily; for when Ruxton came and told me that 'Help-me-Over' was dead lame, I believed him. A fetlock lameness is no trifle, you know; and there was a swelling as large as my hand around the coronet. The foreign fellows can manage that in the morning, and the horse will run to win the same day. I saw it myself. Ah, John Bull forever! No guile, no deceit in him. Mind me, George, I make this confession for you alone. I 'll not stoop to repeat it. If any man dare to insinuate anything to my discredit, I 'll never give myself the trouble of one word of explanation, but nail him to it, twelve paces, and no mistake. I don't think my right hand has forgot its cunning. Have him out at once, George; parade him on the spot, my boy; that 's the only plan. What! is this your quarter?” asked he, as they stopped at the entrance of the spacious palace. “I used to know this house well of old. It was the Embassy in Templeton's time. Very snug it used to be. Glad to see you 've banished all those maimed old deities that used to line the staircase, and got rid of that tiresome tapestry, too. Pretty vases those; fresh-looking that conservatory, they 're always strong in camellias in Florence. This used to be the billiard-room. I think you've made a good alteration; it looks better as a salon. Ah, I like this, excellent taste that chintz furniture; just the thing for Italy, and exactly what nobody thought of before!” “I'll see if my Lady be visible,” said George, as he threw the “Morning Post” to his friend, and hastily quitted the chamber. Norwood was no sooner left alone than he proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the apartment, in the course of which his attention was arrested by a water-color drawing, representing a young girl leaning over a balcony, and which he had no difficulty in at once guessing to be Kate Dalton. There was something in the character of her beauty an air of almost daring haughtiness that seemed to strike his fancy; for, as he gazed, he drew himself up to his full height, and seemed to assume in his own features the proud expression of the portrait. “With a hundred thousand and that face one might make you a viscountess, and yet not do badly, either,” said he to himself; and then, as if satisfied that he had given time enough to a mere speculative thought, he turned over the visiting-cards to see the names of the current acquaintance: “Midchekoff, Estrolenka, Janini, Tiverton, Latrobe, the old set; the Ricketts, too, and Haggerstone. What can have brought them here? Oh, there must have been a ball, for here are shoals of outsiders, the great Smith-Brown-and-Thompson community; and here, on the very smallest of pasteboards, in the very meekest of literals, have we our dear friend 'Albert Jekyl.' He 'll tell me all I want to know,” said Norwood, as he threw himself back on the comfortable depth of a well-cushioned chair, and gave way to a pleasant revery. When George Ouslow had informed Lady Hester of Norwood's arrival, he hastened to Sir Stafford's apartment to tell him how completely the Viscount had exonerated himself from any charge that might be made to his discredit; not, indeed, that George understood one syllable of the explanation, nor could trace anything like connection between the disjointed links of the narrative. He could only affirm his own perfect conviction in Norwood's honor, and hoped an equal degree of faith from his father. Fortunately for his powers of persuasiveness, they were not destined to be so sorely tried; for Sir Stafford had just walked out, and George, too eager to set all right about Norwood, took his hat and followed, in the hope of overtaking him. Lady Hester was already dressed, and about to enter the drawing-room, when George told her that Norwood was there; and yet she returned to her room and made some changes in her toilet, slight, and perhaps too insignificant to record, but yet of importance enough to occupy some time, and afford her an interval for thoughts which, whatever their nature, served to flush her cheek and agitate her deeply. It is an awkward thing, at any time, to meet with the person to whom you once believed you should have been married; to see, on the terms of mere common acquaintance, the individual with whose fate and fortune you at one time fancied your own was indissolubly bound up, for weal or woe, for better or for worse. To exchange the vapid commonplaces of the world; to barter the poor counters of that petty game called society, with her or him with whom you have walked in all the unbounded confidence of affection, speculating on a golden future, or glorying in a delicious dream of present bliss; to touch with ceremonious respect that hand you have so often held fast within your own; to behold with respectful distance that form beside which you have sat for hours, lost in happy fancies; to stand, as it were, and trace out with the eye some path in life we might have followed, wondering whither it would have led us, if to some higher pinnacle of gratified ambition, if to disappointments darker than those we have ever known, speculating on a future which is already become a past, and canvassing within our hearts the follies that have misled and the faults that have wrecked us! Such are among the inevitable reminiscences of meeting; and they are full of a soft and touching sorrow, not all unpleasing, either, as they remind us of our youth and its buoyancy. Far otherwise was the present case. Whatever might have been the bold confidence with which Lady Hester protested her belief in Norwood's honor, her own heartfelt knowledge of the man refuted the assertion. She knew thoroughly that he was perfectly devoid of all principle, and merely possessed that conventional degree of fair dealing indispensable to association with his equals. That he would do anything short of what would subject him to disgrace she had long seen; and perhaps the unhappy moment had come when even this restraint was no longer a barrier. And yet, with all this depreciating sense of the man, would it be believed she had once loved him! ay, with as sincere an affection as she was capable of feeling for anything. ' T is true, time and its consequences had effaced much of this feeling. His own indifference had done something, her new relations with the world had done more; and if she ever thought of him now, it was with a degree of half terror that there lived one man who had so thoroughly read all the secrets of her heart, and knew every sentiment of her nature. Norwood was sitting in a chair as she entered, amusing himself with the gambols of a little Blenheim spaniel, whose silver collar bore the coronet of the Russian prince. He never perceived Lady Hester until she was close beside him, and in an easy, half-indifferent tone, said, “How d' ye do, my Lord?” “What, Hester!” said he, starting up, and taking her hand in both his own. She withdrew it languidly, and seating herself, not upon the sofa to which he wished to lead her, but in a chair, asked when he had arrived, and by what route. “I came out in a yacht; stopping a few days at Gibraltar, and a week at Malta.” “Had you pleasant weather?” “After we got clear of the Channel, excellent weather.” “You came alone, I suppose?” “Quite alone.” “How do you get on without your dear friend Effingdale, or your 'familiar,' Upton?” Norwood colored a little at a question the drift of which he felt thoroughly, but tried with a laugh to evade an answer. “Are they in England? I thought I read their names at the Newmarket meeting?” asked she, after waiting in vain for a reply. “Yes; they were both at Newmarket,” replied he, shortly. “Was it a good meeting?” “I can scarcely say so,” rejoined he, attempting a laugh. “My book turned out very unfortunately.” “I heard so,” was the short reply; and in a tone so dry and significant that a dead silence followed. “Pretty spaniel, that,” said Norwood, trying a slight sortie into the enemy's camp. “A present, I suppose, from Midchekoff?” “Yes.” “It is not clean bred, however, no more than his late master. Have you seen much of the Prince?” “He comes here every evening, after the Opera.” “What a bore that must be he is a most insufferable proser.” “I must say I disagree with you; I reckon him excessively agreeable.” “How changed you must be, Hes--Lady Hester.” “I believe I am, my Lord.” “And yet you look the same the very same as when we sauntered for hours through the old woods at Dipsley.” She blushed deeply; less, perhaps, at the words, than at the look which accompanied them. “Is this your newly found niece or cousin?” said Norwood, as he pointed to the portrait of Kate Dal ton. “Yes. Is n't she pretty?” “The picture is.” “She is much handsomer, however, a charming creature in every respect, as you will confess when you see her.” “And for what high destiny is she meant? Is she to be a Russian Princess, a Duchessa of Italy, or the goodwife of an untitled Englishman?” “She may have her choice, I believe, of either of the three--.” “Happy girl!” said he half scornfully; “and when may I hope to behold so much excellence?” “To-day, if you like to dine here.” “I should like it much but but--” “But what?” “It's better to be frank at once, Hester,” said he, boldly, “and say that I feel you are grown very cold and distant toward me. This is not your old manner, this not exactly the reception I looked for. Now, if you have any cause for this, would it not be better and fairer to speak it out openly than continue to treat me in this slighting fashion? You are silent, so there is something; pray let's hear it.” “What of Newmarket?” said she, in a low voice, so faint as almost to be a whisper. “So that's it,” said he, as he folded his arms and looked steadfastly at her. There was something in the cold and steady gaze he bestowed upon her that abashed, if not actually alarmed, Lady Hester. She had seen the same look once or twice before, and always as the prelude to some terrible evidence of his temper. “Lady Hester,” said he, in a low, distinct, and very slow voice, as though he would not have her lose a word he spoke, “the explanation which a man would ask for at the peril of his life ought not, in common justice, to be quite costless to a lady. It is perfectly possible that you may not care for the price, be it so; only I warn you that if you wish for any information on the subject you allude to, _I_ will inquire whether--” Here he dropped his voice, and whispered two or three words rapidly in her ear, after which she lay back, pale, sick, and almost fainting, without strength to speak or even to move. “Do not say, or still less feel, that this contest is of my provoking. Never was any man less in the humor to provoke hostilities, and particularly from old friends. I have just had bad luck, the very worst of bad luck. I have lost everything but my head; and even that, cool and calculating as it is, may go too if I be pushed too far. Now you have a frank and free confession from me. I have told you more than I would to any other living, more, perhaps, than I ought even to you.” “Then what do you intend to do here?” asked she, faintly. “Wait wait patiently for awhile. Fix upon anyone that I can discover mutters a syllable to my discredit, and shoot him as I would a dog.” “There may be some who, without openly discussing, will shun your society, and avoid your intercourse.” “Sir Stafford, for instance,” said he, with an insolent laugh. She nodded slightly, and he went on: “My Lady's influence will, I am certain, set me right in that quarter.” “I may be unequal to the task.” “You can at least try, madam.” “I have tried, Norwood. I have gone the length of declaring that I disbelieved every story against you, that I reposed the most implicit faith in your honor, and that I would certainly receive you and admit your visits as heretofore.” “And, of course, you'll keep your word?” “If you exact it.” “Of course I shall! Hester, this is no time for quibbling. I 've got into a mess, the worst of all the bad scrapes which have ever befallen me. A little time and a little management will pull me through but I must have both; nor is it in such a place, and with such a society as this, a man need fear investigation. I came here, as formerly one went to live 'within the rules.' Let me, at least, have the benefit of the protection for condescending to the locality.” “Sir Stafford, my Lady,” said a servant, throwing open the door; and the old Baronet entered hastily, and, without deigning to notice Lord Norwood, walked straight up to Lady Hester, and said a few words in a low voice. Affecting to occupy himself with the books upon the table, Norwood watched the dialogue with keen but stealthy glances, and then, as the other turned suddenly round, said, “How d' ye do, Sir Stafford? I am glad to see you looking so well.” “I thank you, my Lord; I am perfectly well,” said he, with a most repelling coldness. “You are surprised to see me in Florence, for certain,” said the other, with a forced laugh. “Very much surprised to see you here, my Lord,” was the abrupt reply. “Ha! ha! ha! I thought so!” cried Norwood, laughing, and pretending not to feel the point of the remark. “But, nowadays, one flits about the world in slippers and dressing-gown, and travelling inflicts no fatigue. I only left England ten days ago.” “The post comes in seven, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford. “I have had letters this morning, written this day week, and which give the last events in Town Life up to the very hour.” “Indeed! and what's the news, then?” said he, negligently. “If your Lordship will favor me with your company for a few minutes, I may be able to enlighten you,” said Sir Stafford, moving towards the door. “With the greatest pleasure. Good-bye, Lady Hester,” said he, rising. “You said seven o'clock dinner, I think?” “Yes,” replied she, but in a voice almost inarticulate from shame and terror. “Now, Sir Stafford, I 'm at your orders,” said the Viscount, gayly, as he left the room, followed by the old man, whose crimson cheek and flashing eye bespoke the passion which was struggling within him. Of the two who now entered Sir Stafford's library, it must be owned that Lord Norwood was, by many degrees, the more calm and collected. No one, to have looked at him, could possibly have supposed that any question of interest, not to say of deep moment, awaited him; and as he carried his eyes over the well-filled shelves and the hand some fittings of the chamber, nothing could be more naturally spoken than the few complimentary expressions on Sir Stafford's good taste and judgment. “I shall not ask you to be seated, my Lord,” said the old Baronet, whose tremulous lip and shaking cheek showed how deep-felt was his agitation. “The few moments of interview I have requested will be, I have no doubt, too painful to either of us, nor could we desire to prolong them. To me, I own, they are very, very painful.” These hurried, broken, and unconnected sentences fell from him as he searched for a letter among a number of others that littered the table. Lord Norwood bowed coldly, and, without making any reply, turned his back to the fire, and waited in patience. “I have, I fear, mislaid the letter,” said Sir Stafford, whose nervous anxiety had now so completely mastered him that he threw the letters and papers on every side without perceiving it. The Viscount made no sign, but suffered the search to proceed without remark. “It was a letter from Lord Effingdale,” continued the Baronet, still busied in the pursuit, “a letter written after the Newmarket settling, my Lord; and if I should be unfortunate enough not to find it, I must only trust to my memory for its contents.” Lord Norwood gave another bow, slighter and colder than the former, as though to say that he acquiesced perfectly, without knowing in what. “Ah! here it is! here it is!” cried Sir Stafford, at last detecting the missing document, which he hastily opened and ran his eyes over. “This letter, my Lord,” continued he, “announces that, in consequence of certain defalcations on your part, the members of the 'Whip Club' have erased your Lordship's name from their list, and declared you incapacitated from either entering a horse, or naming a winner for the stakes in future. There, there, my Lord, is the paragraph, coupled with what you will doubtless feel to be a very severe but just comment on the transaction.” Norwood took the letter and read it leisurely, as leisurely and calmly as though the contents never concerned him, and then, folding it up, laid it on the chimney-piece beside him. “Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “he ought to spell better, considering that his mother was a governess. He writes 'naming' with an 'e.' Didn't you remark that?” But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on: “As to the 'Whip,' I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name myself. They are a set of low 'Legs,' and, except poor Effy, and two or three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them.” “The defalcation is, however, true?” asked Sir Stafford. “If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket, the question is of the easiest to answer.” “I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,” replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other. “Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most essential condition, for the 'Turf' is not precisely like a mercantile pursuit.” Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was spoken. “There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional.” “If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable,” said Sir Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone. “I see that you cannot enter into a theme so very different from all your habits and pursuits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy when a man gets a little behind with his bets. You don't see that all these transactions are on 'honor,' and that if one does 'bolt,' he means to 'book up' another time. There was George, your own son--” “What of him? what of George?” cried Sir Stafford, with a convulsive grasp of the chair, while the color fled from his cheek, and he seemed ready to faint with emotion. “Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable fellow never breathed than George.” “Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!” And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore merely smiled, and said, “Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that there is nothing worthy of a moment's chagrin. I was only about to observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy, I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was terribly 'hard up;' and although the money was paid eventually, what would you have thought of me what would the world have thought of him if I had written such an epistle as this?” And as he spoke, his voice and manner warmed into a degree of indignant anger, in which, as if carried away, he snatched the letter from the chimney-piece and threw it into the fire. The act was unseen by Sir Stafford, who sat with his head deeply buried between his hands, a low faint groan alone bespeaking the secret agony of his heart. “My son has, then, paid you? He owes nothing, my Lord?” said he, at last, looking up, with a countenance furrowed by agitation. “Like a trump!” said Norwood, assuming the most easy and self-satisfied manner. “My life upon George Onslow! Back him to any amount, and against the field anywhere! A true John Bull! no humbug, no nonsense about him! straightforward and honorable, always!” “Your position is, then, this, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford, whose impatience would not permit him to listen longer, “you have quitted England, leaving for future settlement a number of debts, for which you have not the remotest prospect of liquidation.” “Too fast, you go too fast!” said the Viscount, laughing. “Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty thousand pounds, and adds that, as a defaulter--” “There's the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. “You ring the changes about that one confounded word, and there is no use in attempting a vindication. 'Give a dog a bad name,' as the adage says. Now, I took the trouble this very morning to go over the whole of this tiresome business with George. I explained to him fully, and, I hope, to his entire satisfaction, that I was simply unfortunate in it, nothing more. A man cannot always 'ride the winner; 'I 'm sure I wish _I_ could. Of course, I don't mean to say that it 's not a confounded 'bore' to come out here and live in such a place as this, and just at the opening of the season, too, when town is beginning to fill; but 'needs must,' we are told, 'when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.'” Sir Stafford stood, during the whole of this speech, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He never heard one word of it, but was deeply intent upon his own thoughts. At length he spoke in a full, collected, and firm voice: “Lord Norwood I am, as you have told me, perfectly unfitted to pronounce upon transactions so very unlike every pursuit in which my life has been passed. I am alike ignorant of the feelings of those who engage in them, and of the rules of honor by which they are guided; but this I know, that the man whom his equals decline to associate with at home is not recognizable abroad; and that he who leaves his country with shame, cannot reside away from it with credit.” “This would be a very rude speech, Sir Stafford Onslow, even with the palliative preface of your ignorance, if our relative ages admitted any equality between us. I am the least bellicose of men, I believe I can say I may afford to be so. So long, therefore, as you confine such sentiments to yourself, I will never complain of them; but if the time comes that you conceive they should be issued for general circulation--” “Well, my Lord, what then?” “Your son must answer for it, that's all!” said Norwood; and he drew himself up, and fixed his eye steadily on the distant wall of the room, with a look and gesture that made the old man sick at heart. Norwood saw how “his shot told,” and, turning hastily round, said: “This interview, I conclude, has lasted quite long enough for either of us. If you have any further explanations to seek for, let them come through a younger man, and in a more regular form. Good-morning.” Sir Stafford bowed, without speaking, as the other passed out. To have seen them both at that moment, few would have guessed aright on which side lay all the disgrace, and where the spirit of rectitude and honor. Sir Stafford, indeed, was most miserable. If the Viscount's mock explanations did not satisfy a single scruple of his mind, was it not possible they might have sufficed with others more conversant with such matters? Perhaps he is not worse than others of his own class. What would be his feelings if he were to involve George in a quarrel for such a cause? This was a consideration that pressed itself in twenty different forms, each of them enough to appall him. “But the man is a defaulter; he has fled from England with 'shame,'” was the stubborn conviction which no efforts of his casuistry could banish; and the more he reflected on this, the less possible seemed anything like evasion or compromise.	{ "id": "32061" }
26	THE END OF THE FIRST ACT	THE point discussed in our last chapter, if not a momentous one in itself, was destined to exercise a very important influence upon the fortunes of the Onslow family. The interview between Sir Stafford and the Viscount scarcely occupied five minutes; after which the Baronet wrote a note of some length to her Ladyship, to which she as promptly replied; a second, and even a third interchange of correspondence followed. The dinner-party appointed for that day was put off; a certain ominous kind of silence pervaded the house. The few privileged visitors were denied admission. Mr. Proctor, Sir Stafford's man, wore a look of more than common seriousness. Mademoiselle Celestine's glances revealed a haughty sense of triumph. Even the humbler menials appeared to feel that something had occurred, and betrayed in their anxious faces some resemblance to that vague sense of half-curiosity, half-terror, the passengers of a steamboat experience when an accident, of whose nature they know nothing, has occurred to the machinery. Their doubts and suspicions assumed more shape when the order came that Sir Stafford would dine in the library, and her Ladyship in her own room, George Onslow alone appearing in the dining-room. There was an air of melancholy over everything, the silence deepening as night came on. Servants went noiselessly to and fro, drew the curtains, and closed the doors with a half-stealthy gesture, and seemed as though fearful of awakening some slumbering outbreak of passion. We neither have, nor desire to have, secrets from our readers. We will therefore proceed to Sir Stafford's dressing-room, where the old Baronet sat moodily over the fire, his anxious features and sorrow-struck expression showing the ravages even a few hours of suffering had inflicted. His table was littered with papers, parchments, and other formidable-looking documents. Some letters lay sealed here, others were half-written there; everything about him showed the conflict of doubt and indecision that was going on within his mind; and truly a most painful struggle was maintained there. For some time back he had seen with displeasure the course of extravagance and waste of all his household. He had observed the habits of reckless expense with which his establishment was maintained; but, possessing a very ample fortune, and feeling that probably some change would be made with the coming summer, he had forborne to advert to it, and endured with what patience he could a mode of life whose very display was distasteful to him. Now, however, a more serious cause for anxiety presented itself, in the class of intimates admitted by Lady Hester to her society. Of the foreigners he knew comparatively little; but that little was not to their advantage. Some were wealthy voluptuaries, glad to propagate their own habits of extravagance among those they suspected of fortunes smaller than their own. Others were penniless adventurers, speculating upon everything that might turn to their profit. All were men of pleasure, and of that indolent, lounging, purposeless character so peculiarly unpleasing to those who have led active lives, and been always immersed in the cares and interests of business. Such men, he rightly judged, were dangerous associates to his son, the very worst acquaintances for Kate, in whom already he was deeply interested; but still no actual stain of dishonor, no palpable flaw, could be detected in their fame, till the arrival of Lord Norwood added his name to the list. To receive a man of whose misconduct in England he had acquired every proof, was a step beyond his endurance. Here or never must he take his stand; and manfully he did so, at first, by calm argument and remonstrance, and at last by firm resolution and determination. Without adverting to what had passed between the Viscount and himself, the letter he addressed to Lady Hester conveyed his unalterable resolve not to know Lord Norwood. Lady Hester's reply was not less peremptory, and scarcely as courteous. The correspondence continued with increasing warmth on both sides, till Sir Stafford palpably hinted at the possible consequences of a spirit of discordance and disagreement so ill-adapted to conjugal welfare. Her Ladyship caught up the suggestion with avidity, and professed that, whatever scruples his delicacy might feel, to hers there was none in writing the word, “Separation.” If the thought had already familiarized itself to his mind, the word had not; and strange it is that the written syllables should have a power and meaning that the idea itself could never realize. To men who have had little publicity in their lives, and that little always of an honorable nature, there is no thought so poignantly miserable as the dread of a scandalous notoriety. To associate their names with anything that ministers to gossip; to make them tea-table talk; still worse, to expose them to sneering and impertinent criticisms, by revealing the secrets of their domesticity, is a torture to which no mere physical suffering has anything to compare. Sir Stafford Onslow was a true representative of this class of feeling. The sight of his name in the list of directors of some great enterprise, as the patron of a charity, the governor of an hospital, or the donor to an institution, was about as much of newspaper notoriety as he could bear without a sense of shrinking delicacy; but to become the mark for public discussion in the relations of his private life, to have himself and his family brought up to the bar of that terrible ordeal, where bad tongues are the eloquent, and evil speakers are the witty, was a speculation too terrible to think over; and this was exactly what Lady Hester was suggesting! Is it not very strange that woman, with whose nature we inseparably and truly associate all those virtues that take their origin in refinement and modesty, should sometimes be able to brave a degree of publicity to which a man, the very hardiest and least shamefaced, would succumb, crestfallen and abashed; that her timid delicacy, her shrinking bashfulness, can be so hardened by the world that she can face a notoriety where every look is an indictment, and every whisper a condemnation? Now, if Lady Hester was yet remote from this, she had still journeyed one stage of the road. She had abundant examples around her of those best received and best looked on in society, whose chief claim to the world's esteem seemed to be the contempt with which they treated all its ordinances. There was a dash of heroism in their effrontery that pleased her. They appeared more gay, more buoyant, more elastic in spirits than other people; their increased liberty seemed to impart enlarged and more generous views, and they were always “good-natured,” since, living in the very glassiest of houses, they never “shied” a pebble. While, then, Sir Stafford sat overwhelmed with shame and sorrow at the bare thought of the public discussion that awaited him, Lady Hester was speculating upon condolences here, approbation there, panegyrics upon her high spirit, and congratulations upon her freedom. The little, half-shadowy allusions her friends would throw out from time to time upon the strange unsuitableness of her marriage with a man so much her senior, would soon be converted into comments of unrestricted license. Besides and perhaps the greatest charm of all was she would have a grievance; not the worn-out grievance of some imaginary ailment that nobody believes in but the “doctor,” not the mock agonies of a heart complaint, that saves the sufferer from eating bad dinners in vulgar company, but always allows them a respite for a dejeuner at the court, or a supper after the Opera, with a few chosen convives, but a real, substantial grievance, over which men might be eloquent and ladies pathetic. Such were the different feelings with which two persons contemplated the same event. Sir Stafford's thoughts turned instantly towards England. What would be said there by all those friends who had endeavored to dissuade him from this ill-suited union? Their sorrowful compassion was even less endurable than the malice of others; and Grounsell, too, what would his old friend think of a catastrophe so sudden? In his heart Sir Stafford was glad that the doctor was absent; much as he needed his counsel and advice, he still more dreaded the terror of his triumphant eye at the accomplishment of his oft-repeated prediction. From George he met no support whatever. He either believed, or thought that he believed, Norwood's garbled explanation. Intercourse with a certain set of “fast men” had shown him that a man might do a “screwy” thing now and then, and yet not be cut by his acquaintance. And the young Guardsman deemed his father's rigid notions nothing but prejudices, very excellent and commendable ones, no doubt, but as inapplicable to our present civilization as would be a coat of mail or a back-piece of chain-armor. George Onslow, therefore, halted between the two opinions. Adhering to his father's side from feelings of affection and respect, he was drawn to Lady Hester's by his convictions; not, indeed, aware how formidable the difference had already become between them, and that, before that very night closed in, they had mutually agreed upon a separation, which while occupying the same house, was essentially to exclude all intercourse. One consideration gave Sir Stafford much painful thought. What was to become of Kate Dalton in this new turn of affairs? The position of a young girl on a visit with a family living in apparent unity and happiness was very wide apart from her situation as the companion of a woman separated, even thus much, from her husband. It would be equally unfair to her own family, as unjust to the girl herself, to detain her then in such a conjuncture. And yet what was to be done? Apart from all the unpleasantness of proposing an abrupt return to her home, came the thought of the avowal that must accompany the suggestion, the very confession he so dreaded to make. Of course the gossiping of servants would soon circulate the rumor. But then they might not spread it beyond the Alps, nor make it the current talk of a German watering-place. Thus were his selfish feelings at war with higher and purer thoughts. But the struggle was not a long one. He sat down and wrote to Lady Hester. Naturally assuming that all the reasons which had such force for himself would weigh equally with her, he dwelt less upon the arguments for Kate's departure than upon the mode in which it might be proposed and carried out. He adverted with feeling to the sacrifice the loss would inflict upon Lady Hester, but professed his conviction in the belief that all merely selfish considerations would give way before higher and more important duties. “As it is,” said he, “I fear much that we have done anything but conduce to this dear girl's welfare and happiness. We have shown her glimpses of a life whose emptiness she cannot appreciate, but by whose glitter she is already attracted. We have exposed her to all the seductions of flattery, pampering a vanity which is perhaps her one only failing. We have doubtless suggested to her imagination dreams of a future never to be realized, and we must now consign her to a home where all the affections of fond relatives will be unequal to the task of blinding her to its poverty and its obscurity. And yet even this is better than to detain her here. It shall be my care to see in what way I can I was about to write 'recompense;' nor would the word be unsuitable recompense Mr. Dalton for the injury we have done him as regards his child; and if you have any suggestion to make me on this head, I will gladly accept it.” The note concluded with some hints as to the manner of making the communication to Kate, the whole awkwardness of which Sir Stafford, if need were, would take upon himself. The whole temper of the letter was feeling and tender. Without even in the most remote way adverting to what had occurred between Lady Hester and himself, he spoke of their separation simply in its relation to Kate Dalton, for whom they were both bound to think and act with caution. As if concentrating every thought upon her, he did not suffer any other consideration to interfere. Kate, and Kate only, was all its theme. Lady Hester, however, read the lines in a very different spirit. She had just recovered from a mesmeric trance, into which, to calm her nervous exaltation, her physician, Dr. Buccellini, had thrown her. She had been lying in a state of half-hysterical apathy for some hours, all volition, almost all vitality, suspended, under the influence of an exaggerated credulity, when the letter was laid upon the table. “What is that your maid has just left out of her hand?” asked the doctor, in a tone of semi-imperiousness. [Illustration: 318] “A letter, a sealed letter,” replied she, mystically waving her hand before her half-closed eyes. The doctor gave a look of triumph at the bystanders, and went on: “Has the letter come from a distant country, or from a correspondent near at hand?” “Near!” said she, with a shudder. “Where is the writer at this moment?” asked he. “In the house,” said she, with another and more violent shuddering. “I now take the letter in my hand,” said the doctor, “and what am I looking at?” “A seal with two griffins supporting a spur.” The doctor showed the letter on every side, with a proud and commanding gesture. “There is a name written in the corner of the letter, beneath the address. Do you know that name?” A heavy, thick sob was the reply. “There there be calm, be still,” said he, majestically motioning with both hands towards her; and she immediately became composed and tranquil. “Are the contents of this letter such as will give you pleasure?” A shake of the head was the answer. “Are they painful?” “Very painful,” said she, pressing her hand to her temples. “Will these tidings be productive of grand consequences?” “Yes, yes!” cried she, eagerly. “What will you do, when you read them?” “Act!” ejaculated she, solemnly. “In compliance with the spirit, or in rejection?” “Rejection!” “Sleep on, sleep on,” said the doctor, with a wave of his hand; and, as he spoke, her head drooped, her arm fell listlessly down, and her long and heavy breathing denoted deep slumber. “There are people, Miss Dalton,” said he to Kate, “who affect to see nothing in mesmerism but deception and trick, whose philosophy teaches them to discredit all that they cannot comprehend. I trust you may never be of this number.” “It is very wonderful, very strange,” said she, thoughtfully. “Like all the secrets of nature, its phenomena are above belief; yet, to those who study them with patience and industry, how compatible do they seem with the whole order and spirit of creation. The great system of vitality being a grand scheme of actionary and reactionary influences, the centrifugal being in reality the centripetal, and those impulses we vainly fancy to be our own instincts being the impressions of external forces do you comprehend me?” “Not perfectly; in part, perhaps,” said she, diffidently. “Even that is something,” replied he, with a bland smile. “One whose future fortunes will place her in a station to exert influence is an enviable convert to have brought to truth.” “I!” said she, blushing with shame and surprise together; “surely you mistake, sir. I am neither born to rank, nor like to attain it.” “Both one and the other, young lady,” said he, solemnly; “high as your position will one day be, it will not be above the claims of your descent. It is not on fallible evidence that I read the future.” “And can you really predict my fortune in life?” asked she, eagerly. “More certainly than you would credit it, when told,” said he, deliberately. “How I should like to hear it; how I should like to know” She stopped, and a deep blush covered her face. “And why should you not know that your dreams will be realized?” said he, hastily, as if speaking from some irresistible impulse. “What more natural than to desire a glance, fleeting though it be, into that black vista where the bright lightning of prophecy throws its momentary splendor?” “And how know you that I have had dreams?” said she, innocently. “I know of them but by their accomplishment. I see you not in the present or the past, but in the future. There your image is revealed to me, and surrounded by a splendor I cannot describe. It is gorgeous and barbaric in magnificence; there is something feudal in the state by which you are encompassed that almost speaks of another age.” “This is mere dreamland, indeed,” said she, laughing. “Nay, not so; nor is it all bright and glorious, as you think. There are shadows of many a dark tint moving along the sunlit surface.” “But how know you all this?” asked she, half incredulously. “As you slept last evening in a mesmeric slumber on that sofa; but I will hear no further questioning. Look to our patient here, and if that letter agitate her over-much, let me be sent for.” And, with these words, delivered oracularly, the doctor left the room, while Kate seated herself beside the sofa where Lady Hester slept. It was late in the night when Lady Hester awoke, and soon remembering that a letter had arrived, broke the seal and read it. If the proposal of Sir Stafford was in every way unacceptable, there was something which compensated for all in the excitement of spirits an act of opposition was sure to produce; nor was it without a sense of triumph that she read lines penned in evident sorrow and depression of spirit. In fact, she made the not uncommon error of mistaking sorrow for repentance, and thought she perceived in her husband's tone a desire to retrace his steps. It is difficult to say whether such an amende would have given her pleasure; certainly she would not have accepted it without subjecting him to a term of probation of more or less length. In any case, as regarded Kate, she was decided at once upon a positive refusal; and as, with her, a resolve and a mode of action were usually the work of the same moment, she motioned to Kate to sit down beside her on the sofa, and passing her arm around her, drew her fondly towards her. “Kate, dearest,” said she, “I 'm sure nothing would induce you to leave me, I mean, to desert and forsake me.” Kate pressed the hand she held in her own to her lips with fervor, but could not speak for emotion. “I say this,” said Lady Hester, rapidly, “because the moment has come to test your fidelity. Sir Stafford and I it is needless to state how and by what means have at last discovered, what I fancy the whole world has seen for many a day, that we were totally unsuited to each other, in taste, age, habit, feeling, mode of life, and thought; that we have nothing in common, neither liking nor detesting the same things, but actually at variance upon every possible subject and person. Of course-all attempt to cover such discrepancies must be a failure. We might trump up a hollow truce, child, but it never could be an alliance; and so we have thought, I 'm sure it is well that we have hit upon even one topic for agreement, we have thought that the best, indeed the only, thing we could do, was to separate.” An exclamation, almost like an accent of pain, escaped Kate at these words. “Yes, dearest,” resumed Lady Hester, “it was his own proposal, made in the very coldest imaginable fashion; for men have constantly this habit, and always take the tone of dignity when they are about to do an injustice. All this, however, I was prepared for, and could suffer without complaint; but he desires to rob me of you, my dear child, to deprive me of the only friend, the only confidante I have in the world. I don't wonder that you grow pale and look shocked at such cruelty, concealed, as it is, under the mask of care for your interests and regard for your welfare; and this to me, dearest, to me, who feel to you as to a sister, a dear, dear sister!” Here Lady Hester drew Kate towards her, and kissed her twice, affectionately. “There 's his letter, my sweet child. You can read it; or better, indeed, that you should not, if you would preserve any memory of your good opinion of him.” “And he that was ever so kind, so thoughtful, and so generous!” cried Kate. “You know nothing of these creatures, my dear,” broke in Lady Hester. “All those plausibilities that they play off in the world are little emanations of their own selfish natures. They are eternally craving admiration from us women, and that is the true reason of their mock kindness and mock generosity! I 'm sure,” added she, sighing, “my experience has cost me pretty dearly! What a life of trial and privation has mine been!” Lady Hester sighed heavily as her jewelled fingers pressed to her eyes a handkerchief worth a hundred guineas, and really believed herself a case for world-wide sympathy. She actually did shed a tear or two over her sorrows; for it is wonderful on what slight pretension we can compassionate ourselves. She thought over all the story of her life, and wept. She remembered how she had been obliged to refuse the husband of her choice; she forgot to be grateful for having escaped a heartless spendthrift, she remembered her acceptance of one inferior to her in rank, and many years her senior; but forgot his wealth, his generosity, his kindliness of nature, and his high character. She thought of herself as she was at eighteen, the flattered beauty, daughter of a Peer, courted, sought after, and admired; but she totally forgot what she was at thirty, with faded attractions, unthought of, and, worse still, unmarried. Of the credit side of her account with Fortune she omitted not an item; the debits she slurred over as unworthy of mention. That she should be able to deceive herself is nothing very new or strange, but that she should succeed in deceiving another is indeed singular; and such was the case. Kate listened to her, and believed everything; and when her reason failed to convince, her natural softness of disposition served to satisfy her that a more patient, long-suffering, unrepining being never existed than Lady Hester Onslow. “And now,” said she, after a long peroration of woes, “can you leave me here, alone and friendless? will you desert me?” “Oh, never, never!” cried Kate, kissing her hand and pressing her to her heart. “I would willingly lay down my life to avert this sad misfortune; but, if that cannot be, I will share your lot with the devotion of my whole heart.” Lady Hester could scarcely avoid smiling at the poor girl's simplicity, who really fancied that separation included a life of seclusion and sorrow, with restricted means and an obscure position; and it was with a kind of subdued drollery she assured Kate that even in her altered fortunes a great number of little pleasures and comforts would remain for them. In fact, by degrees the truth came slowly out, that the great change implied little else than unrestrained liberty of action, freedom to go anywhere, know any one, and be questioned by nobody; the equivocal character of the position adding a piquancy to the society, inexpressibly charming to all those who, like the Duchesse d'Abrantes, think it only necessary for a thing to be “wrong” to make it perfectly delightful. Having made a convert of Kate, Lady Hester briefly replied to Sir Stafford, that his proposition was alike repugnant to Miss Dalton as to herself, that she regretted the want of consideration on his part, which could have led him to desire that she should be friendless at a time when the presence of a companion was more than ever needed. This done, she kissed Kate three or four times affectionately, and retired to her room, well satisfied with what the day had brought forth, and only wishing for the morrow, which should open her new path in life. It often happens in life that we are never sufficiently struck with the force of our own opinions or their consequences, till, from some accident or other, we come to record them. Then it is that the sentiments we have expressed, and the lines of action adopted, suddenly come forth in all their unvarnished truth. Like the images which the painter, for the first time, commits to canvas, they stand out to challenge a criticism which, so long as they remained in mere imagination, they had escaped. This was precisely Kate Dalton's case now. Her natural warm-heartedness, and her fervent sense of gratitude, had led her to adopt Lady Hester's cause as her own; generous impulses, carrying reason all before them, attached her to what she fancied to be the weaker side. “The divinity that doth hedge--” “beauty--” made her believe that so much loveliness could do no wrong; nor was it till she came to write of the event to her sister, that even a doubt crossed her mind on the subject. The difficulty of explaining a circumstance of which she knew but little, was enhanced by her knowledge of Ellen's rigid and unbending sense of right. “Poor dear Nelly,” said she, “with her innocence of mind, will understand nothing of all this, or she will condemn Lady Hester at once. Submission to her husband would, in her opinion, have been the first of duties. She cannot appreciate motives which actuate society in a rank different from her own. In her ignorance of the world, too, she might deem my remaining here unadvisable; she might counsel my return to home; and thus I should be deserting, forsaking, the dear friend who has confided all her sorrows to my heart, and reposes all her trust in my fidelity. This would break Lady Hester's heart and my own together; and yet nothing is more likely than such a course. Better a thousand times not expose her friend's cause to such a casualty. A little time and a little patience may place matters in a position more intelligible and less objectionable; and, after all, the question is purely a family secret, the divulgence of which, even to a sister, is perhaps not warrantable.” Such were among the plausibilities with which she glanced over her conduct; without, however, satisfying herself that she was in the right. She had only begun the descent of lax morality, and her head was addled by the new sensation. Happy are they who even from weak nerves relinquish the career! Kate's letter home, then, was full of gay revelations. Galleries, churches, gardens; objects of art or historic interest; new pictures of manners, sketches of society, abounded. There were descriptions of fetes, too, and brilliant assemblies, with great names of guests and gorgeous displays of splendor. Well and sweetly were they written; a quick observation and a keen insight into character in every line. The subtle analysis of people and their pretensions, which comes of mixture with the world, was preeminent in all she said; while a certain sharp wit pointed many of the remarks, and sparkled in many a brilliant passage. It was altogether a lively and a pleasant letter. A stranger, reading ft, would have pronounced the writer clever and witty; a friend would have regretted the want of personal details, the hundred little traits of egoism that speak confidence and trust. But to a sister! and such a sister as Nelly! it was, indeed, barren! No outpouring of warm affection; no fond memory of home; no reference to that little fireside whence her own image had never departed, and where her presence was each night invoked. Oh! Kate, has Hanserl's dark prophecy thrown its shadow already to your feet? Can a young heart be so easily corrupted, and so soon?	{ "id": "32061" }
27	A SMALL DINNER AT THE VILLINO ZOE.	AMONG the penalties great folk pay for their ascendancy, there is one most remarkable, and that is, the intense interest taken in all their affairs by hundreds of worthy people who are not of their acquaintance. This feeling, which transcends every other known description of sympathy, flourishes in small communities. In the capital of which we are now speaking, it was at its very highest pitch of development. The Onslows furnished all the table-talk of the city; but in no circle were their merits so frequently and ably discussed as in that little parliament of gossip which held its meetings at the “Villino Zoe.” Mrs. Ricketts, who was no common diplomatist, had done her utmost to establish relations of amity with her great neighbor. She had expended all the arts of courtesy and all the devices of politeness to effect this entente cordiale; but all in vain. Her advances had been met with coldness, and “something more;” her perfumed little notes, written in a style of euphuism all her own, had been left unanswered; her presents of fruit and flowers unacknowledged, it is but fair to add, that they never proceeded further than the porter's lodge, even her visiting-cards were only replied to by the stiff courtesy of cards, left by Lady Hester's “Chasseur;” so that, in fact, failure had fallen on all her endeavors, and she had not even attained to the barren honor of a recognition as they passed in the promenade. This was a very serious discomfiture, and might, when it got abroad, have sorely damaged the Ricketts's ascendancy in that large circle, who were accustomed to regard her as the glass of fashion. Heaven knew what amount of insubordination might spring out of it! what rebellious notions might gain currency and credit! It was but the winter before when a Duchess, who passed through, on her way to Rome, asked “who Mrs. Ricketts was?” and the shock was felt during the whole season after. The Vandyk for whose authenticity Martha swore, was actually called in question. The “Sevres” cup she had herself painted was the subject of a heresy as astounding. We live in an age of movement and convulsion, no man's landmarks are safe now, and Mrs. Ricketts knew this. The Onslows, it was clear, would not know her; it only remained, then, to show why she would not know them. It was a rare thing to find a family settling down at Florence against whom a “true bill” might not easily be found of previous misconduct. Few left England without a reason that might readily become an allegation. Bankruptcy or divorce were the light offences; the higher ones we must not speak of. Now the Onslows, as it happened, were not in this category. Sir Stafford's character was unimpeachable, her Ladyship's had nothing more grave against it than the ordinary levities of her station. George “had gone the pace,” it was true, but nothing disreputable attached to him. There was no use, there fore, in “trying back” for a charge, and Mrs. Ricketts perceived that they must be arraigned on the very vaguest of evidence. Many a head has fallen beneath the guillotine for a suspicion, and many a heart been broken on a surmise! A little dinner at the Villino opened the plan of proceedings. It was a small auto-da-fe of character at which the Onslows were to be the victims, while the grand inquisitors were worthily represented by the Polish Count, Haggerstone, Purvis, and a certain Mr. Foglass, then passing through Florence on his way to England. This gentleman, who was the reputed son of a supposed son of George the Fourth, was received as “very good royalty” in certain circles abroad, and, by virtue of a wig, a portly chest, and a most imposing pomposity of manner, taken to be exceedingly like his grandfather, just on the same principle as red currant jelly makes middling mutton resemble venison. To get rid of his importunity, a Minister had made him Consul in some remote village of the East, but finding that there were neither fees nor perquisites, Foglass had left his post to besiege the doors of Downing Street once more, and if rejected as a suppliant, to become an admirable grievance for a Radical Member, and a “very cruel case of oppression” for the morning papers. Foglass was essentially a “humbug;” but, unlike most, if not all other humbugs, without the smallest ingredient of any kind of ability. When men are said to live by their wits, their capital is, generally speaking, a very sufficient one; and that interesting class of persons known as adventurers numbers many clever talkers, shrewd observers, subtle tacticians, and admirable billiard-players; with a steady hand on a pistol, but ready to “pocket” either an “insult” or a “ball.” if the occasion require it. None of these gifts pertained to Foglass. He had not one of the qualities which either succeed in the world or in society, and yet, strange to say, this intolerable bore had a kind of popularity, that is to say, people gave him a vacant place at their dinners, and remembered him at picnics. His whole strength lay in his wig, and a certain slow, measured intonation which he found often attracted attention to what he said, and gave his tiresome anecdotes of John Kemble, Munden, and Mathews the semblance of a point they never possessed. Latterly, however, he had grown deaf, and, like most who suffer under that infirmity, taken to speaking in a whisper so low as to be inaudible, a piece of politeness for which even our reader will be grateful, as it will spare him the misery of his twaddle. Haggerstone and he were intimates were it not a profanation of the word, we should say friends. They were, however, always together; and Haggerstone took pains to speak of his companion as a “monstrous clever fellow, who required to be known to be appreciated.” Jekyl probably discovered the true secret of the alliance in the fact that they always talked to each other about the nobility, and never gave them their titles, an illusory familiarity with Dukes and Earls that appeared to render them supremely happy. Richmond, Beaufort, Cleveland, and Stanley were in their mouths as “household words.” After all, it was a harmless sort of pastime; and if these “Imaginary Conversations” gave them pleasure, why need we grumble? We have scruples about asking our reader even to a description of the Ricketts's dinner. It was a true Barmecide feast. There was a very showy bouquet of flowers: there was a lavish display of what seemed silver; there was a good deal of queer china and impracticable glass; in short, much to look at, and very little to eat. Of this fact the Pole's appreciation was like an instinct, and as the entrees were handed round, all who came after him became soon aware of. Neither the wine nor the dessert were temptations to a long sitting, and the party soon found themselves in the drawing-room. “Son Excellence is going to England?” said the Pole, addressing Foglass, who had been announced as an Ambassador; “if you do see de Count Ojeffskoy, tell him I am living here, as well as a poor exile can, who have lost palaces, and horses, and diamonds, and all de rest.” “Ah! the poor dear Count!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, while Martha prolonged the echo. “You carry on the war tolerably well, notwithstanding,” said Haggerstone, who knew something of the other's resources in piquet and ecarte. “Carry on de war!” rejoined he, indignantly; “wid my fader, who work in de mines; and my beautiful sisters, who walk naked about de streets of Crakow!” “What kind of climate have they in Crak-Crak-Crak--” A fit of coughing finished a question which nobody thought of answering; and Purvis sat down, abashed, in a corner. “Arthur, my love,” said Mrs. Ricketts, she was great at a diversion, whenever such a tactic was wanted, “do you hear what Colonel Haggerstone has been saying?” “No, dearest,” muttered the old General, as he worked away with rule and compass. “He tells me,” said the lady, still louder, “that the Onslows have separated. Not an open, formal separation, but that they occupy distinct apartments, and hold no intercourse whatever.” “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee” said Haggerstone, who, having already told the story seven times the same morning, was quite perfect in the recital, “Sir Stafford lives on the rez de chaussee, with a small door into the garden. My Lady retains the entire first floor and the grand conservatory. George has a small garcon apartment off the terrace.” “Ho! very distressing!” sighed Mrs. Ricketts, whose woe-worn looks seemed to imply that she had never heard of a similar incident before; “and how unlike us, Arthur!” added she, with a smile of beaming affection. “He has ever been what you see him, since the day he stole my young, unsuspecting heart.” The Colonel looked over at the object thus designated, and, by the grin of malice on his features, appeared to infer that the compliment was but a sorry one, after all. “'John Anderson my Jo, John,'” muttered he, half aloud. “'We've climbed the hill toge-ge-ge-ther,'” chimed in Purvis, with a cackle. “Gather what, sir? Blackberries, was it?” cried Haggerstone. “Don't quote that low-lived creature,” said Mrs. Ricketts; “a poet only conversant with peasants and their habits. Let us talk of our own order. What of these poor Onslows?” “Sir Stafford dines at two, madam. A cutlet, a vegetable, and a cherry tart; two glasses of Gordon's sherry, and a cup of coffee.” “Without milk. I had it from Proctor,” broke in Purvis, who was bursting with jealousy at the accuracy of the other's narrative. “You mean without sugar, sir,” snapped Haggerstone. “Nobody does take milk-coffee after dinner.” “I always do,” rejoined Purvis, “when I can't get mara-mara-mara--” “I hope you can get maraschino down easier than you pronounce it, sir.” “Be quiet, Scroope,” said his sister; “you always interrupt.” “He do make de devil of misverstandness wit his whatye-call-'em,” added the Pole, contemptuously. And poor Purvis, rebuked on every side, was obliged to fall back beside Martha and her embroidery. “My Lady,” resumed Haggerstone, “is served at eleven o'clock. The moment Granzini's solo is over in the ballet, an express is sent off to order dinner. The table is far more costly than Midchekoff's.” “I do believe well,” said the Count, who always, for nationality's sake, deemed it proper to abuse the Russian. “De Midchekoff cook tell me he have but ten paoli how you say par tete by the tete for his dinner; dat to include everyting, from the caviar to de sheeze.” “That was not the style at the Pavilion formerly,” roared out Haggerstone, repeating the remark in Foglass's ear. And the ex-consul smiled blandly towards Mrs. Ricketts, and said he 'd take anything to England for her “with pleasure.” “He 's worse than ever,” remarked Haggerstone, irritably. “When people have a natural infirmity, they ought to confine themselves to their own room.” “Particularly when it is one of the tem-tem-temper,” said Purvis, almost choked with passion. “Better a hasty temper than an impracticable tongue, sir.” said Haggerstone. “Be quiet, Scroope,” added Mrs. Ricketts; and he was still. Then, turning to the Colonel, she went on: “How thankful we ought to be that we never knew these people! They brought letters to us, some, indeed, from dear and valued friends. That sweet Diana Comerton, who married the Duke of Ellewater, wrote a most pressing entreaty that I should call upon them.” “She did n't marry the Duke; she married his chap-chaplain,” chimed in Purvis. “Will you be quiet, Scroope?” remarked the lady. “I ought to know,” rejoined he, grown courageous in the goodness of his cause. “He was Bob Nutty. Bitter Bob, we always called him at school. He had a kind of a poly-poly-poly--” “A polyanthus,” suggested Haggerstone. “No. It was a poly-polypus a polypus, that made him snuffle in his speech.” “Ach Gott!” sighed the Pole; but whether in sorrow for poor “Bob,” or in utter weariness at his historian, was hard to say. “Lady Foxington, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts, “made a serious request that we should be intimate with her friend Lady Hester. She was candid enough to say that her Ladyship would not suit me. 'She has no soul, Zoe,' wrote she, 'so I need n't say more.'” “Dat is ver bad,” said the Pole, gravely. “Still, I should have made her acquaintance, for the sake of that young creature Miss Dalton, I think they call her and whom I rather suspect to be a distant cousin of ours.” “Yes; there were Dawkinses at Exeter a very respectable solicitor, one was, Joe Dawkins,” came in Purvis; “and he used to say we were co-co-co-connections.” “This family, sir, is called Dalton, and not even a stutter can make that Dawkins.” “Couldn't your friend Mr. Foglass find out something about these Daltons for us, as he goes through Germany?” asked Mrs. Ricketts of the Colonel. “No one could execute such a commission better, madam, only you must give him his instructions in writing. Foglass,” added he, at the top of his voice, “let me have your note-book for a moment.” “With pleasure,” said he, presenting his snuff-box. “No; your memorandum-book,” screamed the other, louder. “It's gone down,” whispered the deaf man. “I lost the key on Tuesday last.” “Not your watch, man. I want to write a line in your note-book;” and he made a pantomimic of writing. “Yes, certainly; if Mrs. R. will permit, I'll write to her with pleasure.” “Confound him!” muttered Haggerstone; and, taking up a visiting-card, he wrote on the back of it, “Could you trace the Daltons as you go back by Baden?” The deaf man at once brightened up; a look of shrewd intelligence lighted up his fishy eyes as he said, “Yes, of course; say, what do you want?” “Antecedents family fortune,” wrote Haggerstone. “If dey have de tin,” chimed in the Pole. “If they be moral and of irreproachable reputation,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Are they related to the other Dawkinses?” asked Purvis. “Let him ask if their mother was not godfather to no, I mean grandfather to the Reverend Jere-Jere-Jere--” “Be quiet, Scroope will you be quiet?” “There, you have it all, now,” said Haggerstone, as he finished writing; “their 'family, fortune, flaws, and frailties' 'what they did, and where they did it' observing accuracy as to Christian names, and as many dates as possible.” “I'll do it,” said Foglass, as he read over the “instruction.” “We want it soon, too,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Tell him we shall need the information at once.” “This with speed,” wrote Haggerstone at the foot of the memorandum. Foglass bowed a deep assent. “How like his grandfather!” said Mrs. Ricketts, in ecstasy. “I never knew he had one,” whispered Haggerstone to the Pole. “His father was a coachmaker in Long Acre.” “Is he not thought very like them?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, with a sidelong glance of admiration at the auburn peruke. “I've heard that the wig is authentic, madam.” “He has so much of that regal urbanity in his manner.” “If he is not the first gentleman of England,” muttered Haggerstone to himself, “he is the first one in his own family, at least.” “By the way,” said Mrs. Ricketts, hastily, “let him inquire into that affair of Lord Norwood.” “No necessity, madam. The affair is in 'Bell's Life,' with the significant question, 'Where is he?' But he can learn the particulars, at all events.” And he made a note in the book. “How dreadful all this, and how sad to think Florence should be the resort of such people!” “If it were not for rapparees and refugees, madam, house-rent would be very inexpensive,” said the Colonel, in a subdued voice; while, turning to the Pole, he added, “and if respectability is to be always a caricature, I'd as soon have its opposite. I suppose you do not admit the Viscount, madam?” “He has not ventured to present himself,” said Mrs. Ricketts, proudly. “I hope that there is, at least, one sanctuary where virtue can live unmolested.” And, as she spoke, she looked over at Martha, who was working away patiently; but whether happy in the exclusive tariff aforesaid, or somewhat tired of “protection,” we are unable to say. “What has he do?” asked the Count. “He has done the 'ring' all round, I believe,” said Haggerstone, chuckling at a joke which he alone could appreciate. “Dey do talk of play in England!” said the Pole, contemptuously. “Dey never do play high, wit there leetle how do you call 'em? bets, of tree, four guinea, at ecarte. But in Polen we have two, tree, five tousand crowns on each card. Dere, crack! you lose a fortune, or I do win one! One evening at Garowidsky's I do lose one estate of seventeen million florins, but I no care noting for all dat! I was ver rich, wit my palaces and de mayorat how you call dat?” Before this question could be answered, the servant threw open the double door of the salon, and announced, “Milordo Norwood!” A shell might have burst in the apartment and not created much more confusion. Mrs. Ricketts gave a look at Martha, as though to assure herself that she was in safety. Poor Martha's own fingers trembled as she bent over her frame. Haggerstone buttoned up his coat and arranged his cravat with the air of a man so consummate a tactician that he could actually roll himself in pitch and yet never catch the odor; while Purvis, whose dread of a duel list exceeded his fear of a mad dog, ensconced himself behind a stand of geraniums, where he resolved to live in a state of retirement until the terrible Viscount had withdrawn. As for the Count, a preparatory touch at his moustache, and a slight arrangement of his hair, sufficed him to meet anything; and as these were the ordinary details of his daily toilet, he performed them with a rapidity quite instinctive. To present oneself in a room where one's appearance is unacceptable is, perhaps, no slight test of tact, manner, and effrontery; to be actually indifferent to the feelings around is to be insensible to the danger; to see the peril, and yet appear not to notice it, constitutes the true line of action. Lord Norwood was perfect in this piece of performance, and there was neither exaggerated cordiality nor any semblance of constraint in his manner as he advanced to Mrs. Ricketts, and taking her hand, pressed it respectfully to his lips. “This salutation,” said he, gayly, “is a commission from Lord Kennycroft, your old and constant admirer. It was his last word as we parted: 'Kiss Mrs. Ricketts's hand for me, and say I am faithful as ever.'” “Poor dear Lord! General, here is Lord Norwood come to see us.” “How good of him how very kind! Just arrived from the East, my Lord?” said he, shaking Foglass by the hand in mistake. “No, sir; from Malta.” He wouldn't say England, for reasons. “Miss Ricketts, I am most happy to see you and still occupied with the fine arts? Haggy, how d'ye do? Really it seems to me like yesterday since I sat here last in this delightful arm-chair, and looked about me on all these dear familiar objects. You 've varnished the Correggio, I think?” “The Vandyk, my Lord.” “To be sure the Vandyk. How stupid I am! Indeed, Lady Foxington said that not all your culture would ever make anything of me.” “How is Charlotte?” asked Mrs. Ricketts, this being the familiar for Lady F. “Just as you saw her last. Thinner, perhaps, but looking admirably.” “And the dear Duke how is he?” “Gouty always gouty but able to be about.” “I am so glad to hear it. It is so refreshing to talk of old friends.” “They are always talking of you. I'm sure, 'Zoe' forgive me the liberty Zoe Ricketts is an authority on every subject of taste and literature.” “How did you come here, my Lord?” whispered Haggerstone. “The new opera broke down, and there is no house open before twelve,” was the hasty reply. “Is Jemima married, my Lord?” “No. There 's something or other wrong about the settlements. Who's the foreigner, Haggy?” “A Pole. Petrolaffsky.” “No, no not a bit of it. _I_ know him,” said the other, rapidly; then, turning to Mrs. Ricketts, he grew warmly interested in the private life and adventures of the nobility, for all of whom she entertained a most catholic affection. It was, indeed, a grand field-day for the peerage; even to the “Pensioners” all were under arms. It was a review such as she rarely enjoyed, and certainly she “improved the occasion.” She scattered about her noble personages with the profusion of a child strewing wild-flowers. There were Dukes she had known from their cradles; Marchionesses with whom she had disported in childhood; Earls and Viscounts who had been her earliest playmates; not to speak of a more advanced stage in her history, when all these distinguished individuals were suppliants and suitors. To listen to her, you would swear that she had never played shuttlecock with anything under an Earl, nor trundled a hoop with aught below a Lord in Waiting! Norwood fooled her to the top of her bent. To use his own phrase, “he left her easy hazards, and everything on the balls.” It is needless to state that, in such pleasant converse, she had no memory for the noble Viscount's own transgressions. He might have robbed the Exchequer, or stolen the Crown jewels, for anything that she could recollect! and when, by a seeming accident, he did allude to Newmarket, and lament his most “unlucky book,” she smiled complacently, as though to say that he could afford himself even the luxury of being ruined, and not care for it. “Florence is pretty much as it used to be, I suppose,” said he; “and one really needs one's friends to rebut and refute foolish rumors, when they get abroad. Now, you 'll oblige me by contradicting, if you ever hear, this absurd story. I neither did win forty thousand from the Duke of Stratton, nor shoot him in a duel for non-payment.” Both these derelictions were invented on the moment. “You 'll hear fifty other similar offences laid to my charge; and I trust to you and the Onslows for the refutation. In fact, it is the duty of one's own class to defend 'their order.'” Mrs. Ricketts smiled blandly, and bowed, bowed as though her gauze turban had been a coronet, and the tinsel finery jewelled strawberry leaves! To be coupled with the Onslows in the defence of a viscount was a proud thought. What if it might be made a grand reality? “Apropos of the Onslows, my Lord,” said she, insidiously, “you are very intimate with them. How is it that we have seen so little of each other? Are we not congenial spirits?” “Good Heavens! I thought you were like sisters. There never were people so made for each other. All your tastes, habits, associations forgive me, if I say your very, antipathies are alike; for you both are unforgiving enemies of vulgarity. Depend upon it, there has been some underhand influence at work. Rely on 't, that evil tongues have kept you apart.” This he said in a whisper, and with a sidelong glance towards where Haggerstone sat at ecarte with the Pole. “Do you really think so?” asked she, reddening with anger, as she followed the direction of his eyes. “I can hit upon no other solution of the mystery,” said he, thoughtfully; “but know it I will, and must. You know, of course, that they can't endure him?” “No, I never heard that.” “It is not mere dislike, it is actual detestation. I have striven to moderate the feeling. I have said, 'True enough, the man is bad ton, but you needn't admit him to anything like intimacy. Let him come and go with the herd you receive at your large parties, and, above all, never repeat anything after him, for he has always the vulgar version of every incident in high life.'” Mrs. Ricketts raised her arched eyebrows and looked astonished; but it was a feeling in which acquiescence was beautifully blended, and the Viscount marked it well. “You must tell me something of this Miss Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer; “they affect a kind of mystery about her. Who is she? What is she?” “There are various versions of her story abroad,” said Mrs. Ricketts, who now spoke like the Chief Justice delivering a charge. “Some say that she is a natural daughter of Sir Stafford's; some aver that she is the last of a distinguished family whose fortune was embezzled by the Onslows; others assert that she is a half-sister of Lady Hester's own; but who ought to know the truth better than you, my Lord?” “I know absolutely nothing. She joined them in Germany; but where, when, and how, I never heard.” “I 'll soon be able to inform you, my Lord, on every detail of the matter,” said she, proudly. “Our kind friend, yonder, Mr. Foglass, has undertaken to discover everything. Mr. F., will you touch his arm forme, Martha?” and, the gentleman being aroused to consciousness, now arose, and approached Mrs. Ricketts's chair, “may I be permitted to take a glance at your note-book?” This speech was accompanied by a pantomimic gesture which he quickly understood. “I wish to show you, my Lord,” said she, addressing the Viscount, “that we proceed most methodically in our searches after title, as I sometimes call it ha, ha, ha! Now, here is the precious little volume, and this will explain the degree of accuracy such an investigation demands. This comes of living abroad, my Lord,” added she, with a smile. “One never can be too cautious, never too guarded in one's intimacies. The number of dubious people one meets with, the equivocal characters that somehow obtain a footing in society here, I really must ask you to decipher these ingenious hieroglyphics yourself.” And she handed the book to his Lordship. He took it courteously at the spot she opened it; and as his eyes fell upon the page, a slight very slight flush rose to his cheek, while he continued to read the lines before him more than once over. “Very explicit, certainly!” said he, while a smile of strange meaning curled his lip; and then, closing the book, he returned it to the lady's hand; not, however, before he had adroitly torn out the page he had been looking at, and which contained the following words: “Norwood's affair the precise story of the N. M. business if cut in England, and scratched at the 'Whip.'” “I cannot sufficiently commend either your caution or your tact, Mrs. Ricketts,” said he, bowing urbanely. “Without a little scrutiny of this kind our salons would be overrun with blacklegs and bad characters!” It was now late, late enough for Lady Hester, and the Viscount rose to take his leave. He was perfectly satisfied with the results of his visit. He had secretly enjoyed all the absurdities of his hostess, and even stored up some of her charming flights for repetition elsewhere. He had damaged Haggerstone, whose evil-speaking he dreaded, and, by impugning his good breeding, had despoiled him of all credit. He had seen the Polish Count in a society which, even such as it was, was many degrees above his pretensions; and although they met without recognition, a masonic glance of intelligence had passed between them; and, lastly, he had made an ally of the dear Zoe herself, ready to swear to his good character, and vouch for the spotless honor of all his dealings on turf or card-table. “Has he explained the Newmarket affair, madam?” said Haggerstone, as the door closed on the Viscount's departure. “Perfectly, Colonel; there is not the shadow of a suspicion against him.” “And so he was not scr-scr-scratched at the 'Whip'?” cried Purvis, emerging from his leafy retreat. “Nothing of the kind, Scroope.” “A scratch, but not a wound, perhaps,” said Haggerstone, with a grin of malice. “I am ver happy please ver moosh,” said the Count, “for de sake of de order. I am republiquecain, but never forget I 'm de noble blood!” “Beautiful sentiment!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, enthusiastically. “Martha, did you hear what the Count said? General, I hope you didn't lose it?” “I was alway for de cause of de people,” said the Count, throwing back his hair wildly, and seeming as if ready to do battle at a moment's warning. “For an anti-monarchist, he turns up the king wonderfully often at ecarte” said Haggerstone, in a low muttering, only overheard by Martha. “I don't think the demo-demo-demo” But before Purvis had finished his polysyllabic word, the company had time to make their farewell speeches and depart. Indeed, as the servant came to extinguish the lamps, he found the patient Purvis very red in the face, and with other signs of excitement, deeply seated in a chair, and as if struggling against an access of suffocation. What the profound sentiment which he desired to enunciate might therefore be, is lost to history, and this true narrative is unable to record.	{ "id": "32061" }
28	THE VISCOUNT'S VISION.	WHEN Lord Norwood arrived at the Mazzarini Palace, he was surprised not to find the usual half-dozen carriages of the habitues drawn up in the courtyard, and still more so to learn that her Ladyship did not receive that evening. He ascended to George Onslow's apartment, and discovered that he had dined with Prince Midchekoff, and not yet returned. Not knowing how to spend the hours, so much earlier than those of his usually retiring to rest, he lighted a cigar, and threw himself on a sofa before the fire. The reveries of men who live much in the world are seldom very agreeable. The work of self-examination comes with a double penalty when it is rarely exercised, and the heavy arrears of time are formidable scores to confront. Lord Norwood was no exception to this theory. Not that he was one to waste time or temper in self-reproaches. The bygone was essentially with him the “irrevocable.” It might, it is true, occasionally suggest a hint for the future, but it never originated a sorrow for the past. His philosophy was a very brief code, and comprised itself in this, “that he did n't think well of himself, but thought worse of all others.” All that he had seen of life was duplicity, falsehood, selfishness, and treachery. In different stations these characteristics took different forms; and what was artfully cloaked in courtesy by the lord was displayed in all its naked deformity by the plebeian. He might have conducted himself respectably enough had he been rich, at least he fervently believed so; but he was poor, and therefore driven to stratagems to maintain his position in society. Cheated by his guardians and neglected by his tutor, he was sent into the world half ruined, and wholly ignorant, to become at first a victim, and afterwards the victimizer. With no spirit of retributive vengeance, there was nothing of reprisal in his line of conduct, he simply thought that such was the natural and inevitable course of events, and that every man begins as dupe, and ends as knave. The highest flight of the human mind, in his esteem, was successful hypocrisy; and although without the plastic wit or the actual knowledge of life which are required well to sustain a part, he had contrived to impose upon a very large number of persons who looked up to his rank; for, strange enough, many who would not have been duped by a commoner, fell easy victims to the arts of “my Lord.” The value of his title he understood perfectly. He knew everything it could, and everything it could not, do for him. He was aware that the aristocracy of England would stand by one of their order through many vicissitudes, and that he who is born to a coronet has a charmed life, in circumstances where one less noble must perish ingloriously. He knew, too, how, for very shame's sake, they would screen one of themselves, and by a hundred devices seem to contradict before the world what they lament over behind its back; and, lastly, he knew well that he had always a title and a lineage to bestow, and that the peerage was the great prize among the daughters of men. Now, latterly, he had been pushing prerogative somewhat too far. He had won large sums from young men not out of their teens; he had been associated in play transactions with names less than reputable; and, finally, having backed a stable to an immense amount at Newmarket, had levanted on the day of his losing. He had done the act deliberately and calmly. It was a coup which, if successful, replaced him in credit and affluence; if a failure, it only confirmed the wavering judgment of his set, and left him to shift for the future in a different sphere; for, while a disgraced viscount is very bad company for viscounts, he is often a very welcome guest amongst that amiably innocent class who think the privileges of the aristocracy include bad morals with blue ribbons. The Turf could now no longer be a career with him. Ecarte and lansquenet were almost as much out of the question. Billiards, as Sir Walter said of literature, “might be a walking-stick, but never a crutch.” There was, then, nothing left for it but marriage. A rich heiress was his last coup; and as, in all likelihood, the thing could not be done twice, it required geat circumspection. In England this were easy enough. The manufacturing districts were grown ambitious. Cotton lords were desirous of a more recognized nobility, and millowners could be found ready to buy a coronet at the cost of half their fortune. But from England late events had banished him, and with a most damaged reputation. Now, carrying nobility to the Continent was like bringing coals to Newcastle, the whole length and breadth of the land being covered with counts, barons, dukes, and princes; and although English nobility stands on a different footing, there was no distinguishing the “real article” amid this mass of counterfeit. Every Frenchman of small fortune was an emigre count. Every German, of none, was sure to be a baron. All Poles, unwashed, uncombed, and uncared for, were of the very cream of the aristocracy; and as for Italians! it was a nation of princes, with their uncles all cardinals. To be a viscount in such company was, perhaps, like Lord Castlereagh's unstarred coat, plus distingue, but certainly more modest. The milor, if not associated with boundless wealth, six carriages, two couriers, three cooks, and a groom of the chambers, the whole of the “Russie,” or the “Black Eagle,” means nothing abroad. If not bound up with all the extravagance and all the eccentricities of riches, if not dazzling by display or amazing by oddity, it is a contradiction of terms; and to be an English noble without waste, profusion, and absurdity, is to deny your country or be a counterfeit of your class. Lord Norwood knew and felt all these things. They had often occupied his speculations and engaged his thoughts; so that, if his mind reverted to them now, it was to regard them as facts for future theory to build upon as mathematicians make use of the proofs of geometry without going over the steps which lead to conviction. No; all his present reflections took a practical form, and might be summed up in the one resolve, “I must go no further. I have done everything that a man dare do,--perhaps a little more, and yet keep his footing in the world.” That tacit verdict of “not proven,” which had been passed upon so many of his actions, might at any moment be reversed now, and a review of his life's career presented anything but a bright retrospect. Expulsion from a great school at thirteen; three years' private dissipation and secret wickedness in a clergyman's family; a dissolute regiment, from which he was given leave to sell out at Malta; two years with the Legion or Don Carlos, it mattered not which, in Spain; a year or so in London, with a weak attempt at reformation; a staff appointment in India obtained and sold; exposure partly hushed up; debts; Jews; renewals; the Fleet; the Bankruptcy Court; a few disreputable duels; an action for seduction; ending with the last affair at Newmarket, made up the grand outline, the details comprising various little episodes with which we must not trouble ourselves. One incident, however, would come up prominently before his Lordship's mind, and, however little given to let the past usurp the thoughts which should be given to the present, it still insisted upon sharing his attention. This was no less than a little love affair in Spain with a “ballerina” of the Opera, with whom, by the aid of a young priest then studying at Saragossa, he had contracted a mock marriage. The sudden movement of a corps of the army to which he was attached gave him an opportunity of an easy divorce from his bride, and it is likely he had not twice thought of her since the event had happened. Now, however, that an intention of marrying in reality occurred to him, the incident came freshly to his mind, and he jocularly wondered if his second marriage might prove more fortunate than his first. The hour and the place were favorable to revery. It was past midnight. All was silent and noiseless in the great palace; the sharp ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece was the only sound to be heard, save, at a long distance off, the dull, subdued flow of the Arno. The room itself, unlighted, except by the flickering wood fire, was in deep shadow; and, lulled by these influences and his mild Manilla, Norwood was free to revel in so much of dreamland as natures like his ever explore. Who can tell whether men of this stamp know what it is to “grieve,” whether chagrin for some momentary disappointment, anger at being thwarted, is not the nearest approach to sorrow that they ever feel? The whole course of their lives seems opposed to the notion of deep or intense feeling, and the restless activity of their ingenious minds appears to deny the possibility of regrets. As for Norwood, he would have laughed at the puerility of going over the bygone; therefore, if he did recur to a former incident of his life, it was involuntary and probably induced by the accidental similarity with those which now engaged his thoughts. “If this Dalton girl be rich,” thought he, “I might do worse. There are no relatives to make impertinent inquiries, or ask awkward questions. Hester can, and must, if I desire, assist me. Living out of England, the girl herself will have heard nothing of my doings, and in name, appearance, and air she is presentable anywhere.” He thought, too, that, as a married man, his character would be in a measure rehabilitated. It would be like entering on a new road in life; and if this could be done with a certain degree of style and outlay, he had great trust in the world's charity and forgiveness to pardon all the past. “A good house and a good cook,” thought he, “are the best witnesses to call to character I have ever met. Turtle and champagne have proved sovereign remedies for slander in all ages; and the man who can sport Lafitte in the evening, and split a pencil at twenty paces of a morning, may defy envy, hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness.” To find out about this girl's fortune was then his first object. As for family, his own rank was enough for both. The matter must be done quickly. The London season over, England would be pouring its myriads of talking, gossiping travellers over the Continent, and then he should be discussed, probably avoided and shunned too. Even already certain unmistakable signs of coolness announced themselves amongst the men of his acquaintance. George Onslow avoided play when in his company. Treviliani, one of Lady Hester's chief danglers, and the patron of the Turf in Tuscany, would n't even allude to a horse before him. Prince Midchekoff went further, and actually, save on rare occasions, omitted him from his dinner list. Now, although Norwood averred that he detested _petit jeu_, hated spooney talk about racing, and dreaded the tiresome display of a “Tartar feast,” these were all threatening indications, and he saw their meaning. He would willingly have fastened upon some one man, fixed a quarrel on him, and shot him. He had more than once in life adopted this policy with success; but here it would have been inapplicable, and the public opinion he sought to bring on his own side would have been only more inevitably arrayed against him. “In what a mess does the want of money involve a man!” thought he, as he lay before the half-dying embers of the wood fire. “Had I won my bets on 'Chanticleer,' or had I but backed 'Amontillado,' how different had my position been to-day! That the simple change of one name for another in my betting-book the mere hazard of a choice, of a horse, too should influence a man's whole life, is a pretty fair instance of what the world is! Had I 'come right,' I should now be the favored guest of some noble duke, shooting his grace's pheasants, drinking his Burgundy, and flirting with his daughters. Fortune willed it otherwise, and here I am, actually plotting a match with a nameless girl to rescue myself from utter ruin. Three weeks ago I would not have believed that this could happen; and who can tell what another three weeks may bring forth? perhaps, already, there is mischief brewing. What if my Lady's refusal to receive this evening may have some signification in it? Haggerstone is too courteous by half, and Jekyl has never called upon me since my arrival!” He laughed ironically as he said this, and added, “It is a bold game, after all, for them to play! Reprisals to two of them, at least might prove awkward; and as for 'Master Albert,' he lives but on general sufferance. There has been a long run of luck against me; nothing but ill-fortune since the day I might have married Hester, and yet hung back, and that very same year she marries another, and inherits an immense fortune in India. What a blow to each of us! Such has been my lot through life; always backing the loser till the very moment when luck changes, and his turn comes to win.” As these thoughts passed through his mind, weariness, the silence of the hour, the darkened room, induced slumber; and although once or twice he made a half-effort to arouse himself and go home, the listless feeling gained the mastery, and he dropped off to sleep. The uneasy consciences have oftentimes very easy slumbers. Norwood's was of the calmest; not a dream, not one flitting fancy disturbed it. It was already nigh day as he lay thus, when the dull roll of wheels beneath the window in part awoke him; at least, it so far aroused him that he remembered where he was, and fancied that it might be George Onslow, on the return from his dinner-party. He lay for some minutes expecting to hear his step upon the stair, and see him enter the room; but as all seemed to resume its wonted quiet, he was dozing off again, when he heard the sound of a hand upon the lock of the door. It is one of the strange instincts of half-slumber to be often more alive to the influence of subdued and stealthy sounds than to louder noises. The slightest whisperings, the low murmurings of a human voice, the creaking of a chair, the cautious drawing back of a curtain will jar upon and arouse the faculties that have been insensible to the rushing flow of a cataract or the dull booming of the sea. Slight as were the sounds now heard, Norwood started as he listened to them, and, at once arousing himself, he fixed his eyes upon the door, in which the handle was seen to turn slowly and cautiously. The impression that it was a robber immediately occurred to him, and he determined to lie still and motionless, to watch what might happen. He was not wanting in personal courage, and had full confidence in his strength and activity. The door at last opened; at first, a very little, and slowly, then gradually more and more, till, by the mysterious half-light to which his eyes had grown accustomed, Norwood could see the flounces of a female dress, and the small, neat foot of a woman beneath it. The faint, uncertain flame of the fire showed him thus much, but left the remainder of the figure in deep shadow. Whether from excess of caution, or that she was yet hesitating what course to take, she remained for some seconds motionless; and Norwood, who had subdued his breathing to the utmost, lay in the deep shadow, speculating on the upshot of an adventure from which he promised himself, at least, an amusing story. The deep black lace which fell over the arched instep indicated a degree of rank in the wearer that gave a piquancy to the incident, and imparted a zest to the curiosity of a man who probably knew no higher pleasure in life than in possessing the secrets of his acquaintance. He had time to run over in his mind a dozen little speculations of who she was, ere she stirred; and at last, as if with change of purpose, he saw, or fancied that he saw, the door beginning slowly to close. Whether this was a mere trick of his excited imagination or not, a sudden gesture of impatience on his part threw down one of the cushions of the sofa. A slight shriek so slight as to be barely heard broke from the female, and she banged the door to. Norwood reached it with a spring; but although, as he wrenched it open, he could yet hear the rustling of a woman's dress in the passage, the sharp sound of a door hastily shut and locked defied all thought of pursuit, and he stood pondering over what had happened, and almost doubtful of its reality. “At least, the fair visitor belongs to the family; that much I may rely upon,” said he, as he lighted a candle to explore the locality a little closer. The corridor, however, abruptly stopped at a small door, which was locked on the inside; but to what portion of the house it led he could not even conjecture. He was not a very unlikely man to trace the clew of such an adventure as this seemed to be. It was one of those incidents with which his course of life had made him somewhat conversant; and few were better able to fill up from conjecture every blank of such a history. Nor was he one to shrink from any suspicion, no matter how repugnant to every thought of honor, nor how improbable to every mind less imbued with vice than his own. For a moment or two, however, he almost doubted whether the whole might not have been a dream, so sudden, so brief, so trackless did it all appear. This doubt, was, however, quickly resolved, as his eyes fell upon the floor, where a small fragment of a lace dress lay, as it was caught and torn off in the closing door. Norwood took it up, and sat down to examine it with attention. “Point d'Alencon,” said he, “bespeaks no vulgar wearer; and such is this! Who could have thought of George Onslow playing Lothario! But this comes of Italy. And now to find her out.” He ran over to himself half a dozen names, in which were nearly as many nationalities, but some doubt accompanied each. “No matter,” thought he, “the secret will keep.” He suddenly remembered, at the instant, that he had promised an acquaintance to pass some days with him in the Maremma, shooting; and, not sorry to have so good a reason for a few days' absence, he arose and set out towards his hotel, having first carefully placed within his pocketbook the little fragment of lace, a clew to a mystery he was resolved to explore hereafter.	{ "id": "32061" }
29	FRANK'S JOURNEY.	Our readers may, ere this, have surmised that Frank Dalton's career as a soldier was neither very adventurous nor exciting, since otherwise we should scarcely have so nearly forgotten him. When he parted with Hanserl to pursue his journey, his heart was full of warring and conflicting emotions, love of home and hope of future distinction alternately swaying him; so that while his affections drew him ever backwards, his ambitious urged him to go on. “I could have been so happy to have lived with them,” thought he, “even as a peasant lives, a life of daily toil. I would have asked for no higher fortune than that peaceful home we had made for ourselves by our own affections, the happy fireside, that sufficed us for all the blandishments of wealth and riches. Still there would have been something ignoble in this humility, something that would ill become my blood as a Dalton. It was not thus my ancestors understood their station, it was not with such lowly ambitions their hearts were stirred. Count Stephen himself might at this hour have been in obscurity and poverty as great, perhaps, as our own had he been thus minded; and now he is a field-marshal, with a 'Maria Teresa' cross on his breast! and this without one friend to counsel or to aid him! What a noble service is that where merit can win its way self-sustained and independent, where, without the indignity of a patron, the path of honorable enterprise lies free and open to all! What generous promptings, what bold aspirations such a career engenders! He shall not be ashamed of me, he shall not have to blush for the Dalton blood,” said the boy, enthusiastically; and he revelled in a dream of the old Count's ecstasy on finding a nephew so worthy of their name, and in his fancy he saw pictures of future scenes in which he figured. All of these had the same rose tint; for while in some he imagined himself winning the high rewards of great achievements, in others he was the caressed and flattered guest of rank and beauty. “To think that I should once have been thus!” cried he, laughing at the conceit, “trudging along the high-road with a knapsack on my shoulder, like a Bursch in his 'Wander-jahre;'” and then he vowed to himself that “he would have a picture taken of his humble guise as first he started in life, to hang up at some future day beside the decorated soldier he was yet to be.” Selfishness can wear many a mask. Sometimes it can array itself in features almost noble, more often its traits are of the very meanest. Frank's egotism was of the former kind. He wanted to attain distinction by an honorable path, he would not have stooped to any other. He was ready to do or dare all for greatness. No peril could deter, no danger could daunt him; but yet was he totally deficient in that greatest element of success, that patient discipline of the mind which, made up of humility and confidence, can wait and bide its time, earning the prizes of life before it claim them. His pride of family, however, was his greatest blemish, since it suggested a false notion of distinction, a pretension so groundless that, like a forged banknote, it was sure to involve even the bearer in disgrace. So full was he of himself and his own future, that he took but little note of the way as he went. Avoiding, from a sense of pride, to associate with the “Travelling Youths,” as they are called, he walked along from early morning to late evening, alone and companionless. It was mostly a dreary and uninteresting road, either leading through dark and gloomy pine forests or over great plains of swampy surface, where the stubble of the tall maize, or the stunted vines, were the only traces of vegetation. As he drew near the Tyrol, however, the great mountains came in sight, while the continual ascent told that he was gradually reaching the land of glaciers and snow-peaks. Day by day he found the road less and less frequented: these lonely districts were little resorted to by the wandering apprentices, so that frequently Frank did not meet a single traveller from day-dawn till night. Perhaps he felt little regret at this, leaving him, as it did, more time for those daydreams in which he loved to revel. Now and then some giant mountain glittering in the sun, or some dark gorge thousands of feet below him, would chase away his revery, and leave him for a time in a half-bewildered and wondering astonishment; but his thoughts soon resumed their old track, and he would plod along, staff in hand, as before. Walking from before daybreak to a late hour of the evening, Frank frequently accomplished in his day's journey as many miles as the traveller who, by post, only spent the few hours of mid-day on the road; in fact, he might have thus measured his speed, had he been less wrapped up in his own fancies, since, for several days, a caleche, drawn by three post-horses, had regularly passed him on the road, and always about the same hour. Frank saw nothing of this; and when on a bright and frosty day he began the ascent of the Arlberg, he little knew that the carriage, about half a mile in front, had been his travelling companion for the past week. Disdaining to follow the winding high-road, Frank ascended by those foot-tracks which gain upon the zig-zags, and thus soon was miles in advance of the caleche. At last he reached the half-way point of ascent, and was glad to rest himself for a few minutes on one of the benches which German thoughtfulness for the wayfarer never neglects to place in suitable spots. A low parapet of a couple of feet separated the road from a deep and almost perpendicular precipice, at the foot of which, above two thousand feet beneath, stood the village of Stuben. There was the little chapel in which he had his morning's mass, there the little Platz, where he had seen the post-horses getting ready for the travellers; there, too, the little fountain, covered with a shed of straw, and glistening with many an icicle in the bright sun. The very voices of the people reached him where he sat; and the sounds of a street-organ floated upwards through the still atmosphere. It was a scene of peaceful isolation such as would have pleased Nelly's fancy. It was like one of those “Dorf s” she herself had often carved to amuse a winter's evening, and Frank's eyes filled up as he thought of her and of home. The sound of feet upon the snow suddenly roused him, and, on looking round, Frank saw a traveller slowly coming up the pass. His dress at once proclaimed that he was not a pedestrian, save from choice, and was merely sauntering along in advance of his carriage. In the mere cursory glance Frank bestowed upon him he could see that he was a young and handsome man, with a certain soldierlike bearing in his air that well suited his bold but somewhat stern features. “You journey well, young fellow,” said he, addressing Frank familiarly. “This is the fifth day we have been fellow-travellers; and although I have post-horses, you have always kept up with me on your feet.” Frank touched his cap with a somewhat stiff courtesy at this unceremonious address; and, without deigning a reply, employed himself in arranging the straps of his knapsack. “Are you a soldier?” asked the stranger. “A cadet!” replied Frank as bluntly. “In what regiment, may I ask?” “The Franz Carl.” “Ah! my own old corps,” said the other, gayly. “I served four years with them in the Banat. From what part of the Empire are you you have n't the accent of an Austrian?” “I am an Irishman.” “Oh! that explains it. And your name?” “Dalton. And now, sir, what may be yours, for I don't see why this curiosity is to be one-sided,” said Frank, with an air even more insolent than the words. “I am Count Ernest of Walstein,” said the other, without a touch of irritation. [Illustration: 356] “What rank do you hold in the service?” asked Frank, boldly. “That of lieutenant-colonel, boy.” “And your age may be about thirty?” said Frank, half in question and half in sarcasm. “I was twenty-eight last August,” was the calm reply. “By Jove! that is a service!” exclaimed Frank, “where a man scarcely ten years my senior may command a regiment!” The other laughed, and after a brief pause, said, “People are in the habit of calling me fortunate, so that you must not suppose my case to be the rule.” “Be it so: even as an exception, the example is a bright one. Another may do what you have done.” “If you mean that I have earned my rank by services, boy,” said the Count, smiling, “you would make a grave mistake. My promotion had another source.” Frank looked as though he were curious to hear the explanation, but the other gave none. “How do you call yourself?” asked he of Frank, after a pause. “Dalton,” replied the boy, more respectfully than before. “We have a field-marshal of that name in the service, a most gallant old soldier, too.” “My grand-uncle!” cried Frank, with enthusiasm. “Indeed! So you are a grand-nephew to the Graf von Auersberg,” said the Count, taking a more deliberate view than he had yet bestowed upon him. “Then how comes it you are travelling in this fashion, and on foot?” “I have not asked you why you journey in a caleche with three horses,” said Frank, insolently. “It's my habit to do so.” “This, then, may be mine, sir,” said Frank, throwing his knapsack on his shoulder, and preparing to depart. “Is not the Franz Carl at Vienna?” said the Count, not seeming to notice the irritation of his manner. “I believe so.” “Well, then, as I am going thither, perhaps you will accept of a seat in my caleche?” There was a frankness in the way this offer was made that suddenly routed the ill-temper Frank had fallen into. No one was less disposed than himself to accept of a favor from a perfect stranger; but the tone and manner of the proffer had, somehow, disarmed it of all appearance of such; and as he stood uncertain what answer to make, the Count added: “I 'm always lucky. I was just wishing for a travelling companion, and fortune has thrown us into acquaintanceship.” “I don't know I can scarcely tell,” said Frank, hesitating, “how or what to answer.” “You forget that we are comrades, Dalton or shall be, at least, in another day or two,” said the Count, familiarly; “so step in, and no more about it.” The caleche had drawn up as he spoke, and the courier stood, cap in hand, beside the door, so that Frank had no time for any but an abrupt refusal, and that he could not give; he therefore bowed his head, and sprang in. The door was slammed sharply to, and the next moment the horses were rattling along over the snow, the merry bells of the harness jingling pleasantly as they went. Probably no two beings could present a much stronger contrast than the two who now journeyed along side by side. The one, rich, highly placed, and distinguished with every gift of fortune at his command, and yet pleasure-sick, weary, and discontented; the other, poor, and almost friendless, full of hope, and ardent with all the buoyancy of youth. The Count was as jaded and tired of life as the cadet was eager to enjoy it. Notwithstanding perhaps we should rather say in virtue of these strong contrarieties, they made admirable travelling companions, and the road slipped away unconsciously to each. At Innspruck they halted for a day or two, and Frank accompanied his new friend to the cafes and theatres, mingling in the throng of those whose life is a round of easy dissipation. It is true that, to conform by dress and demeanor with these, Frank was obliged to spend the golden coins of Nelly's purse; louis after louis went in some one extravagance or another, sacrifices that cost him many a pang, but which, from pride, he bore up against with seeming indifference. Walstein presented him everywhere as the nephew of the old field-marshal Von Auersberg; and as nothing was more common than to see a young cadet dispensing the most lavish sums, with equipages, liveries, and servants, none seemed surprised that the youth should indulge in these habits and tastes of extravagance. His very enjoyment seemed like an earnest of being long habituated to these modes of life, for whether he played or drank, or in whatever excesses he mingled, there was ever the same joyous spirit; and Frank Dalton had all the outward signs of a youth rich in every accident of fortune. At first, thoughts of his humble home and of those by whose sacrifices he was enabled to indulge in such costly pleasures would cross his mind, and, what between shame and sorrow, he felt degraded and debased before himself; but, by degrees, the levity of action induced, as it ever will do, the levity of thinking; and he suffered himself to believe that “he was no worse than others.” A more fatal philosophy than this, youth never adopted, and he who seeks a low standard rarely stops till he falls beneath even that. Frank's pride of family made him vain, and his vanity made him credulous; he therefore implicitly believed all that his new companions told him, the familiar “thee and thou” of camaraderie giving an air of friendship to all the flatteries. “Were I a nephew of a field-marshal like thee, I'd not serve in an infantry corps. I 'd be in the Lichtenstein Hussars or the Lancers of the Kaiser,” said one. “So he will,” cried another. “Dalton only joined the Franz Carl to get his promotion quickly. Once at Vienna, he will be an officer, and ready to exchange his regiment.” “Old Auersberg can make thee what he will, lad,” said a third. “He might have been Minister of War himself, if he had liked it. The Emperor Franz loved him as a brother.” “And he is rich, too, no one knows how rich,” broke in a fourth. “He commanded for many years on the Turkish frontier, in those good days when our Grenzers used to make forays upon the villages, and every Pashalic paid its blackmail for peace' sake.” “Thou are a lucky dog, Dalton, to find thy promotion and an inheritance thus secured to thee.” “When thou has a regiment, lad, don't forget us poor devils here, that have no uncles in the 'Maria Teresa' category.” “I 'll lay my life on't, that he is a colonel before I become Rittmeister,” said a young lieutenant of dragoons, “and I have had five years' hard service in Galicia and Servia.” “And why not?” broke in Count Walstein, who sat silently up to this smoking his meerschaum in a corner. “Has the empire lost its aristocratic character? Are not birth and blood to have their claims, as of old?” This speech met a ready acceptance, for the company consisted of those who either were, or affected to be, of noble extraction. “How our fathers deceive themselves in trying to deceive us!” said a young Hungarian cadet. “I, too, was sent off to join my regiment on foot. Just fancy to walk from Arad to Presburg! I, that never went twenty miles in my life save on the saddle. They fitted me with my knapsack, just such a thing as Dalton's. I suppose about as many florins jingled in my purse as in his. They gave me their blessing and a map of the road, with each day's journey marked out upon it. And how far did I go afoot, think'st thou? Two miles and a half. There I took an 'Eil Bauer,' with four good horses and a wicker caleche, and we drove our sixty, sometimes seventy miles a day. Each night we put up at some good country house or other Honyadi's Ctzyscheny's Palfi's; all lay on the road, and I found out about fifty cousins I never knew of before, and made a capital acquaintance, too, the Prince Paul of Ettlingen, who, owning a regiment of Light Dragoons, took me into his corps, and, when I joined them at Leutmeritz, I was already an officer. What stuff it is they preach about economy and thrift! Are we the sons of peasants or petty shopkeepers? It comes well, too, from them in their princely chateaux to tell us that we must live like common soldiers. So that, while yesterday, as it were, I sat at a table covered with silver, and drank my Tokay from a Venetian glass, tomorrow I must put up with sour Melniker, or, mayhap, Bavarian beer, with black bread, and a sausage to help it down! Our worthy progenitors knew better in their own young days, or we should not have so many debts and mortgages on our estates eh, Walstein?” “I suppose the world is pretty much alike, in every age,” said the Count, laughing. “It now and then takes a virtuous fit, and affects to be better than it used to be; but I shrewdly suspect that the only difference is in the hypocritical pretension. When I entered the service and it is not so many years ago that I cannot recollect it the cant was, to resemble that rough school of the days of old Frederick and Maria Teresa. Trenck's 'Pandours,' with their scarlet breeches stuffed into their wide boot-tops, were the mode; and to wear your moustache to your shoulders to cry 'Bey'm Henker!' and 'Alle Blitzen!' every moment, were the veritable types of the soldier. Now we have changed all that. We have the Anglomania of English grooms and equipages, top-boots, curricles, hurdle-races, champagne suppers. Dalton will be the ton in his regiment, and any extravagance he likes to launch into certain to have its followers.” The youth blushed deeply; partly in conscious pride at the flattery, partly in the heartfelt shame at its inappropriateness to himself; and even the sincerity with which his comrades drank his health, could not drown the self-reproaches he was suffering under. “Thou art an only son, too, Dalton!” said another. “What favors fortune will shower upon one happy fellow! Here I am, one of seven; and although my father is a count of the empire, four of us have to take service in the infantry.” “What of that?” said a dark-complexioned fellow, whose high cheek-bones and sharp under-jaw bespoke a Pole. “I am a second lieutenant in the regiment that my grandfather raised and equipped at his own cost; and if I were to lose a thousand florins at lansquenet to-morrow, I 'd be broke, like the meanest 'bursch' in the corps.” “It's better to be a rich Englander,” cried one. “And with a field-marshal for a grand-uncle!” chimed in another. “And a 'Maria Teresa' to ask for thy grade as officer,” said a third. “It's a jolly service to all of us,” said a young Bohemian, who, although but a cadet, was a prince, with a princely fortune. “I ask for nothing but a war to make it the best life going.” “A war with whom?” cried several together. “What care I with whom or where? With Prussia, if you will, to fight out our old scores about Frauconia; with Russia, if you like better, for the Danubian provinces, and her Servian supremacy; with France she 's always ready, with a cause or without one; with Italy to round off our frontier, and push our limits to the Apennines; I'd say with England, only Dalton might n't like it.” “And where would you pick your quarrel with England?” said Frank, laughing. “Easily enough, through our ambassador at the Porte, or some outlying station, where Russia is her rival.” “Hang your politics!” broke in a Hungarian. “Let us fight when the time comes, but not bother our heads about the cause. I 'd rather take my chance of a sabre-cut any day than addle my brains with too much thought. Here 's to you, Dalton, mayst soon be a Rittmeister of Hussars, lad; a prouder thing thou needst not ask for.” “Thou shalt give us a jolly supper at the 'Schwan,' Dalton, when we meet at Vienna,” said another. “And we'll pledge those fair sisters of thine and they 're both handsome, I 'll be sworn in the best Tokay Palfi's vineyard can yield.” “My regiment will be in garrison, in the Leopoldstadt, next month, and I'll remind thee of this pledge.” “And we shall be at Lintz,” broke in another; “and thou mayst reckon on me, if I have to suffer an arrest for it afterwards.” “So it is agreed, Dalton, we are thy guests. For what day shall it be?” “Ay, let us name the day,” cried several together. “When he is named an officer,” said Walstein, “that will be time enough.” “Nay, nay the day month after he arrives at Vienna,” cried the Bohemian. “I have given three breakfasts and five suppers on the occasion of my promotion, and the promotion has never come yet.” “The day month after I arrive, then, be it,” said Dalton. “We meet at where is it?” “The 'Schwan,' lad, the first restaurant of Europe. Let men talk as they will of the Cadran Bleu and the Trois Freres, I'd back Hetziuger's cook against the world; and as for wine, he has Steinkammer at thirty florins the flask! And we'll drink it, too, eh, Dalton? and we'll give a 'Hoch Lebe' to that old grandfather or grand-uncle of thine. We'll add ten years to his life.” “A poor service to Dalton,” said another; “but here comes Walstein's horses, and now for the last glass together before we part.” The parting seemed, indeed, to be “sweet sorrow,” for each leave-taking led to one flask more, friendship itself appearing to make wondrous progress as the bottle went round. The third call of the postilion's bugle a summons that even German loyalty could scarcely have courage to resist at last cut short the festivities, and Frank once more found himself in the caleche, where at least a dozen hands contested for the last shake of his, and a shower of good wishes mingled with the sounds of the crashing wheels. “Glorious fellows!” cried Dalton, in an ecstasy of delight; “such comrades are like brothers.” Walstein smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, and lighted his meerschaum in silence; and thus they journeyed, each too full of his own thoughts to care for converse. It was not at such a moment that Dalton could give way to dark or serious reflections; the blandishments and caresses of his new friends were too powerful to admit of any rivalry in his mind; and even when he did revert to thoughts of home, it was to picture to himself his father's pride at seeing him in the society of these high-born youths; of Kate's delight at the degree of notice he attracted; and even Nelly poor Nelly! he fancied yielding a gentle, half-reluctant assent to a companionship which, if costly and expensive, was sure to be honorable and high-minded. “What would Hanserl say, too,” thought he, “if he saw me seated at the table with those whose high-sounding names are the pride of Austrian chivalry, the Thuns, the Lichtensteins, the Schwartenschilds, and the Walsteins, families old as the Hapsburgs themselves? Little Hanserl, to whom these glorious families were the great lights of history, oh, if he could have set eyes on me this last evening! when, with arms around my neck, they called me comrade!” From this he wandered on to thoughts of his uncle, investing the old field-marshal with every noble and soldierlike attribute, and, above all, fancying him as overflowing with affection and kindness. What hosts of questions did he ask about his father and his sisters; how often had he to repeat their names and paint their resemblances, going over the most minute details of family history, and recounting the simplest incidents of their daily life, for “Uncle Stephen would know all.” In such pleasant fancies he fell fast asleep, even in his dreams to carry out those imaginings that, waking, had no control of reason. Frank Dalton was awaked from a sound sleep and a pleasant dream of home by the hoarse voice of a mounted dragoon, ordering the postilion to halt; and, on looking out, he saw that they were drawn up close beside the angle of the great wooden bridge that crosses the Danube, under the walls of Vienna. The whole scene was one of wonderment and surprise to him. At his feet, as it were, rolled the stream of the rapid Danube; its impetuous flood splashing and foaming amid the fragments of ice floated down from the mountain regions, and which every moment were shivered against the stone breakwaters with the crash of thunder. Beyond the river rose the fortified walls of the city, covered with a dense multitude of people, eager spectators of a grand military display, which, with all the pomp of war, poured forth beneath the dark archway of the entrance-gate, and, winding over the “glacis,” crossed the bridge, and held on its course towards the Prater. It was a clear, bright day of winter; the blue sky almost cloudless, and the sharp outline of every object stood out, crisp and well defined, in the thin atmosphere. Nothing could be more favorable for the effect of such a spectacle. The bright weapons glanced and glittered like silver, the gay trappings and brilliant uniforms showed in all their splendor, the scarlet Lancers, the blue-clad Hussars, the Cuirassiers, with their towering helmets, vied with each other in soldierlike bearing; while the dense mass of infantry moved along with a surging, waving motion, like a vast sea heaving with a ground-swell. It was an army complete in every detail; for, even to the “ambulances” for the wounded, everything was there. “A review by the Emperor!” said Walstein; “and see, there comes his staff.” And he pointed to a group of horsemen, whose waving plumes and floating dolmans were seen at a little distance off in the plain. “Oh, let us follow them!” cried Frank, enthusiastically. “Such a glorious sight as this I never even imagined.” “You 'll see enough, perhaps too many such,” said the Count, languidly. “It's a favorite pastime of our old General's to drag us out of quarters in the very depth of winter, and spend a day in the snow of the Prater.” “Who could have a thought for weather or hardship when engaged in such a scene?” said Frank. “So, evidently, think those worthy field-marshals and generals of division, who, well mounted, and swathed in furs, canter down to the ground, an hour after we have reached it, and ride back again when they have 'taken the salute,' leaving us to plod wearily home, through wet roads and sloppy streets, to our cold barracks. But just the reverse is the opinion of those poor fellows yonder, with blue faces and frostbitten knuckles, and who have neither pride in this display, nor sympathy with the success of what is called 'a fine manoeuvre.'” Frank shook his head distrustfully. He wished not to credit the opinion, but knew not how to refute it, and was silent. “That is the 'Franz Carl,' Dalton,” said Walstein, pointing to a column of infantry, who, in their dark gray overcoats, seemed a sad-looking, gloomy mass. “They've got the best band and the most savage colonel in the service.” Frank gazed at the regiment with a strange sensation of awe and fear. “There lies my destiny!” thought he. “Who knows what friendships or enmities await me yonder? What hearts in that dark mass will beat responsively with my own; what sources of sorrow or affliction may I meet with amongst them!” “I wish thou hadst a better regiment, Dalton,” said Walstein. “How a better? Is it not a brave and distinguished corps?” “Brave enough,” said the other, laughing; “and as for distinction, an Archduke owns and commands it. But that is not what I mean. The regiment is a poor one; the officers are from Upper Austria, with little or no fortune, fellows who dine for a zwanziger, play dominos for two kreutzers, waltz at the wine-gardens, and fight duels with sabres.” Frank laughed at the description; but his laugh had more of gloom than mirth about it, for he felt at every moment the false position be occupied, and how inextricably complicated his circumstances were becoming. Every allusion to others showed him in what light he was himself regarded. “Was his deception honorable? was it possible to continue it?” were the questions that would obtrude upon him, and for which no ingenuity could find answer. “There 's the corps for you, Dalton,” said Walstein, drawing his attention to the “Hungarian Guard,” all glittering with gold embroidery, and mounted upon the most beautiful white chargers, at once the most perfect riders and the best mounted cavalry in Europe. “In that regiment you are certain of being quartered either here or in Prague. Those laced jackets are too costly wear to send down to the Banat, or among the wilds of Wallachia. Besides, the Empress likes to see these gaudy fellows on their 'schimmels' beneath the Palace windows. Your uncle will, of course, grumble a little about the cost. Perhaps your father, too, will look a little grave when he hears of six thousand florins for a 'dolman,' and four for a 'schabrach;' while ten or twelve horses the very least you could keep would scarcely sound like a moderate stable. Still, depend upon it, the corps is as good for service as it is costly, and Creptowitz, their Colonel, is a true hussar.” For a moment Dalton hesitated whether he should not make the honest avowal of his narrow fortune, and tell that he had no pretension to such habits of cost and expense; but shame was too powerful to permit the acknowledgment. He had already gone too far to retract, and he felt that any candor now would be the confession of a cheat. If these were harassing and torturing reflections, one flickering ray of hope still glimmered through the gloom; and this was, what he might expect from his uncle. “If he be really rich, as they say,” thought Frank, “if his favor be so great with the Emperor, even such a career as this may not be above my prospects.” As he revolved these thoughts, he sat with his head buried between his hands, forgetful of where he was and all around him. “You 're losing everything, Dalton,” said Walstein. “See, there go the 'Kaiser Jagers,' with their bugles, the finest in the service; and yonder are the Lichtenstein 'Light Horse,' mounted on thorough-bred cattle; and there, to the left, those savage-looking fellows with long beards, they are the 'Croat Grenadiers.' But here comes the Emperor!” And, as he spoke, one deafening cheer burst forth along the line, and was echoed back from the walls of Vienna; while every band struck up the national hymn of Austria, and the proud notes of “God preserve the Emperor!” floated through the air. A brilliant staff of generals of every arm of the service accompanied “the Kaiser;” and Walstein ran quickly over the names of these, many of whom were among the first nobility of the Empire. Some were the war-worn veterans of the great campaigns; some the young hopes of Austrian chivalry; but, conspicuous above all, was a figure whose stature, as well as the singularity of his uniform, attracted Frank's notice. He was a very tall old man, dressed in a uniform of purple velvet slashed with gold, and actually covered with the crosses and decorations of various orders. His cap was a tall chako of red-brown fur, from which a long, straight scarlet plume floated, and beneath which his gray hair was fastened in a queue, that hung half-way down his back. Yellow buskins ornamented with massive gold spurs completed a costume which seemed almost a compromise between the present and some bygone age. The figure of the wearer, too, suited well this impression. There was a stern rigidity of look as he sat still and motionless in his saddle, which relaxed into the polished urbanity of an old courtier as often as the Emperor addressed him. When bowing to the mane of his charger, he seemed the very type of courtesy; while, as he retired his horse, there was all the address and ease of a practised rider. “There, to the left of Walmoden, on the powerful black horse, do you see that handsome old man in the purple tunic?” said Waldstein. “I have been watching him for several minutes back,” replied Frank. “What a singular uniform!” “Yes. It was the dress of the Artillery of the Imperial Guard in the days of Wagram and Lobau; and he is permitted to retain it, by a special leave of the Emperor, a favor he only avails himself of on occasions like the present.” “What a mass of orders he wears!” “He has all that the Empire can bestow, from the 'Iron Cross' to the 'Maria Teresa.' He has the 'Legion of Honor,' too, sent him by Napoleon himself! It was that officer who at Elchingen rode up to the head of a French column, and told them that the wagons they were pursuing were the 'ammunition of the rear-guard!' 'If you advance,' said he, 'we 'll fire them, and blow you and ourselves to atoms!' The coolness and heroism of the daring were well acknowledged by a brave enemy. The French halted, and our train proceeded on its way. Mayhap you have heard the anecdote before?” “Never,” said Frank, still gazing with admiration at the old soldier. “Then I may as well tell you that he is the Count Dalton von Auersberg,” said Walstein, lying back to enjoy the youth's amazement. “What! Uncle Stephen? Is that our uncle?” burst out Frank, in delight. “I wish I could call him 'ours,' with all my heart,” said Walstein, laughing. “Any man might well be proud of such a relative.” But Frank never heard or heeded the remark; his whole soul was wrapped up in the contemplation of the old field marshal, on whom he gazed as a devotee might have done upon his saint. “He 's like my father,” muttered Frank, half aloud; “but haughtier-looking, and older. A true Dalton in every feature! How I long to speak to him, to tell him who I am.” “Not here, though, not here!” said Walstein, laying his hand on the youth's arm; for he almost feared lest he should give way to the sudden impulse. “Were you even the Colonel of your regiment, you could not approach him now.” Frank stared with some surprise at a remark which seemed to treat so slightingly the ties of blood and kindred; while Walstein, by no means easy on the score of his companion's prudence, gave the word to the postilion to drive on; and they entered the city of Vienna.	{ "id": "32061" }
30	THE THREAT OP “A SLIGHT EMBARRASSMENT.”	The Mazzarini Palace was now a proverb for all that was dissipated and extravagant throughout Florence, and in proportion as the society which frequented it was select and few in number, the more absurd were the rumors that went abroad of its dissipations and excesses. In default of a real, good, tangible scandal the world invented a thousand shadowy little slanders, that, if not as deadly to reputation at once, were just as certain to kill character in the long run. Sir Stafford's gout, of which he was confined to his bed or a sofa, was pronounced the lingering agonies of a broken heart. “My Lady's” late dinners were orgies where every licentiousness held sway. George was a reckless gambler, who had already jeopardized all the wealth of his family; and, as for Kate, she was at the mercy of that amiable temperament of the human mind which always believes the worst, and as constantly draws the darkest inference from its belief. Now, Sir Stafford was very gouty, very irritable, and very unhappy to boot, about a number of matters, which, however deeply interesting to himself, should have had no concern for the world. My Lady did dine at eleven o'clock at night, and the company was assuredly not that from which a discriminating public would have selected archbishops, or even minor canons, consisting for the most part of that class of which we have already made mention in a former chapter, with now and then some passer-through of rank, or some stray diplomate on his way to or from his post. George Onslow was a large loser at play, but without having recourse to those stratagems for payment which were so generally ascribed to him. While Kate poor Kate was neither better nor worse than the reader has hitherto known her. We do not in this admission seek to conceal the fact that she was very different from what first we saw her. Society had taught her tact, grace, and elegance of deportment. Admiration had rendered her yes,--we say it advisedly admiration had rendered her very attractive, drawing forth a thousand resources of fascination, and a thousand arts of pleasing, that often wither and die in the cold chill of neglect. The most fastidious critic could not have detected a fault in her manner; an ill-natured one might have objected to what seemed an excess of gracefulness; but even this was relieved by a youthful freshness and buoyancy of temperament, the last the very last remnant of her former self. She was the belle of Florence. Her sovereignty admitted of nothing like a rival. Whether she drove, or rode, or danced, or walked, the same admiring throng surrounded her; some sincere in all their admiration, others but following the lead which fashion took, and others, again, watchful observers of a manner in which they fancied they could trace the settled plan of a daring and ambitious character. Vanity had been the foible of her childish years; it was now the vice of her womanhood. Lady Hester ministered to this failing in a hundred ways. Liking Kate as well as it was possible for her to like anything, she took an intense pleasure in all the admiration she met with. As an actor is said to “create the part” which is written for him, when he impresses the personation with traits peculiarly his own, so did she fancy that Kate was but a reflected image of all her own graces and fascinations; and probably the proudest days of her own triumphs never yielded more enjoyment than she now felt in the flattering praises bestowed upon Kate Dalton. There were good-natured people who said that Lady Hester's admiration had another source, and that, as a somewhat passee beauty, she knew the full value of a younger and handsomer woman in attracting to her circle and society all that was distinguished by rank or station. We are not prepared to deny some force to this argument, but, assuredly, it had less weight than other reasons. Lady Hester's own claims, besides, were higher than these detractors admitted. She was, although not very young, still very handsome, her rank and wealth both considerable, and her manner the perfection of that school to which she belonged. If her affection for Kate was only another form of selfishness, it was not the less strong on that account. She was the confidante of her sorrows, by no means a sinecure office; the chief counsellor in all her plans; she was the lay-figure on which she experimented a hundred devices in costume and toilet; and lastly, greatest charm of all, she was a dependant. Not, indeed, that Kate herself so understood her position; pride of family, the Dalton heritage, was too powerful in her to admit of this. Deeply, sincerely grateful she was for all Lady Hester's kindness; her affection she returned tenfold, but no sense of inferiority mingled with this feeling, save that which arose from her own devoted admiration of her friend. The homage amid which she passed her life, the unceasing flow of flatteries around her, were not very likely to undeceive her on this point. A more respectful devotion could not have waited on a princess of the royal house. The great Midchekoff gave balls in her honor. The Arab horses of Treviliani were all placed at her disposal. The various visits to objects of curiosity or taste were arranged for her pleasure, and nothing omitted that could tend to stimulate her vanity and heighten her self-esteem. The utmost we can say for her all this while is, that if she was carried away by the excitement of this adulation, yet, in her heart, she was as little corrupted as was well possible. She could not be other than enamored of a life so unchanging in its happiness, nor could she disconnect the enjoyments around her from the possession of great wealth. She thought of what she had been a few months back: the “same Kate Dalton,” braving the snows of a dark German winter, with threadbare cloak and peasant “sabots,” an object of admiration to none except poor Hanserl, perhaps! And yet now, unchanged, unaltered, save in what gold can change, how different was her position! It had been well if her love of splendor had stopped here. It went further, however, and inspired a perfect dread of humble fortune. Over and over again did she hear disparaging remarks bestowed upon the striving efforts of “respectable poverty,” its contrivances derided, its little straits held up to ridicule. In dress, equipage, or household, whatever it did was certain to be absurd; and yet all of these people, so laughed at and scorned, were in the enjoyment of means far above her own father's! What a false position was this! How full of deceit must she become to sustain it! She invoked all her sophistry to assure herself that their condition was a mere passing state; that at some future perhaps not even a remote one they should have “their own again;” and that as in family and descent they were the equals of any, so they were not inferior in all the just claims to consideration and respect. She tried to think of her father and Nelly moving in the circles she now lived in; but, even alone, and in the secrecy of her own thoughts, her cheek became scarlet with shame, and she actually shuddered at the very notion. And even Frank, her once ideal of all that was graceful and noble-looking, how would he pass muster beside these essenced “fashionables” who now surrounded her! She endeavored to console herself by thinking that her father would have despised the lounging, unmanly lives they led, that Ellen would have retired in bashful modesty from a society whose tone of freedom and license would have shocked her, and that Frank would have found no companionship in a class whose pleasures lay only in dissipation; and yet all her casuistry could not reassure her. The fascinations amid which she lived were stronger than her reason. She became first aware of the great change in herself on recognizing how differently a letter from home affected her to what it had done some months before. At first she would have hastened to her room, and locked the door, in an ecstasy of delight to be alone with dearest Nelly, to commune with her own sweet sister in secret, to hang on every line, every word, with delight, fancying herself once more with arms clasped around her, or bending down beside her cheek as she leaned over her work-table. How every little detail would move her; how every allusion would bring up home before her, the snug little chamber of an evening, as the bright fire glowed on the hearth, and Nelly brought out her tools for modelling, while Hanserl was searching for some passage, a line, or a description that Nelly wanted; and then the little discussions that would ensue as to the shape of some weapon, or the fashion of some costume of a past age, so often broken in upon by her father, whose drolleries would set them laughing! With what interest, too, she would follow each trifling occurrence of their daily life; the progress Nelly was making in her last group; its difficulties how would she ponder over, and wonder how to meet them! With what eager curiosity would she read the commonest details of the household, the dreary burden of a winter's tale! and how her heart bounded to hear of Frank the soldier although all the tidings were that he was with his regiment, but “spoke little of himself or the service.” Now, however, the glow of delight which a letter used to bring up was changed for a deep blush of anxiety and shame, anxiety, she knew not wherefore or how; of shame, because Nelly's writing on the address was quaint and old-fashioned; while the paper and the seal bespoke the very lowliest acquaintance with epistolary elegance. The letter she used to grasp at with a high-beating heart she now clutched with greater eagerness, but in terror lest others should see and mark its vulgar exterior! How differently, too, did the contents affect her! So long as they referred to herself, in her own latest narrative of her life, she read with avidity and pleasure. Nelly's innocent wonderment was a very delightful sensation; her affectionate participation in her happiness was all grateful; even her gentle warnings against the seductions of such a career were not unpleasing; but the subject changed to home, and what an alteration came over her spirit! How dark and dismal became the picture, how poverty-stricken each incident and event, what littleness in every detail, how insignificant the occupations that interested them! How great the surprise she felt at their interest in such trifles; how astonished that their hopes and fears, their wishes or their dreads, could take so mean a form! This came with peculiar force before her, from a paragraph that closed Nelly's last letter, and which ran thus: “Think of our happiness, dearest Kate! We have just seen one who saw you lately, one of your Florence acquaintances; and I believe I might go further and say friends, for the terms in which he spoke of you evinced sincere and true regard. It was so kind of him to find us out, just to come and tell us about you; indeed, he remained a day here for no other purpose, since his diplomatic duties were urging him to England with speed.” When Kate had read thus far, she stopped, her face and neck crimson with shame, and her heart beating almost audibly. With lightning rapidity she ran over to herself three or four names of ministers and envoys who had lately left Florence, trembling to think it might be the gorgeous Russian, Naradskoi, the princely Neapolitan, Carnporese, or the haughty Spaniard, Don Hernandez Orloes, who had visited their humble interior. What a humiliation for her, if she were ever to see them again! Home, at that instant, presented itself before her but as the witness of her shame: how sordid and miserable did its poverty appear, and with what vulgarity associated! Her poor old father, around whose neck but a moment before she would have hung with rapture, she shrank from with very terror: his dress, his look, his accent every word he spoke, every allusion he made, were tortures to her; and Nelly even Nelly how she blushed to fancy her humble guise and poor exterior; the little dress of colored wool, from the pockets of which her carving-tools appeared; and then how the scene rose before her! her father producing Nelly's last work, some little group in clay or wood. She pictured to herself his pride, her sister's bashfulness, the stranger's pretended admiration! Till now, these emotions had never seen a counterfeit. Oh, how she shuddered as her thoughts took more and more the colors of reality, and the room itself, and its poverty-struck furniture, rose before her! At last she read on: “His visit was of course a great honor, and probably, had he come on any other errand but to speak of you, we should have been half overwhelmed with the condescension; but in very truth, Kate, I quite forgot all his greatness and his grandeur, and lost sight of his ever holding any higher mission than to bring news of my dearest sister. Papa, of course, asked him to dinner. I believe he would have invited the Czar himself under like circumstances; but, fortunately for us, for him, and perhaps for you too, he was too deaf to hear the request, and politely answered that he would send my letter to you with pleasure, under his own diplomatic seal; and so we parted. I ought to add that Mr. Foglass intends speedily to return to Florence.” Three or four times did Kate read this name over before she could persuade herself that she had it aright. Foglass! she had never even heard of him. The name was remarkable enough to remember, as belonging to a person of diplomatic rank, and yet it was quite new to her. She turned to Lady Hester's invitation book, but no such name was there. What form her doubts might have taken there is no knowing, when Mr. Albert Jekyl was seen to cross the courtyard, and enter the house. Knowing that if any could, he would be the person to resolve the difficulty, she hastened downstairs to meet him. “Mr. Jekyl,” cried she, hurriedly, “is there such a man as Mr. Foglass in this breathing world of ours?” “Of course there is, Miss Dalton,” said he, smiling at her eagerness. “A minister or an envoy at some court?” “Not that I have ever heard,” repeated he, with a more dubious smile. “Well, a secretary of embassy, perhaps? something of that kind? Who is he? what is he? where does he belong to?” “You mean Bob, Miss Dalton,” said he, at once puffing out his cheeks and running his hand through his hair, till it became a very good resemblance of the ex-Consul's wig, while, by a slight adjustment of his waistcoat, he imitated the pretentious presence of the mock royalty. “'You mean Bob, madam,'” said he, mimicking his measured intonation and pompous tone, “'Old Fogey, as Mathews always called me. Mathews and I and Townsend were always together, dined at Greenwich every Sunday regularly. What nights they were! Flows of reason, and feasts of eh? yes, that's what they were.'” “I must remind you that I never saw him,” said she, laughing; “though I'm certain, if I should hereafter, it will not be very hard to recognize him. Now, who is he?” “He himself says, a grandson of George the Fourth. Less interested biographers call him a son of Foglass and Crattles, who, I believe, were not even coachmakers to royalty. He was a consul at Ezmeroum, or some such place. At least, they showed him the name on a map, and bade him find it out; but he found out something more, it seems, that there was neither pay nor perquisites, neither passports nor peculation; and he has brought back his wisdom once again to besiege the Foreign Office. But how do you happen to ask about him?” “Some of my friends met him in Germany,” said she, hesitatingly. She might have blushed, had Jekyl looked at her; but he knew better, and took pains to bestow his glances in another direction. “It would be kind to tell them that the man is a most prying, inquisitive sort of creature, who, if he only had the sense of hearing, would be as mischievous as Purvis.” “I fancy they will see but little of him,” said she, with a saucy toss of the head. “He made their acquaintance by affecting to know me. I 'm sure I 've no recollection of having ever seen him.” “Of course you never knew him, Miss Dalton!” replied he, with a subdued horror in his voice as he spoke. “A letter for you, Mademoiselle,” said the servant to Kate; “and the man waits for an answer.” Kate broke the seal with some trepidation. She had no correspondents nearer than her home, and wondered what this might mean. It was in a strange commotion of spirit that she read the following lines: “Mrs. Montague Ricketts presents her respectful compliments to Miss Dalton, and begs to know at what hour to-day Mrs. M. R. may wait upon Miss D., to present a letter which has been committed to Mrs. R.'s hands for personal delivery. It may secure an earlier hour of audience if Mrs. R. mentions that the precious document is from Miss D.'s father.” What could this possibly mean? It was but that very same day the post brought her a letter from Nelly. Why had not her father said what he wished to say, in that? What need of this roundabout, mysterious mode of communicating? The sight of the servant still in waiting for the answer recalled her from these cross-questionings, and she hurried away to consult Lady Hester about the reply. “It's very shocking, my dear child,” said she, as she listened to the explanation. “The Ricketts, they tell me, is something too dreadful; and we have escaped her hitherto. You could n't be ill, could you?” “But the letter?” said Kate, half smiling, half provoked. “Oh, to be sure the letter! But Buccellini, you know, might take the letter, and leave it, with unbroken seal, near you; you could read it just as well. I 'm sure I read everything Sir Stafford said in his without ever opening it. You saw that yourself, Kate, or, with your scepticism, I suppose, you 'd not believe it, for you are very sceptical; it is your fault of faults, my dear. D'Esmonde almost shed tears about it, the other day. He told me that you actually refused to believe in the Madonna della Torre, although he showed you the phial with the tears in it!” “I only said that I had not seen the Virgin shed them,” said Kate. “True, child! but you saw the tears; and you heard D'Esmonde remark, that when you saw the garden of a morning, all soaked with wet, the trees and flowers dripping, you never doubted that it had rained during the night, although you might not have been awake to hear or see it.” Kate was silent; not that she was unprepared with an answer, but dreaded to prolong a discussion so remote from the object of her visit. “Now, Protestant that I am,” said Lady Hester, with the triumphant tone of one who rose above all the slavery of prejudice, “Protestant that I am, I believe in the 'Torre.' The real distinction to make is, between what is above, and what is contrary to, reason, Kate. Do you understand me, child?” “I'm sure Mrs. Ricketts's visit must be both,” Kate said, adroitly bringing back the original theme. “Very true; and I was forgetting the dear woman altogether. I suppose you must receive her, Kate; there 's no help for it! Say three o'clock, and I'll sit in the small drawing-room, and, with the gallery and the library between us, I shall not hear her dreadful voice.” “Has she such?” asked Kate, innocently. “I'm sure I don't know,” said Lady Hester, pettishly; “but of course she has! Those dreadful people always have! Make the visit as brief as possible, Kate. Let it not be a pretext for anything after. Use your eyeglass on every occasion, so that you can be short-sighted enough never to know her again. I have seen you very supercilious at times, child, it is precisely the manner for this interview. It was really very wrong of your papa to write in this fashion; or your sister, or whoever it was. Nobody thinks of anything but the post, nowadays. Pray tell them so; say it makes me quite nervous; you see I am nervous to-day! There, there! I don't want to fret you, child but everything has gone wrong to-day. Midchekoff has given away his box, and I have promised mine to the Lucchesini; and that blond flounce is much too narrow, so Celestine tells me; but I 'm sure she has cut a piece off it to make a 'berthe' for herself. And then the flowers are positively odious. They are crimson, instead of cherry-color, although I told Jekyl twice over they ought to be the very tint of Lady Melgund's nose! There, now; goodbye. Remember all I've been saying, and don't forget that this is a 'giorno infelice,' and everything one does will prove unlucky. I hope D'Esmonde will not come today. I 'm really not equal to controversy this morning. I should like to see Buccellini, however, and have a globule of the Elysian essence. Bye-bye; do think better about the 'Madonna della Torre,' and get rid of that odious Ricketts affair as speedily as may be.” With these injunctions, Kate withdrew to indite her reply to Mrs. Ricketts, appointing three o 'clock on that same afternoon for a visit, which she assuredly looked forward to with more of curiosity than pleasure.	{ "id": "32061" }
31	A CONVIVIAL EVENING	IT is not necessary that the reader should participate in Kate Dalton's mystification regarding her father's letter, that document being simply a piece of Ricketts strategy, and obtained to secure an admission to the Mazzarini Palace, which, notwithstanding Lord Norwood's assurances, still regained an impregnable fortress to all her assaults. Foglass was then commissioned to induce Mr. Dalton to write something, anything, to his daughter, to be transmitted under the Embassy seal, a magnificent mode of conveyance, which was reason enough to call into exercise those powers of penmanship which, since he had ceased to issue promissory notes, had lain in the very rustiest state of disuse. The command to obtain this credential reached Foglass just as he was about to start from Baden; but being desirous, for various little social reasons, to conciliate the Ricketts's esteem, he at once altered his arrangements, and feigning a sudden attack of gout, a right royal malady he took himself to bed, and sent a few lines to Dalton, detailing his misfortune, and entreating a visit. Never backward in the cause of good-nature, poor Dalton sallied forth at night, and notwithstanding the cutting blasts of a north wind, and the sharp driftings of the half-frozen snow, held on his way to the “Russie,” where, in a very humble chamber for so distinguished a guest, lay Mr. Foglass in the mock agonies of gout. “How devilish kind of you, how very considerate!” said Foglass, as he gave one finger of his hand to shake. “So like poor Townsend this, Lord Tom, we used to call him. Not wet, though, I hope?” “And if I was, it would n't be the first time. But how are you yourself, where is the pain?” “You must speak louder; there 's a kind of damper on the voice in this room.” “Where 's the pain?” screamed Dalton. “There there no need to roar,” whispered the other. “The pain is here over the stomach, round the ribs, the back everywhere.” “Ah, I know it well,” said Dalton, with a wry contortion of the face. “It's the devil entirely when it gets under the short ribs! It begins like a rat nibbling you, as it might be, biting away little bits, with now and then a big slice that makes you sing out; and then the teeth begin to get hot, and he bites quicker, and tears you besides, sure I know it, this many a year.” To this description, of which Foglass heard nothing, he bowed blandly, and made a sign to Dalton to be seated near him. “You'd like a little wine-and-water, I'm sure,” said he, with the air of a man who rarely figured as a host, and liked it more rarely still. “Spirits-and-water--boiling water with sugar and a squeeze of lemon, is what I 'll take; and see now, you 'd not be worse of the same yourself. I 've an elegant receipt for the gout, but whether it 's sulphur or saltpetre 's in it, I don't well remember; but I know you mix it with treacle, ash-bark, and earthworms, the yolk of four eggs, and a little rosemary. But as you might n't like the taste of it at first, we 'll just begin with a jug of punch.” The waiter had by this time made his appearance, and the order being communicated by a most expressive pantomime of drinking, and a few solitary words of German Dalton possessed, the room assumed a look of sociality, to which Dalton's presence very mainly contributed. In the confidence such a moment of secrecy suggested, Foglass produced an ear-trumpet, a mark of the most unbounded good faith on his part, and which, had Dalton known him better, he would have construed into a proof of implicit reliance on his honor. “I've been many years at Constantinople,” said he, adjusting the instrument, “and the confounded muezzin has made me a little deaf. It's an everlasting calling to prayers, day and night, there.” “How they ever expect to get to heaven by tormentin', and teasin', is more than I know,” said Dalton. “They 're Mahomedans!” said Foglass, with the air of a man uttering a profound sentiment. “Ay, to be sure,” observed Dalton; “it's not like Christians. Now, is it true, they tell me they never eat salt meat!” “Never!” “Think of that! Not a bit of corned beef, nor as much as a leg of pork--” “Would n't hear of it,” interrupted Foglass. “Wine, too, is forbidden.” “And punch?” “Of course, punch also. A pipe, a cup of coffee, the bath, and a little opium are the luxuries of Turkish existence.” “To the devil I fling them all four,” cried Dalton, impatiently. “How a man is to be social beside a coffeepot, or up to his neck in hot water, beats me entirely. Faix! I don't envy the Turks!” And he sipped his glass as he spoke, like one who had fallen upon a happier destiny. “If you 'll mix me a very small glass of that punch, I'd like to propose a toast,” said Foglass. “There, now, that's spoke like a sensible man; pleasant company and social enjoyment are the greatest enemies to the gout. Make your mind easy, and keep your heart light, and the devil a fear but your knees will get limber, and the swellin' will leave your ankles; but weak punch and tiresome people would undermine the best constitution in the world. Taste that.” To judge from Mr. Foglass's face, Dalton had at least provided one element of health for his companion. “It is very strong very strong, indeed!” said he, puckering up his eyes. “It's the fault of the water hereabouts,” said Dalton. “It doesn't mix right with the spirits; so that one half the first, generally of your liquor tastes stiff, but the bottom is mild as milk.” [Illustration: 384] The explanation gave such encouragement to Foglass, that he drank away freely, and it was only when he had finished that he remembered his intention of giving a toast. “Now, Mr. Dalton,” said he, as he sat up with a replenished glass in his hand, “I am going to redeem my pledge, and about to give you the health of the most beautiful girl in Italy, one whose attractions are the theme of every tongue, and whose ambitions may realize any height, or attain any eminence, that she pleases.” “Here 's to you, Kate Dalton,” broke in the father, “my own sweet child; and if you only come back to me as you went away, the sorrow better I ask, or grander.” “She will be a duchess; she may be a princess if she likes.” “Who knows who knows?” said Dalton, as he hung down his head, and hammered away with his spoon at the sugar in his glass. “Every one knows, every one sees it, Mr. Dalton,” said Foglass, authoritatively. “From the Archduke Ernest of Austria to the very pages of the court, all are her worshippers and admirers. She'll come back to you with a proud name and a high coronet, Mr. Dalton.” “The devil a better than Dalton ever 'twill be! that I can tell you. ' T is n't yesterday we took it, the same name; there 's stones in the churchyard of Ballyhack can show who we are; and if she married the--the God forgive me, I was going to say the Pope, but I meant the Grand Turk she would n't be better than she is now, as Kate Dalton.” “Not better, certainly, but in a more exalted rank, in a position of more recognized distinction,” said Foglass, blandly. “No; nor that neither,” cried Dalton, angrily. “The Daltons goes back to the ancient times of all. There 's one of our name in the Bible. I 'm not sure where, but I believe it 's in the Book of Kings, or maybe the Psalms; but wherever it is, he was a real gentleman, living on his own estate, with his livery-servants, and his horses, and everything in good style about him; high on the grand jury, maybe the sheriff of the county.” Foglass, who had followed this description but imperfectly, could only bow in a deep acknowledgment of what he did not understand. “The man that marries Kate Dalton isn't doing a piece of condescension, anyhow! that I can tell him. The dirty acres may slip away from us, but our good blood won't.” “No man has a higher veneration for blood, sir,” said Foglass, proudly; “few men have better reason for the feeling.” “Is Fogles an old stock?” asked Dalton, eagerly. “Foglass, like Fitzroy, sir, may mean more than loyalty would dare to avow. My father, Mr. Dalton But this is a very sad theme with me, let us change it; let us drink to a better feeling in our native land, when that abominable statute may be erased from our code, when that offspring of suspicion and distrust shall no longer be the offence and opprobrium of Englishmen. Here 's to its speedy and everlasting repeal!” The word was talismanic to Dalton, connected, as it was, in his mind with but one subject. He arose at once, and holding up his goblet in the air, cried out, “Hip! hip! hurrah! three cheers and success to it! Repeal forever!” Foglass echoed the sentiment with equal enthusiasm, and draining his glass to the bottom, exclaimed, “Thank you, Dalton! thank you; the heartiness of that cheer tells me we are friends; and although you know not what my feelings are indeed none can you can execrate with honest indignation those hateful unions!” “Bad luck to it!” exclaimed Dalton, with energy. “We never had grace nor luck since we saw it!” “Those petty German sovereigns, with their territories the size of Hyde Park!” said Foglass, with intense contempt. “Just so. The Hessians!” chimed in Dalton, who had a faint consciousness that the other was alluding to the troops of the Electorate, once quartered in Ireland. “Let us change the topic, Dalton,” said Foglass, pathetically, as he wiped his brow like a man dispelling a dark train of thought. “Here's to that charming young lady I saw last evening, a worthy sister of the beautiful Miss Dalton.” “A better child never breathed,” said Dalton, drinking off his glass. “My own poor Nelly,” muttered he, below his breath, “'t is better than handsome ye are, true-hearted, and fond of your old father.” “She has accomplishments, sir, that would realize a fortune; that is,” said he, perceiving the dark cloud that passed over Dalton's features, “that is, if she were in a rank of life to need it.” “Yes very true just so,” stammered out Dalton, not quite sure how to accept the speech. “'Tis a fine thing to be able to make money, not that it was ever the gift of the Daltons. We were real gentlemen to the backbone; and there was n't one of the name for five generations, barring Stephen, that could earn sixpence if he was starving.” “But Stephen, what could he do?” inquired Foglass, curious to hear of this singular exception to the family rule. “He took to soldiering in the Austrian army, and he 's a field-marshal, and I don't know what more beside, this minute. My son Frank 's there now.” “And likes it?” “Troth, he does n't say a great deal about that. His letter is mighty short, and tells very little more than where he 's quartered, how hard-worked he is, and that he never gets a minute to himself, poor fellow!” “Miss Kate, then, has drawn the prize in the lottery of life?” said Foglass, who was anxious to bring the subject back to her. “Faix, that's as it may be,” said the other, thoughtfully. “Her letters is full of high life and great people, grand dances and balls, and the rest of it; but sure, if she 's to come back here again and live at home, won't it come mighty strange to her?” “But in Ireland, when you return there, the society, I conclude, is very good?” asked Foglass, gradually drawing him on to revelations of his future intentions and plans. “Who knows if I'll ever see it again? The estate has left us. ' T is them Onslows has it now. It might be in worse hands, no doubt; but they 've no more right to it than you have.” “No right to it, how do you mean?” “I mean what I say, that if every one had their own, sorrow an acre of that property would be theirs. ' T is a long story, but if you like to hear it, you 're welcome. It 's more pleasure than pain to me to tell it, though many a man in my situation would n't have the heart to go over it.” Foglass pronounced his willingness at once; and, a fresh jorum of punch being concocted, Dalton commenced that narrative of his marriage, widowhood, and loss of fortune, of which the reader already knows the chief particulars, and with whose details we need not twice inflict him. The narrative was a very long one; nor was it rendered more succinct by the manner of the narrator, nor the frequent interruptions to which, for explanation's sake, Foglass subjected him. Shall we own, too, that the punch had some share in the intricacy, Dalton's memory and Foglass's perceptions growing gradually more and more nebulous as the evening wore on. Without at all wishing to impugn Dalton's good faith, it must be owned that, what between his occasional reflections, his doubts, guesses, surmises, and suspicions, his speculations as to the reason of this and the cause of that, it was very difficult for a man so deeply versed in punch as Foglass to carry away anything like a clear notion of the eventful occurrences related. The strength of the potation, the hour, the length of the story, the parenthetical interruptions, which, although only bypaths, often looked exactly like the high-road, and probably, too, certain inaccuracies in the adjustment of the ear-trumpet, which grew to be very difficult at last, all contributed,--more or less, to a mystification which finally resembled nothing so much as a very confused dream. Had the worthy ex-Consul then been put on his oath, he could n't have said whether or not Sir Stafford had murdered the late Mr. Godfrey, or if that crime should be attributed to Dalton's late wife. Between Sir Gilbert Stafford and Sir Stafford Onslow, he had a vague suspicion of some Siamese bond of union, but that they were cut asunder late in life, and were now drifting in different currents, he also surmised. But which of them “got the fortune,” and which had not, who held the estate at present, and how Dalton came to be there at that moment relating the story, were Chinese puzzles to him. Murder, matrimony, debts, difficulties, and Chancery suits danced an infernal reel through his brain; and, what with the scattered fragments of Irish life thrown in incidentally, of locking dinner-parties in, and barring the sheriff out, of being chased by bailiffs, or hunting them, all these divertissements ending in a residence abroad, with its manifold discomforts and incongruities, poor Foglass was in a state which, were it only to be permanent, would have presented a spectacle of very lamentable insanity. The nearest approach to a fact that he could come to was that Dalton ought to be enormously rich, and that now he hadn't a sixpence; that the wealthy banker was somehow the cause, Count Stephen being not altogether blameless; and that Kate was living a life of extravagance and waste, while her father and sister were waging a hard fight with the very “grimmest” of poverty. “L'homme propose,” &c., says the adage; and the poet tells us an instance, that “those who came to scoff remained to pray.” So in the present case, Mr. Foglass, whose mission was to pump Peter Dalton out of every family secret and circumstance, had opened such an unexpected stream of intelligence upon himself that he was actually carried away in the flood. “You've been badly used, Dalton,” said he, at last. “I may say, infamously treated! Not only your fortune taken away, but your children torn from you!” “Ay, just so.” Dalton liked sympathy too well to cavil about his title to it. “True for you, a harder case than mine you 'll not hear of in a summer's day. My elegant fine place, my beautiful domain, the seat of my ancestors, or, if they were n't, they were my wife's, and that 's all the same; and to be sitting here, in a foreign country r hundreds of miles away from home. Oh dear, oh dear! but that's a change!” For an instant the thought overwhelmed him, and he was silent; then, fixing his eyes on Foglass, he added, in a dreamy soliloquy, “Hundreds of miles away from home, drinking bad brandy, with a deaf chap in a red wig for company.” “I call yours a case of downright oppression, Dalton,” resumed the other, who fortunately overheard nothing of the last remark. “If you had been residing in Persia or the Caucasus even in the Danubian Provinces we 'd have made you a case for the Foreign Office. You 'd have had your compensation, sir. Ay, faith! you 'd have had a good round sum for the murder of your father, old what 's his name? You 'd have had your claim, sir, for the loss of that fine boy the Austrians have taken from you, Mrs. Dalton's wardrobe, and all that sort of thing. I must repeat my conviction, you 've been grossly infamously treated!” “And just to think of my own flesh and blood, Stephen, my uncle!” “I can't think of him, sir! I can't bear to think of him!” cried Foglass, with enthusiasm. “A count of the Empire!” resumed Dalton; “a field-marshal, and a something else, with his Maria Teresa!” “At his age he might give up those habits,” said Foglass, who had converted the Cross of the Empress into a very different relationship. “And now, there 's Kate,” said Dalton, who never heard his comment, “there 's Kate, my own favorite of them all! thinks no more about us than if we did n't belong to her!” “Living in splendor!” mumbled Foglass. “Boundless extravagance!” “Just so! Wasting hundreds flinging the money about like chaff!” “I saw a ball dress of hers myself, at Madame Fanchone's, that was to cost three thousand francs!” “Three thousand francs! How am I to bear it all?” exclaimed Dalton, fiercely. “Will any man tell me how an Irish gentleman, with an embarrassed estate, and in the present times, can meet such extravagance as that? Three thousand francs! and, maybe, for a flimsy rag that wouldn't stand a shower of rain! Oh, Fogles, you don't know the man that 's sitting before you, hale and stout and hearty as he looks, the trials he has gone through, and the troubles he has faced, just for his children. Denying himself every enjoyment in life!” (here he sipped his glass), “giving up every little comfort he was used to!” (another sip), “all for his family! Look at my coat; feel the wool of it. See my breeches; 'tis like the hide of a bear they are. Take notice of my shoes; and there's my purse, with two florins and eight kreutzers in it; and, may I never see glory, if I don't owe a little bill in every shop that will trust me! And for what? answer me that, for what?” Although the savage energy with which this question was put would have extorted an answer from the least willing witness, Foglass was unable to reply, and only stared in mute astonishment. “I'll tell you for what, Fogles,” resumed Dalton, with a stroke of his clenched fist on the table, “I'll tell you for what! To have a son in the Hussars, and a daughter in all the height of fashion and fine life! That 's it, Fogles. My boy keeping company with all the first people in Austria, hand and glove with what 's his name? something like 'Misty,' or 'Hazy' I forget it now dining, driving, and shooting with them. And my girl, Kate. But sure you know better than myself what style she 's keeping! That 's the reason I 'm what you see me here, pining away in solitude and small means! All for my children's sake!” “It is highly meritorious. It does you honor, Dalton,” said the other, emphatically. “Well, I hope it does,” said he, with a sigh. “But how few know it, after all!” “And has this same Sir Stafford never taken any steps towards recompensing you? Has there been nothing like an amende for the great losses you 've sustained?” “Oh, indeed, to do him justice, he made me a kind of an offer once; but you see it was hampered with so many conditions and restrictions, and the like, that I rejected it with contempt. 'No!' says I, ''t is n't poverty will ever make me demean the old family! The Daltons won't suffer disgrace from me!'” “He could have assisted you without such an alternative, Dalton.” “Maybe he could, indeed!” sighed the other. “I know it well; the man is one of the richest in England; the head of a great bank, besides, making thousands every week.” “I often thought of that,” said Dalton. “Sure it would cost him little just to discount a small thing for me at three months. I'd take care to meet it, of course; and he'd never lose a sixpence by me. Indeed, he'd be gaining; for he 'd have the commission, and the discount, and the interest, and the devil knows what besides of law expenses--” Here he stopped abruptly, for he had unwittingly strayed into another and very different hypothesis regarding the fate of his bill. However, he pulled up short, tossed off his punch, and said, “I only wish he 'd do it!” “Why not try him, then? you ought, at least, to give yourself the chance.” “And, if he refused me, I'd have to call him out,” said Dalton, gravely; “and just see all the confusion that would lead to. My daughter on a visit there, myself here, and, maybe, obliged to go hundreds of miles to meet him, and no end to the expense, taking a friend with me, too. No, no! that would be too selfish entirely.” “What if you were to throw out a hint, when you write to your daughter, allude to present pressure for money; speak of tenants in arrear; remittances not arrived?” “Oh, faith! there's no need prompting me about these things,” said Dalton, with a bitter laugh. “I know them too well already.” “Write a few lines, then; you'll find paper and pens on that table. I 've told you that I will send it under my own seal, with the despatches.” Dalton was very little given to letter-writing at any period; but to encounter the labor at night by candle-light, and after a few hours' carouse, seemed to him quite out of the question. Still, the Embassy seal, whatever that might be, was no common temptation. Perhaps he fancied it to be like one of those portentous appendages which are seen attached to royal grants! Who can tell what amount of wax and ribbon his imagination bestowed upon it! Besides this, there was another motive, never again, perhaps, should he be able to write without Nelly's knowledge. This consideration decided the question at once. Accordingly, he put on his spectacles, and seated himself gravely to the work, which proceeded thus: DEAR KATE, I 'm spending the evening with your friend the Ambassador of I forget where--Fogles is his name and as pleasant a man as I ever met; and he sends his regards to you and all the family, and transmits this under his own seal. Things is going on bad enough here. Not a shilling out of Crognoborraghan. Healey ran away with the November rent and the crops, and Sweeney 's got into the place, and won't give it up to any one with out he gets forty pound! I 'd give him forty of my teeth as soon, if I had them! Ryan shot Mr. Johnson coming home from work, and will be hanged on Saturday; and that 's in our favor, as he was a life in Honan's lease. There 's no money in Ireland, Kellet tells me, and there 's none here. Where the blazes is it all gone to? Maybe, like the potatoes 't is dying out! Frank 's well sick of soldiering; they chained him up like a dog, with his hand to his leg, the other night for going to the play; and if he was n't a born gentleman, he says, they 'd have given him “four-and-twenty,” as he calls it, with a stick for impudence. Stephen 's no more good to him than an old umbrella, never gave him bit nor sup! Bad luck to the old Neygur I can't speak of him. Nelly goes on carving and cutting away as before. There 's not a saint in the calendar she did n't make out of rotten wood this winter, and little Hans buys them all, at a fair price, she says; but I call a Holy Family cheap at ten florins, and 't is giving the Virgin away to sell her for a Prussian dollar. ' T is a nice way for one of the Daltons to be living by her own industry! I often wish for you back here; but I 'd be sorry, after all, ye 'd come, for the place is poorer than ever, and you 're in good quarters, and snug where you are. Tell me how they treat you if they're as kind as before and how is the old man, and is the gout bad with him still? I send you in this a little bill Martin Cox, of Drumsnagh, enclosed me for sixty-two ten-and-eight. Could you get the old Baronet to put his name on it for me? Tell him 't is as good as the bank paper, that Cox is as respectable a man as any in Leitrim, and an estated gentleman, like myself, and of course that we'll take care to have the cash ready for it when due. This will be a great convenience to me, and Fogles says it will be a pleasure to Sir Stafford, besides extending his connection among Irish gentlemen. If he seems to like the notion, say that your father is well known in Ireland, and can help him to a very lively business in the same way. Indeed, I 'd have been a fortune to him myself alone, if he 'd had the discounting of me for the last fifteen years! Never mind this, however, for bragging is not genteel; but get me his name, and send me the “bit of stiff” by return of post. If he wants to be civil, maybe he 'll put it into the bank himself, and send me the money; and if so, let the order be on Haller and Oelcher, for I 'ne a long account with Koch and Elz, and maybe they 'd keep a grip of the cash, and I 'd just be where I was before. If I can get out of this next spring--it would be a great economy, for I owe something to everybody, and a new place always gives courage. I 'm hesitating whether I 'll go to Genoa or New York, but cheapness will decide me, for I only live now for my family. With all my affection, Believe me your fond father, PETER DALTON. P. S. If Sir S. would rather have my own acceptance, let him draw for a hundred, at three months, and I 'm ready; but don't disappoint me, one way or other. Wood is fifteen florins a “klafter” here, now, and I 've nobody to cut it when it comes home, as Andy took a slice out of his shin on Friday last with the hatchet, and is in bed ever since. Vegetables, too, is dear; and since Frank went, we never see a bit of game. 2nd P. S. If you had such a thing as a warm winter cloak that you did n't want, you might send it to Nelly. She goes out in a thing like a bit of brown paper, and the wooden shoes is mighty unhandy with her lameness. Mind the bill. “You are writing a rather lengthy despatch, Dalton,” said Foglass, who had twice dozed off to sleep, and woke again, only to see him still occupied with his epistle. “It's done now,” said Dalton, with a sigh; for, without well knowing why, he was not quite satisfied with the performance. “I wish you 'd just add a line, to say that Mrs. Ricketts, Mrs. Major-General Ricketts, who resides at Florence, is so desirous to know her. You can mention that she is one of the first people, but so exclusive about acquaintance, that it is almost impossible to get presented to her; but that this coming winter the Embassy will, in all likelihood, open a door to so desirable an object.” “Lady Hester will know her, of course?” said Dalton, whose sense of proprieties was usually clear enough when selfishness did not interfere, “and I don't see that my daughter should extend her acquaintance through any other channel.” “Oh, very true; it's of no consequence. I only meant it as an attention to Miss Dalton; but your observation is very just,” said Foglass, who suddenly felt that he was on dangerous ground. “Depend upon 't, Fogles, my daughter is in the best society of the place, whatever it is. It 's not a Dalton would be left out.” Foglass repeated his most implicit conviction in this belief, and did all in his power to efface the memory of the suggestion, but without success. Family pride was a kind of birdlime with old Dalton, and if he but touched, he could not leave it. The consequences, however, went no further than a long and intricate dissertation on the Dalton blood for several centuries back, through which Foglass slept just as soundly as the respected individuals there recorded, and was only awoke at last by Dalton rising to take leave, an event at last suggested by the empty decanter. “And now, Fogles,” said he, summing up, “you'll not wonder, that if we 're poor we 're proud. I suppose you never heard of a better stock than that since you were born?” “Never, by Jove! Guelphs, Ghibellines, and Hapsburgs are nothing to them. Good-night, good-night! I 'll take care of your letter. It shall go to-morrow in the Embassy bag.”	{ "id": "32061" }
32	AN INVASION.	To afford the reader the explanation contained in the preceding chapter, we have been obliged to leave Kate Dalton waiting, in mingled anxiety and suspense, for the hour of Mrs. Ricketts's visit. Although her mind principally dwelt upon the letter which had been announced as coming from her father, an event so strange as naturally to cause astonishment, she also occasionally recurred to the awkwardness of receiving persons whom Lady Hester had so scrupulously avoided, and being involved in an acquaintanceship so unequivocally pronounced vulgar. A few short months before, and the incident would have worn a very different aspect to her eyes. She would have dwelt alone on the kindness of one, an utter stranger, addressing her in terms of respectful civility, and proffering the attention of a visit. She would have been grateful for the goodnature that took charge of a communication for her. She would have viewed the whole as a sort of flattering notice, and never dreamed of that long catalogue of “inconveniences” and annoyances so prolifically associated with the event as it at present stood. She was greatly changed in many respects. She had been daily accustomed to hear the most outrageous moral derelictions lightly treated, or, at least, but slightly censured. For every fault and failing there was a skilful excuse or a charitable explanation. The errors of the fashionable world were shown to be few, insignificant, and venial; and the code showed no exception to the rule that “well-bred people can do no wrong.” Vulgarity alone was criminal; and the sins of the underbred admitted of no palliation. Her sense of justice might have revolted against such judgments, had reason been ever appealed to; but such was not the case. Ridicule alone was the arbiter; whatever could be scoffed at was detestable, and a solecism in dress, accent, or demeanor was a higher crime than many a grave transgression or glaring iniquity. The little mimicries of Albert Jekyl, as he described Mrs. Ricketts, the few depreciatory remarks of Lady Hester concerning her, would have outweighed her worth had her character been a cornucopia of goodness. It was, then, in no pleasant flurry of spirits, that, just as the clock struck three, Kate heard the heavy door of the palace flung wide, and the sound of wheels echo beneath the vaulted entrance. The next moment a small one-horse phaeton, driven by a very meagre servant in a tawdry livery, passed into the courtyard, having deposited its company in the hall. There had been a time, and that not so very far back either, when the sight of that humble equipage, with visitors, would have made her heart beat to the full as strong, albeit with very different emotions. Now, however, she actually glanced at the windows to see if it had attracted notice, with a kind of terror at the ridicule it would excite. Never did she think an old gray horse could be so ugly; never did wheels make so intolerable a noise before! Why would people dress up their servants like harlequins? What was the meaning of that leopard-skin rug for the feet? It was an odious little vehicle, altogether. There was a tawdry, smirking, self-satisfied pretension about its poverty that made one wish for a break-down on looking at it. “Mrs. Montague Ricketts and Miss Ricketts,” said a very demure-looking groom of the chambers; and although his features were immaculate in their expressions of respect, Kate felt offended at what she thought was a flippancy in the man's manner. Although the announcement was thus made, the high and mighty personages were still three rooms off, and visible only in the dim distance, coming slowly forward. Leaning on her sister's arm, and with a step at once graceful and commanding, Mrs. Ricketts came on. At least, so Kate judged an enormous pyramid of crimson velvet and ermine to be, from the summit of which waved a sufficiency of plumes for a moderate hearse. The size and dignity of this imposing figure almost entirely eclipsed poor Martha, and completely shut out the slender proportions of Mr. Scroope Purvis, who, from being loaded like a sumpter-mule with various articles for the road, was passed over by the groom of the chambers, and believed to be a servant. Slow as was the order of march, Purvis made it still slower by momentarily dropping some of the articles with which he was charged; and as they comprised a footstool, a poodle, two parasols, an album, a smelling-bottle, a lorgnette, with various cushions, shawls, and a portable tire-screen, his difficulties may be rather compassionated than censured. “Scroope, how can you? Martha, do speak to him. It's down again! He'll smash my lorgnette he'll smother Fidele. How very awkward how absurd we shall look!” Such were the sotto voce accompaniments that filled up the intervals till they arrived at the great drawing-room, where Kate Dalton sat. If the reader has ever watched a great tragedy queen emerging from the flats, when, after a lively dialogue with the prompter, and the utterance of a pleasant jest, she issues forth upon the open stage, to vent the sorrows or the wrongs of injured womanhood, he may form some faint idea of the rapid transformation that Mrs. Ricketts underwent as she passed the door-sill. Her first movement was a sudden bound forwards, or, at least, such an approach to a spring as a body so imposing could accomplish, and then, throwing her arms wide, she seemed as if about to enclose Miss Dalton in a fast embrace; and so, doubtless, had she done, if Kate had responded to the sign. A deep and very formal courtesy was, however, her only acknowledgment of this spontaneous burst of feeling; and Mrs. Ricketts, like a skilful general, at once changing her plan of attack, converted her ardor into astonishment, and exclaimed, “Did you ever see such a resemblance? Could you believe it possible, Martha? A thousand apologies, my dear Miss Dalton, for this rudeness; but you are so wonderfully like our dear, dear friend Lady Caroline Montressor, that I actually forgot myself. Pray forgive me, and let me present my sister, Miss Ricketts. My brother, Mr. Scroope Purvis, Miss Dalton.” The ceremonial of introduction over, and Mrs. Ricketts being at last seated, a very tedious operation, in which the arrangement of cushions, pillows, and footstools played a conspicuous part, that bland lady began, in her very softest of voices, “This, indeed, repays me, amply, fully repays me! eh, Martha?” “Quite so, sister,” responded Martha, in a meek whisper. “A poor invalid as I am, rarely rising from a sofa except to snatch the perfumed odors of a violet in spring, or to listen to the murmurs of a rippling fountain; denied all the excitements of society by a nervous temperament so finely strung as to be jarred by contact, even the remotest, with inferior souls think of what ecstasy a moment like this affords me!” As Kate was profoundly ignorant to what happy combination of circumstances this blissful state could be attributed, she could only smile courteously, and mutter some vague expressions of her pleasure, satisfaction, and so forth. “Eve in her own paradise!” exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts, as she turned her eyes from Kate to the gorgeous chamber in which they were seated. “May I ask if the taste of these decorations be yours, Miss Dalton?” “Lady Hester Onslow's, madam,” said Kate, quietly. “I declare, I like these hangings better than 'Gobelins' they are lighter and more graceful. You remember, Martha, I told the dear Queen of Saxony that blue velvet would go so well with her small pictures. We discussed the point every morning at breakfast for a week, and the poor dear King at last called us the 'blue devils; 'very happy, wasn't it, Miss Dalton? But he speaks English just like one of ourselves.” “These are all Dutch pictures, I perceive,” said Purvis, who, with his poodle under his arm, was making a tour of the room, peering into everything, opening books, prying into china jars, and spying into work-boxes, as though in search of some missing article. “I 'm tired of Wou-Wou-Wou--” Here the poodle barked, doubtless in the belief that he was responding to an invitation. “Down, Fidele! Wou-ver-mans,” gulped out Purvis. “He 's always the same.” “But those dear white palfreys, how I love them! I always have a white horse, out of regard for Wouvermans.” Kate thought of the poor gray in the courtyard, and said nothing. “And there is something so touching so exquisitely touching in those Flemish interiors, where the goodwife is seated reading, and a straggling sunbeam comes slanting in upon the tiled floor. Little peeps of life, as it were, in a class of which we know nothing; for, really, Miss Dalton, iu our order, sympathies are too much fettered; and I often think it would be better that we knew more of the middle classes. When I say this, of course I do not mean as associates, far less as intimates, but as ingredients in the grand scheme of universal nature.” “'The no-no-noblest study of man-mankind is' what is it, sister?” “'Man,' Scroope; but the poet intended to refer to the great aims and objects of our being. Don't you think so, Miss Dalton? It was not man in the little cares of everyday life, in his social relations, but man in his destinies, in his vast future, when he goes beyond 'that bourne'--” “From which nobody ever got out again,” cackled Purvis, in an ecstasy at the readiness of his quotation. “'From which no traveller returns,' Scroope, is, I believe, the more correct version.” “Then it don't mean pur-pur-pur-purgatory,” gulped Scroope, who, as soon as the word was uttered, became shocked at what he said. “I forgot you were a Ro-Ro-Roman, Miss Dalton,” said he, blushing. “You are in error, Scroope,” said Mrs. Ricketts. “Miss Dalton is one of ourselves. All the distinguished Irish are of the Reformed faith.” “I am a Catholic, madam,” said Kate, not knowing whether to be more amused than annoyed at the turn the conversation had taken. “I knew it,” cried Purvis, in delight. “I tracked your carriage to the D-D-Duomo, and I went in after you, and saw you at the co-co-co-co--” “Corner,” whispered Martha, who, from his agonies, grew afraid of a fit. “No, not the corner, but the co-co-co-coufessional-confessional, where you stayed for an hour and forty minutes by my own watch; and I couldn't help thinking that your pec-pec-pec-peccadilloes were a good long score, by the time it took to to to tell them.” “Thanks, sir,” said Kate, bowing, and with difficulty restraining her laughter; “thanks for the very kind interest you seem to have taken in my spiritual welfare.” “Would that I might be suffered a participation in that charge, Miss Dalton,” cried Mrs. Ricketts, with enthusiasm, “and allowed to hold some converse with you on doctrinal questions!” “Try her with the posers, sister,” whispered Purvis. “Hush, Scroope! Mere opportunities of friendly discussion, nothing more I ask for, Miss Dalton.” “Give her the posers,” whispered Purvis, louder. “Be quiet, Scroope. I have been fortunate enough to resolve the doubts of more than one ere this. That dear angel, the Princess Ethelinda of Cobourgh, I believe I may say, owes her present enlightenment to our sweet evenings together.” “Begin with the posers.” “Hush! I say, Scroope.” “May I ask,” said Kate, “what is the suggestion Mr. Purvis has been good enough to repeat?” “That I should give you this little tract, Miss Dalton,” said Mrs. Ricketts as she drew out a miscellaneous assemblage of articles from a deep pocket, and selected from the mass a small blue-covered pamphlet, bearing the title, “Three Posers for Papists, by M. R.” “Montague Ricketts,” said Purvis, proudly; “she wrote it herself, and the Pope won't let us into Rome in consequence. It 's very droll, too; and the part about the the Vir-gin--” “You will, I 'm sure, excuse me, madam,” said Kate, “if I beg that this subject be suffered to drop. My thanks for the interest this gentleman and yourself have vouchsafed me will only be more lasting by leaving the impression of them unassociated with anything unpleasing. You were good enough to say that you had a letter for me?” “A letter from your father, that dear, fond father, who dotes so distractingly upon you, and who really seems to live but to enjoy your triumphs. Martha, where is the letter?” “I gave it to Scroope, sister.” “No, you didn't. I never saw--” “Yes, Scroope, I gave it to you, at the drawing-room fire--” “Yes, to be sure, and I put it into the ca-ca-ca--” “Not the candle, I hope,” cried Kate, in terror. “No, into the card-rack; and there it is now.” “How provoking!” cried Miss Ricketts; “but you shall have it to-morrow, Miss Dalton. I 'll leave it here myself.” “Shall I appear impatient, madam, if I send for it this evening?” “Of course not, my dear Miss Dalton; but shall I commit the precious charge to a menial's hand?” “You may do so with safety, madam,” said Kate, not without a slight irritation of manner as she spoke. “Mr. Foglass, the late minister and envoy at--” Here a tremendous crash, followed by a terrific yelping noise, broke in upon the colloquy; for it was Fidele had thrown down a Sevres jar, and lay, half-buried and howling, under the ruins. There was, of course, a general rising of the company, some to rescue the struggling poodle, and others in vain solicitude to gather up the broken fragments of the once beautiful vase. It was a favorite object with Lady Hester; of singular rarity, both for form and design; and Kate stood speechless, and almost sick with shame and sorrow, at the sight, not heeding one syllable of the excuses and apologies poured in upon her, nor of the equally valueless assurances that it could be easily mended; that Martha was a perfect proficient in such arts; and that, if Scroope would only collect the pieces carefully, the most difficult connoisseur would not be able to detect a flaw in it. “I've got a head here; but the no-nose is off,” cried Purvis. “Here it is, Scroope. I 've found it.” “No, that's a toe,” said he; “there 's a nail to it.” “I am getting ill I shall faint,” said Mrs. Ricketts, retiring upon a well-cushioned sofa from the calamity. Martha now flew to the bell-rope and pulled it violently, while Purvis threw open the window, and with such rash haste as to upset a stand of camellias, thereby scattering plants, buds, earth, and crockery over the floor, while poor Kate, thunderstruck at the avalanche of ruin around her, leaned against the wall for support, unable to stir or even speak. As Martha continued to tug away at the bell, the alarm, suggesting the idea of fire, brought three or four servants to the door together. “Madeira! quick, Madeira!” cried Martha, as she unloosed various articles of dress from her sister's throat, and prepared a plan of operations for resuscitation that showed at least an experienced hand. “Bring wine,” said Kate, faintly, to the astonished butler, who, not noticing Miss Ricketts's order, seemed to await hers. “Madeira! it must be Madeira!” cried Martha, wildly. “She don't dislike Mar-Mar-Marco-brunner,” whispered Purvis to the servant, “and I'll take a glass too.” Had the irruption been one of veritable housebreakers, had the occasion been what newspapers stereotype as a “Daring Burglary,” Kate Dalton might, in all likelihood, have distinguished herself as a heroine. She would, it is more than probable, have evinced no deficiency either of courage or presence of mind, but in the actual contingency nothing could be more utterly helpless than she proved; and, as she glided into a chair, her pale face and trembling features betrayed more decisive signs of suffering than the massive countenance which Martha was now deluging with eau-de-Cologne and lavender. The wine soon made its appearance; a very imposing array of restoratives the ambulatory pharmacopeia of the Ricketts family was all displayed upon a table. Martha, divested of shawl, bonnet, and gloves, stood ready for action; and thus, everything being in readiness, Mrs. Ricketts, whose consideration never suffered her to take people unawares, now began her nervous attack in all form. If ague hysterics recovery from drowning tic-doloureux, and an extensive burn had all sent representatives of their peculiar agonies, with injunctions to struggle for a mastery of expression, the symptoms could scarcely have equalled those now exhibited. There was not a contortion nor convulsion that her countenance did not undergo, while the devil's tattoo, kept up by her heels upon the floor, and her knuckles occasionally on the table, and now and then on Scroope's head, added fearfully to the effect of her screams, which varied from the deep groan of the melodrame to the wildest shrieks of tragedy. “There's no danger, Miss Dalton,” whispered Martha, whose functions of hand-rubbing, temple-bathing, wine-giving, and so forth, were performed with a most jog-trot regularity. “When she sc-sc-screams, she's all right,” added Purvis; and, certainly, the most anxious friend might have been comforted on the present occasion. “Shall I not send for a physician?” asked Kate, eagerly. “On no account, Miss Dalton. We are quite accustomed to these seizures. My dear sister's nerves are so susceptible.” “Yes,” said Scroope, who, be it remarked, had already half finished a bottle of hock, “poor Zoe is all sensibility the scabbard too sharp for the sword. Won't you have a glass of wine, Miss Dalton?” “Thanks, sir, I take none. I trust she is better now she looks easier.” “She is better; but this is a difficult moment,” whispered Martha. “Any shock any sudden impression now might prove fatal.” “What is to be done, then?” said Kate, in terror. “She must be put to bed at once, the room darkened, and the strictest silence preserved. Can you spare your room?” “Oh, of course, anything everything at such a moment,” cried the terrified girl, whose reason was now completely mastered by her fears. [Illustration: 408] “She must be carried. Will you give orders, Miss Dalton? and, Scroope, step down to the carriage, and bring up--” Here Miss Ricketts's voice degenerated into an inaudible whisper; but Scroope left the room to obey the command. Her sympathy for suffering had so thoroughly occupied Kate, that all the train of unpleasant consequences that were to follow this unhappy incident had never once occurred to her; nor did a thought of Lady Hester cross her mind, till, suddenly, the whole flashed upon her, by the appearance of her maid Nina in the drawing-room. “To your own room, Mademoiselle?” asked she, with a look that said far more than any words. “Yes, Nina,” whispered she. “What can I do? She is so ill! They tell me it may be dangerous at any moment, and--” “Hush, my dear Miss Dalton!” said Martha; “one word may wake her.” “I'd be a butterfly!” warbled the sick lady, in a low weak treble; while a smile of angelic beatitude beamed on her features. “Hush! be still!” said Martha, motioning the surrounders to silence. “What shall I do, Nina? Shall I go and speak to my Lady?” asked Kate. A significant shrug of the shoulders, more negative than affirmative, was the only answer. “I'd be a gossamer, and you'd be the King of Thebes,” said Mrs. Ricketts, addressing a tall footman, who stood ready to assist in carrying her. “Yes, madam,” said he, respectfully. “She's worse,” whispered Martha, gravely. “And we'll walk on the wall of China by moonlight, with Cleopatra and Mr. Cobden?” “Certainly, madam,” said the man, who felt the question too direct for evasion. “Has she been working slippers for the planet Ju-Ju-Jupiter yet?” asked Purvis, eagerly, as he entered the room, heated, and flushed from the weight of a portentous bag of colored wool. “No; not yet,” whispered Martha. “You may lift her now, gently very gently, and not a word.” And in strict obedience, the servants raised their fair burden, and bore her from the room, after Nina, who led the way with an air that betokened a more than common indifference to human suffering. “When she gets at Ju-Jupiter,” said Purvis to Kate, as they closed the procession, “it's a bad symptom; or when she fancies she 's Hec-Hec-Hec-Hec--” “Hecate?” “No; not Hec-Hecate, but Hecuba--Hecuba; then it's a month at least before she comes round.” “How dreadful!” said Kate. And certainly there was not a grain of hypocrisy in the fervor with which she uttered it. “I don't think she 'll go beyond the San-Sandwich Islands this time, however,” added he, consolingly, “Hush, Scroope!” cried Martha. And now they entered the small and exquisitely furnished dressing-room which was appropriated to Kate's use; within which, and opening upon a small orangery, stood her bedroom. Nina, who scrupulously obeyed every order of her young mistress, continued the while to exhibit a hundred petty signs of mute rebellion. “Lady Hester wishes to see Miss Dalton,” said a servant at the outer door. “Can you permit me for a moment?” asked Kate, in a tremor. “Oh, of course, my dear Miss Dalton; let there be no ceremony with us,” said Martha. “Your kindness makes us feel like old friends already.” “I feel-myself quite at home,” cried Scroope, whose head was not proof against so much wine; and then, turning to one of the servants, he added a mild request for the two bottles that were left on the drawing-room table. Martha happily, however, overheard and revoked the order. And now the various attendants withdrew, leaving the family to themselves. It was ill no pleasant mood that Kate took her way towards Lady Hester's apartment. The drawing-room, as she passed through it, still exhibited some of the signs of its recent ruin, and the servants were busied in collecting fragments of porcelain and flower-pots. Their murmured comments, hushed as she went by, told her how the occurrence was already the gossip of the household. It was impossible for her not to connect herself with the whole misfortune. “But for her” But she could not endure the thought, and it was with deep humiliation and trembling in every limb that she entered Lady Hester's chamber. “Leave me, Celadon; I want to speak to Miss Dalton,” said Lady Hester to the hairdresser, who had just completed one half of her Ladyship's chevelure, leaving the other side pinned and rolled up in those various preparatory stages which have more of promise than picturesque about them. Her cheek was flushed, and her eyes sparkled with an animation that betrayed more passion than pleasure. “What is this dreadful story I 've heard, child, and that the house is full of? Is it possible there can be any truth in it? Have these odious people actually dared to establish themselves here? Tell me, child speak!” “Mrs. Ricketts became suddenly ill,” said Kate, trembling; “her dog threw down a china jar.” “Not my Sevres jar? not the large green one, with the figures?” “I grieve to say it was!” “Go on. What then?” said Lady Hester, dryly. “Shocked at the incident, and alarmed, besides, by the fall of a flower-stand, she fainted away, and subsequently was seized with what I supposed to be a convulsive attack, but to which her friends seemed perfectly accustomed, and pronounced not dangerous. In this dilemma they asked me if they might occupy my room. Of course I could not refuse, and yet felt, the while, that I had no right to extend the hospitality of this house. I saw the indelicacy of what I was doing. I was shocked and ashamed, and yet--” “Go on,” said Lady Hester once more, and with a stern quietude of manner that Kate felt more acutely than even an angry burst of temper. “I have little more to say; in fact, I know not what I am saying,” cried she, gulping to repress the torrent of suffering that was struggling within her. “Miss Dalton--” began Lady Hester. “Oh! why not Kate?” broke she, with a choking utterance. “Miss Dalton,” resumed Lady Hester, and as if not hearing the entreaty, “very little knowledge of that world you have lived in for the past three or four months might have taught you some slight self-possession in difficulty. Still less acquaintance with it might have suggested the recollection that these people are no intimates of mine; so that, even were tact wanting, feeling, at least, should have dictated a line of action to you.” “I know I have done wrong. I knew it at the time, and yet, in my inexperience, I could not decide on anything. My memory, too, helped to mislead me, for I bethought me that although these persons were not of your own rank and station, yet you had stooped lower than to them when you came to visit Nelly and myself.” “Humph!” ejaculated Lady Hester, with a gesture that very unequivocally seemed to say that her having done so was a grievous error. Kate saw it quickly, and as suddenly the blood rushed to her cheek, coloring her throat and neck with the deep crimson of shame. A burst of pride the old Dalton pride seemed to have given way within her; and as she drew herself up to her full height, her look and attitude wore every sign of haughty indignation. Lady Hester looked at her for a few seconds with a glance of searching import. Perhaps for a moment the possibility of a deception struck her, and that this might only be feigned; but as suddenly did she recognize the unerring traits of truth, and said, “What! child, are you angry with me?” “Oh no, no!” said Kate, bursting into tears, and kissing the hand that was now extended towards her, “oh no, no! but I could hate myself for what seems so like ingratitude.” “Come, sit down here at my feet on this stool, and tell me all about it; for, after all, I could forgive them the jar and the camellias, if they 'd only have gone away afterwards. And of course the lesson will not be thrown away upon you, not to be easily deceived again.” “How, deceived?” exclaimed Kate. “She was very ill. I saw it myself.” “Nonsense, child. The trick is the very stalest piece of roguery going. Since Toe Morris, as they call him the man that treads upon people, and by his apologies scrapes acquaintance with them there is nothing less original. Why, just before we left England, there was old Bankhead got into Slingsby House, merely because the newspapers might announce his death at the Earl of Grindleton's 'on the eighth, of a few days' illness, deeply regretted by the noble lord, with whom he was on a visit.' Now, that dear Ricketts woman would almost consent to take leave of the world for a similar paragraph. I 'm sure I should know nothing of such people but that Sir Stafford's relations have somewhat enlightened me. He has a nest of cousins down in Shropshire, not a whit better than your I was going to call them 'your friends,' the Rickettses.” “It is almost incredible to suppose this could be artifice.” “Why so, child? There is no strategy too deep for people who are always aspiring to some society above them. Besides, after all, I was in a measure prepared for this.” “Prepared for it!” “Yes; Jekyl told me that if they once got in, it would be next to impossible to keep them out afterwards. A compromise, he said, was the best thing; to let them have so many days each year, with certain small privileges about showing the house to strangers, cutting bouquets, and so on; or, if we preferred it, let them carry away a Teniers or a Gerard Dow to copy, and take care never to ask for it. He inclined to the latter as the better plan, because, after a certain lapse of time, it can end in a cut.” “But this is inconceivable!” exclaimed Kate. “And yet half the absurd and incongruous intimacies one sees in the world have had some such origin, and habit will reconcile one to acquaintance that at first inspired feelings of abhorrence and detestation. I 'm sure I don 't know one good house in town where there are not certain intimates that have not the slightest pretension, either from rank, wealth, distinction, or social qualities, to be there. And yet, there they are; not merely as supernumeraries, either, but very prominent and foreground figures, giving advice and offering counsel on questions of family policy, and writing their vulgar names on every will, codicil, marriage-settlement, and trust-deed, till they seem to be part of the genealogical tree, to which, after all, they are only attached like fungi. You look very unhappy, my poor Kate, at all this; but, believe me, the system will outlive both of us. And so, now to your room, and dress for dinner. But I forgot; you have n't got a room; so Celestine must give you hers, and you will be close beside me, and we shall be the better able to concert measures about these Ricketts folk, who really resemble those amiable peasants your father told me of, on his Irish property, and whom he designated as 'squatters.' I am delighted that I have n't forgot the word.” And thus, chatting on, Lady Hester restored Kate's wonted happiness of nature, sadly shaken as it had been by the contrarieties of the morning. Nothing, too, was easier than to make her forget a source of irritation. Ever better satisfied to look on the bright side of life, her inclinations needed but little aid from conviction to turn her from gloomy themes to pleasant ones; and already some of the absurdities of the morning were recurring to her mind, and little traits of Mrs. Ricketts and her brother were involuntarily coming up through all the whirlpool of annoyance and confusion in whicli th y had been submerged. The coming dinner, too, engrossed some share of her thoughts; for it was a grand entertainment, to which all Lady Hester's most distinguished friends were invited. An Archduke and a Cardinal were to make part of the company, and Kate looked forward to meeting these great personages with no common interest. It was less the vulgar curiosity of observing the manners and bearing of distinguished characters, than the delight she felt in following out some child-invented narrative of her future life, some fancied story of her own career, wherein Princes and Prelates were to figure, and scenes of splendor and enjoyment to follow each other in rapid succession.	{ "id": "32061" }
33	THE CONCLUSION OF A “GRAND DINNER.”	LADY HESTER'S dinner of that day was a “grand one,” that is to say, it was one of those great displays which, from time to time, are offered up as sacrifices to the opinion of the world. Few of her own peculiar set were present. Some she omitted herself; others had begged off of their own accord. Midchekoff, however, was there; for, however accustomed to the tone and habits of a life of mere dissipation, he possessed every requirement for mixing with general society. It was true he was not fond of meeting “Royal Highnesses,” before whom his own equivocal rank sank into insignificance; nor did he love “Cardinals,” whose haughty pretensions always over-topped every other nobility. To oblige Lady Hester, however, he did come, and condescended, for “the nonce,” to assume his most amiable of moods. The Marchesa Guardoni, an old coquette of the days of the French Empire, but now a rigid devotee, and a most exclusive moralist; a few elderly diplomates, of a quiet and cat-like smoothness of manner, with certain notabilities of the Court, made up the party. There were no English whatever; Jekyl, who made out the list, well knowing that Florence offered none of a rank sufficiently distinguished, except Norwood, whose temporary absence from the city was rather a boon than the reverse; for the noble Viscount, when not “slang,” was usually silent, and, by long intercourse with the Turf and its followers, had ceased to feel any interest in topics which could not end in a wager. The entertainment was very splendid. Nothing was wanting which luxury or taste could contribute. The wines were delicious; the cookery perfect. The guests were courteous and pleasing; but all was of the quietest, none of the witty sallies, the piquant anecdotes, the brilliant repartees, which usually pattered like hail around that board. Still less were heard those little histories of private life where delinquencies furnish all the interest. The royal guest imposed a reserve which the presence of the Cardinal deepened. The conversation, like the cuisine, was flavored for fine palates; both were light, suggestive, and of easy digestion. Events were discussed rather than the actors in them. All was ease and simplicity; but it was a stately kind of simplicity, which served to chill those that were unaccustomed to it. So Kate Dalton felt it; and however sad the confession, we must own that she greatly preferred the free and easy tone of Lady Hester's midnight receptions to the colder solemnity of these distinguished guests. Even to the Cardinal's whist-table, everything wore a look of state and solemnity. The players laid down their cards with a measured gravity, and scored their honors with the air of men discharging a high and important function. As for the Archduke, he sat upon a sofa beside Lady Hester, suffering himself to be amused by the resources of her small-talk, bowing blandly at times, occasionally condescending to a smile, but rarely uttering even a monosyllable. Even that little social warmth that was kindled by the dinner-table seemed to have been chilled by the drawing-room, where the conversation was maintained in a low, soft tone, that never rose above a murmur. It may be, perhaps, some sort of consolation to little folk to think that Princes are generally sad-looking. The impassable barrier of reserve around them, if it protect from all the rubs and frictions of life, equally excludes from much of its genial enjoyment; and all those little pleasantries which grow out of intimacy are denied those who have no equals. It was in some such meditation as this Kate Dalton sat, roused occasionally to bestow a smile or a passing word of acknowledgment in return for some of those little morsels of compliment and flattery which old courtiers pay as their rightful tribute to a young and handsome woman. She was sufficiently accustomed to this kind of homage to accept it without losing, even for an instant, any train of thought her mind was pursuing. Nor did the entrance of any new guest, a number of whom had been invited for the evening, distract her from her half revery. The salons, without being crowded, now showed a numerous company, all of whom exhibited in their demeanor that respectful reserve the presence of royalty ever inspires. It seemed, indeed, as though all the conversation that went forward was like a mere “aside” to that more important dialogue which was maintained beside the Prince. A slow but measured tide of persons passed before him, bowing with respectful deference as they went. With some he deigned to speak a few words, others had a smile or a little nod of recognition, and some again one of those cold and vacant stares with which great people are occasionally wont to regard little ones. His Royal Highness was not one of those accomplished princes whose pride it is to know the name, the family, the pursuits, and predilections of each new presentee. On the contrary, he was absent, and forgetful to a degree scarcely credible; his want of memory betraying him into innumerable mistakes, from which, even had he known, no adroitness of his own could have extricated him. On this evening he had not been peculiarly fortunate; he had complimented a minister who had just received his recall in disgrace; he had felicitated a young lady on her approaching marriage, which had been broken off; while the burden of his talk to Lady Hester was in disparagement of those foreigners who brought a scandal upon his court by habits and manners which would not be tolerated in their own countries. Divorce, or even separation, met his heavy reprobation; and while his code of morality, on the whole, exhibited very merciful dispositions, he bestowed unmitigated severity upon all that could shock the world's opinion. To this Lady Hester had to listen as best she might, a task not the less trying and difficult from the ill-suppressed looks of malice and enjoyment she saw on every side. From all these causes put together, the occasion, however flattering to her vanity, was far from being pleasurable to her feelings, and she longed for it to be over. The Prince looked wearied enough, but somehow there is nothing like royalty for endurance; their whole lives would seem to teach the lesson, and so he sat on, saying a stray word, bowing with half-closed lids, and looking as though very little more would set him fast asleep. It was the very culminating point of the whole evening's austerity; one of those little pauses which now and then occur had succeeded to the murmur of conversation. The whist party had been broken up, and the Cardinal was slowly advancing up the room, the company, even to the ladies, rising respectfully as he passed, when the folding-doors were thrown wide, and a servant announced Mr. Scroope Purvis. If the name was unknown to the assembled guests, there was one there at least who heard it with a sensation of actual terror, and poor Kate Dalton sank back into her chair with a kind of instinctive effort at concealment. By this time the door had closed behind him, leaving Mr. Purvis standing with an expression of no small bewilderment at the gorgeous assembly into which he had intruded. Lady Hester's quick ear had caught the name, even from the furthest end of the room; but while she attributed it to the mispronunciations of which foreign servants are so liberal, looked out with some curiosity for him who owned it. Nor had she to look long, for, his first moment of surprise over, Purvis put up his double eye-glass and commenced a tour of the rooms, in that peculiarly scrutinizing way for which he was distinguished. The fact that all the faces were unknown to him seemed to impart additional courage to his investigations, for he stared about with as little concern as he might have done in a theatre. Most men in his situation would have been egoist enough to have thought only of themselves and the awkwardness of their own position. Purvis, on the contrary, had an eye for everything; from the chandeliers on the walls to the crosses on the dress-coats, from the decorations of the salons to the diamonds, he missed nothing; and with such impartial fairness did he bestow his glances, that the Cardinal's cheeks grew red as his own stockings as Scroope surveyed him. 'At last he reached the end of the great drawing-room, and found himself standing in front of the canopied seat where the Archduke sat with Lady Hester. Not heeding, if he even remarked, the little circle which etiquette had drawn in front of the Prince, Purvis advanced within the charmed precincts and stared steadily at the Duke. [Illustration: 420] “I perceive that one of your friends is most anxious to pay his respects to you, Lady Hester,” said the Prince, with a very peculiar smile. “I beg to assure you, sir, that the gentleman is unknown to me; his presence here is an honor for which I am totally unprepared.” “My name is Purvis, madam, Sc-Sc-Scroope Purvis. Miss Dalton knows me; and my sister is Mrs. Ricketts.” “You will find Miss Dalton yonder, sir,” said Lady Hester, all whose efforts were barely sufficient to restrain her temper. “I see her!” cried Purvis, putting his glass up; “but she 's trying to escape me. She 's got a man with a re-re-red beard before her, but it won't do, I'm too sh-sh-sharp for that.” The Archduke laughed, and heartily, too, at this sally; and Purvis, emboldened by the complaisance, edged more closely towards him to point out the lady in question. “She has a droll kind of sc-sc-scarf in her hair. There! don't you see her now? Have you ever seen the pictures in the Pitti Palace?” The question was a little startling, as the personage to whom it was addressed had his residence there. The Archduke, however, merely bowed in acquiescence, and Purvis went on: “My sister Zoe copied one and I like it better than the Ti-Tit-Titian itself. We smoked it, too, and made it look so brown, you'd never guess it to be mo-mo-mo-modern.” To judge from the bewildered look of the Duke, the whole of this speech was pure Chaldee to him; and when he turned to Lady Hester for an explanation, he discovered that she had left her seat. Whether mistaking the motion as an invitation to be seated, or merely acting by his own impulses, Scroope crossed over and sat down on the sofa with a degree of self-satisfaction that lighted up all his features. “You 're not one of the fa-family, are you?” asked he. “I have not that honor,” said the Prince, with a bow. “I thought not. I suspected that there was a tw-tw-twang in your English that looked foreign, but I know your face quite well.” The Duke bowed again. “Pretty rooms, these,” said Purvis, with his glass to his eye; “what a d-d-deal of money they must have cost! They 're going it fast, these Onslows.” “Indeed!” said the Prince, who only half understood the remark. “I know it,” said Scroope, with a confidential wink. “Their butcher se-se-serves us, and he won't give anything till they have sent their orders; and as for wine, they drink Bordeaux in the servants' hall. I don't know what you have, but a d-d-deuced sight better than ever I get.” “Good wine, however, can be had here, I hope,” said the Duke, blandly. “Yes, if you sm-sm-smuggle it,” said Scroope, with a knowing cackle; while, to add poignancy to the remark, he nudged the Prince with his elbow. “That's the only way to have it. The st-stupid Government sees nothing.” “Is that the case, sir?” asked the Prince, with a degree of interest he had not manifested before. “To be sure it is. My sister Zoe never pays duty on anything; and if you like your c-c-cigars cheap, just t-t-tell me, that 's all. The G-G-Grand-Duke never got a sixpence of my money yet, and if I kn-know myself, he never shall.” “Do you bear him any grudge, sir, that you say this so emphatically?” “No; not at all. They tell me that he's good-hearted, although somewhat we-weak in the a-a-attic story,” and here Scroope tapped his forehead significantly, “but that 's in the family. My sister Zoe could tell you such st-stories about them you 'd die of laughing; and then there 's Jekyl takes them off so well! It's c-c-capital fun. He gives a dia-dia-dialogue between the Grand-Duke and the Pope's Nuncio that's better than a farce.” How far Mr. Purvis might have been carried in his zeal to be agreeable there is no saying, when Lady Hester came up, with Kate leaning on her arm. “This gentleman claims acquaintance with you, Miss Dalton,” said she, haughtily. “Oh, to be sure, she knows me; and I have a letter from her her fa-father,” said Purvis, drawing forth a packet like a postman's. “Miss Dalton would prefer being seated, sir,” said Lady Hester, while she motioned towards another part of the room. “Yes, yes, of course; we'll find out a snug co-corner somewhere for a chat. Just take my arm, will you? Let us get away from all these great 'Dons,' with their stars and crosses.” And, without waiting for Kate's reply, he drew her arm within his own, and set out in that little shuffling trot which he always assumed when he fancied he had business on hand. The ridicule of being associated with such a companion would at any other moment have overwhelmed Kate Dalton with shame; but now, whether from the few words which Lady Hester had whispered in her ear, whether the fact of his unauthorized appearance, or whether it were the dread of some greater disgrace to follow, she actually felt a sense of relief in the continuous flow of twaddle which he kept up as they passed down the room. “Who was that smiled as we passed?” asked he. “Prince Midchekoff.” “Oh, that was he, was it? You must introduce me.” “Not now, pray, not now; at any other time,” cried she, in perfect terror. “Well, but don't forget it. Zoe would never forgive me if I told her that I lost the op-op-opportunity; she wants to know him so very much.” “Of course, at another time,” said Kate, hurrying him along with increasing speed. “Who's he?” asked Purvis, as a tall and stately personage bowed blandly to Kate. “The Austrian Minister.” “Not the fellow that st-st-strangled the Emperor? Oh, I forgot; he was a Russian, wasn't he? They got him down and ch-ch-choked him, ha, ha, ha! There 's a man with a red moustache, so like the fellow who sells the boubou-bouquets at the Casciui.” “A Hungarian magnate,” whispered Kate. “Is he, though? Then let's have another look at him. He has as many gold chains about him as a shop on the Ponte Vecchio. Zoe would like him, he 's so odd.” At last, but not without great efforts, Kate succeeded in reaching a small chamber, where two others already were seated, and whose figures were undistinguishable in the obscurity of a studiously shaded lamp. “Isn't it strange, she never asked for Zoe?” said Purvis, as he took his seat on a sofa; “not to inquire for a person sick under her own r-r-roof?” “Lady Hester is not acquainted with Mrs. Ricketts.” “Well, but sh-sh-she ought to be. Zoe made a party for her, a d-d-d-iner party, and had Hagg-Haggerstone and Foglass, and the rest of them. And after all, you know, they are only b-bankers, these Onslows, and need n't give themselves airs.” “You have a letter for me, Mr. Purvis? Will you pardon my impatience--” “Yes, to be sure. I 've a letter, and an enclosure in it, too; at least, it feels crisp like a note, a bank-note; that 's the reason you 're impatient. Perhaps the re-reremittance was long a-coming, eh?” Kate made no reply to this speech, but her cheek grew scarlet as she heard it. Purvis, meanwhile, spread his packet of papers before him, and began his search for Dalton's letter. “No, that ain't it; that's from Foglass, all about Norwood, and his N-N-Newmarket affair. That 's a letter from Lord Gullston's valet, with such a droll ac-account of the whole family. Zoe recom-mended him; and the poor fellow 's very grateful, for he writes about all that goes on in the house. Lady G., it seems, has the temper of a f-f-fiend. Well, don't be im-impatient; I'll find your father's letter in a minute. He writes such a cr-cr-cramp old hand, one should detect it at once. I ta-take it that he 's a bit of a character, the old gen-gentleman. I 'm sure he is; but what have I done with his letter? Oh, here it is! here it is! and 'with haste' written on the corner, too.” Kate caught the letter impatiently, and, without any thought for Purvis or the place, tore it open at once. In doing so, the enclosure fell to the ground without her perceiving it; and, stranger still, it escaped the attention of Purvis; but that worthy man, not exactly venturing to read over her shoulder, had established himself directly in front, where, with his double eye-glass, he scanned every change in her features during the perusal. “All well at home, I hope, eh? How she changes color,” muttered he to himself. “Nobody ill; nobody dead, eh?” asked he, louder. “It must be something serious, though; she 's trembling like ague. Let me give you a chair, that is, if I can f-find one in this little den; they 've got nothing but d-divans all round it.” And he hurried forth into the larger salon in search of a seat. It was not without considerable trouble to himself and inconvenience to various others that he at last succeeded, and returned to the boudoir with a massive arm-chair in his hands. But what was his dismay to find that Miss Dalton had made her escape in the mean while? In vain did he seek her through the salons, which now were rapidly thinning; the distinguished guests having already departed. A stray group lingered here and there, conversing in a low tone; and around the fires were gathered little knots of ladies muffled and cloaked, and only waiting for the carriages. It was like a stage, when the performance was over. Scarcely deigning to notice the little man, who, with palpable keenness of scrutiny, pursued his search in every quarter, they gradually moved off, leaving Purvis alone to tread the “banquet-hall deserted.” The servants, as they extinguished the lights, passed and repassed him without remark; so that, defeated and disappointed, he was obliged at last to retire, sorrowfully confessing to his own heart how little success had attended his bold enterprise. As he passed along the galleries and descended the stairs, he made various little efforts to open a conversation with some one or other of the servants; but these dignified officials responded to his questions in the dryest and shortest manner; and it was only as he reached the great gate of the palace that he chanced upon one courteous enough to hear him to the end in his oft-repeated question of “Who was th-th-that with the large st-st-star on his breast, and a wh-wh-white beard?” The porter stared at the speaker, and said respectfully, “The signor probably means the Archduke?” “Not the Archduke Fr-Fr-Fr--” “Yes, sir,” said the man; and closed the heavy door after him, leaving Purvis in a state of astonishment, and as much shame as his nature permitted him to feel. Neither upon himself nor his sensations have we any intention to dwell; and leaving him to pursue his way homeward, we beg to return once more within those walls from which he had just taken his departure. If Lady Hester's grand company had gone, the business of the evening was by no means over; on the contrary, it was the hour of her night receptions, and now the accustomed guests of those favored precincts came dropping in from theatres, and operas, and late dinners. These men of pleasure looked jaded and tired, as usual; and, except the little tinkling sounds of Jekyl's small treble, no other voice sounded as they walked along the corridors. [Illustration: 426] When they entered Lady Hester's boudoir, they found that lady recounting to Midchekoff the whole circumstances of the morning's adventure, a recital which she continued without other interruption than a smile or a nod, or a little gesture of the hand to each of the new arrivals as he came in. If the lady's manner was devoid of all ceremony, that of the gentlemen was less ceremonious still; for they stretched themselves on divans, rested their legs upon chairs, and stood back to the fire, with a degree of careless ease that bespoke them thoroughly at home, Jekyl, perhaps, the only one present who mingled with this freedom a certain courteous respect that no familiarity made him ever forget. “And they are still here?” asked the Prince. “Actually in the house at this moment?” “At this very moment!” responded she, emphatically. “The whole thing passes belief,” exclaimed he. And now the listless loungers drew their chairs closer to hear the story, and laugh, as men do, who are seldom moved to mirth save when ridicule or malice are the provocatives. “But you haven't heard the worst yet,” said Midchekoff. “Pray tell them of your visitor of this evening.” And Lady Hester narrated the appearance of Mr. Purvis, who, having secured his entrance by a visit to his sister, had so unceremoniously presented himself in the drawing-room. “Heaven knows what he said to his Royal Highness when I was away. To judge from his face, it must have been something atrocious; and the last thing he said on leaving was, 'I must try and not forget your agreeable friend's name.'” “You might as well have invited me as have had your 'friend' Purvis, after all,” said a young Italian noble, whose political opinions found no favor at court. “But what do you mean to do, my Lady?” asked Midchekoff. “Is the enemy to hold undisputed possession of the fortress?” “It is precisely on that point I want advice. Prince.” “What if we form ourselves into a council of state?” said an Austrian general. “By all means,” said the others, who now formed a semicircle in front of Lady Hester's sofa. “The youngest officer always speaks first,” said the Austrian. “Then that duty is mine,” said a little man of about eighty-two or three, and who had represented France at half the courts of Europe. “I should advise a protocol in the form of a protest. It is a palpable invasion of territory, but, followed by an ample apology and a speedy evacuation, may be forgiven. There are historical warrants for such transgressions being accepted as acts almost of compulsion.” “The case of Anspach, for instance,” said the Austrian, with a malicious smile. “Precisely, General, precisely a case in point,” rejoined the old diplomate, with a bow and a smile that almost seemed grateful. “The shortest road to victory is ever the best.” “Let's try a fever, or a fire. By Jove! the sacrifice of a few chairs and window-curtains would be a cheap alternative,” said George Onslow. “Why not essay a compromise, my Lady?” interposed a young German secretary of legation; “a mixed garrison, like that of Rastadt?” “Lady Hester's troops to mount guard alternately with the Rickettses'. Downright treason, base treason!” exclaimed another. “What would you think of a special mission, my Lady?” simpered Jekyl. “It would at least serve to enlighten us as to the views of the enemy. The discussion of the past often throws much light on the future.” “Jekyl wants to earn a decoration,” said another, laughing. “He intends to be the envoy himself.” “I'll wager that I know Midchekoff's policy,” said a young Sicilian, who always spoke with a frank fearlessness that is most rare with other Italians. “Well, let us hear it,” said the Prince, gravely. “You would counsel the national expedient of retiring before the enemy, and making the country too cold to hold them?” “How absurd!” said Lady Hester, half angrily; “give up one's house to a set of people who have had the impertinence to intrude themselves unasked?” “And yet Giasconi is right,” said the Prince. “It is the best suggestion we have heard yet. Hostilities imply, to a certain extent, equality; negotiation is an acknowledgment of acquaintanceship; a dignified retreat, however, avoids either difficulty.” “In that case, let 's starve them out,” said George. “Suffer no supplies to be thrown into the place, and exact the most humble terms of submission.” “Then, where to go? that 's another question,” said Lady Hester. “His Eminence expects to see you in Rome,” whispered the Abbe, who had waited for an opportunity for the suggestion. “I believe he relies on a promise.” “Very true; but not just yet. Besides, the season is almost over,” said Lady Hester, with a slight degree of confusion. “Don't be frightened, Abbe,” whispered Jekyl in D'Esmonde's ear. “Her Ladyship is assuredly 'going to Rome' later on.” The priest smiled, with an expression that told how fully he comprehended the phrase. “There 's a little villa of mine, on the Lake of Como, very much at your service,” said Midchekoff, with the easy indifference of one suggesting something perfectly indifferent to him. “Do you mean La Rocca, Prince?” added the Sicilian. “Yes. They tell me it is prettily situated, but I 've never seen it. The Empress passed a few weeks there last year, and liked it,” said Midchekoff, languidly. “Really, Prince, if I don't know how to accept, I am still more at a loss for power to refuse your offer.” “When will you go?” said he, dryly, and taking out his memorandum-book to write. “What says Mr. Jekyl?” said Lady Hester, turning to that bland personage, who, without apparently attending to what went forward, had heard every syllable of it. “This is Tuesday,” said Jekyl. “There 's not much to be done; the villa wants for nothing: I know it perfectly.” “Ah, it's comfortable, then?” said the Prince, with a slight degree of animation. “La Rocca is all that Contarete's taste could make it,” replied Jekyl. “Poor Contarete! he was an excellent maitre d'hotel,” said Midchekoff. “He's still with me, somewhere; I rather believe in Tartary, just now.” “Your Ladyship may leave this on Thursday,” said Jekyl, who well knew that he was paying the most flattering compliment to Midchekoff in naming the shortest possible time for preparation. “Will this be inconvenient, Prince?” asked Lady Hester. “No; not in the least. If Jekyl will precede you by a couple of hours, I trust all will be ready.” “With your permission, then, we will say Thursday,” said she, who, with her habitual delight in novelty, was already wild with pleasure at the whole scheme. “Perhaps I'll come and visit you,” said Midchekoff. “I shall have to go to Vienna soon.” Lady Hester bowed and smiled her acknowledgments for this not over-gracious speech. “May we follow you, too, Lady Hester?” asked the Sicilian. “We expect that much from your loyalty, gentlemen. Our exile will test your fidelity.” “There 's something or other inconvenient about the stables,” said Midchekoff, “but I forget what it is; they are up a mountain, or down in a valley. I don't remember it, but the Emperor said it was wrong, and should be changed.” “They are on the opposite side of the lake, Prince,” interposed Jekyl, “and you must cross over to your carriage by boat.” “Oh, delightful, quite delightful!” exclaimed Lady Hester, with childish joy, at the novelty. “La Rocca is on a little promontory,” said Jekyl, “only approachable from the water, for the mountain is quite inaccessible.” “You shall have a road made, if you wish it,” said the Prince, languidly. “On no account. I would n't for the world destroy the isolation of the spot.” “Do you happen to remember, Mr. Jekyl, if there be any pictures there?” “There are some perfect gems, by Greuze.” “Oh! that's where they are, is it? I could never call to mind where they were left.” The conversation now became general, in discussing Lady Hester's change of abode, the life they should all lead when on the lake, and the innumerable stories that would be circulated to account for her sudden departure. This same mystery was not the least agreeable feature of the whole, and Lady Hester never wearied in talking of all the speculations her new step was certain to originate; and although some of the company regretted the approaching closure of a house which formed the resource of every evening, others were not sorry at the prospect of anything which offered a change to the monotony of their lives. “You'll come to breakfast to-morrow, Mr. Jekyl,” said Lady Hester, as he followed the departing guests. “I shall want you the whole day.” He bowed with his hand to his heart, and never did features of like mould evince a deeper aspect of devotion.	{ "id": "32061" }
34	JEKYL'S COUNSELS	ONE of the most striking characteristics of our present age is the singular mixture of frivolity and seriousness, the almost absurd contrast between grave inquiry and reckless dissipation, which pervades the well-to-do classes. Never was there a period when merely sensual gratification was more highly prized and paid for; and never, perhaps, a time when every rank in life was more eager in the pursuit of knowledge. To produce this state of things a certain compromise was necessary; and while the mere man of pleasure affected a taste for literature and politics, the really active-minded either sought his relaxation, or extended his influence, by mingling in scenes of frivolity and amusement. The age which made dandies philosophers made lord chancellors droll, and bishops eccentric. A paradoxical spirit was abroad, and it seemed to be a matter of pride with every one to do something out of his station. The whole temper of society and the tone of conversation exhibited this new taste. Lady Hester Onslow was not a bad specimen of the prevailing mania. There was by nature a certain fidgety, capricious volatility about her that defied everything like a regular pursuit or a continued purpose. With a reasonably quick apprehension and no judgment, in being everything, she became nothing. Always mistaking sympathies for convictions, it was quite sufficient to interest her imagination to secure her adhesion, not, indeed, that it was worth much when obtained, seeing that she was but a feeble ally at the best. Her employment of the day was a type of herself. The mornings were passed in mesmeric experiences with her doctor, or what she fancied were theological discussions with the Abbe D'Esmonde. It would be difficult to say in which the imaginative exaltation more predominated. All the authentic and incredible phenomena of the one, all the miraculous pretensions of the other, were too little for a credulity that stopped at nothing. Of second sight, remote sympathy, and saintly miracles she never could hear enough. “Give me facts,” she would say; by which she meant narratives. “I will have no theories, doctor.” “Don't bear me down with arguments, Monsieur l'Abbe.” “Facts, and facts alone, have any influence with me.” Now, such facts as she asked for were easily obtainable, and the greatest miser need not have grudged her an ample meal of them. Many of the facts, too, possessed the pleasing feature of being personal in their interest. One day it was a charming young patient of the doctor, who, having touched a tress of Lady Hester's hair, made the most astonishing revelations of her Ladyship's disposition; telling facts of her feelings, her nature, and even her affections, that “she knew were only confided to her own heart.” Various little incidents of her daily life were foretold, even to such minute matters as the purchase of articles of jewelry, which she had not even seen at the time, and only met her eyes by accident afterwards. The Abbe, with equal success, assured her of the intense interest taken in her by the Church. Beautifully bound and richly illustrated books were offered to her, with the flattering addition that prayers were then being uttered at many a shrine for her enlightenment in their perusal. Less asked to conform herself to a new belief than to reconcile the faith to her own notions, she was given the very widest latitude to her opinions. If she grew impatient at argument, a subtle illustration, an apt metaphor, or sometimes a happy mot settled the question. The Abbe was a clever talker, and varied his subjects with all the skill of a master. He knew how to invoke to his aid all that poetry, art, and romance could contribute. The theme was a grand one when the imagination was to be interested, and really deserved a better listener; for save when the miraculous interposition of saints or the gaudy ceremonials of the Church were spoken of, she heard the subject with indifference, if not apathy. The consideration of self could, however, always bring her back; and it was ever a successful flattery to assure her how fervently such a cardinal prayed for her “right-mindedness,” and how eagerly even his Holiness looked forward to the moment of counting her among his children. Her very tastes those same tastes that ascetic Protestantism was always cavilling at were beautifully Roman. The Church liked display. Witness her magnificence and splendor, her glorious cathedrals, the pomp and grandeur of her ceremonial! As to music, the choir of the “Duomo” was seraphic, and needed not the association of the dim vaulted aisles, the distant altar, and the checkered rays of stained-glass windows to wrap the soul in a fervor of enthusiasm. Even beauty was cherished by the Church, and the fair Madonnas were types of an admiring love that was beautifully catholic in its worship. With all this, the work of conversion was a Penelope's web, that must each day be begun anew, for, as the hour of the Cascini drew nigh, Lady Hester's carriage drew up, and mesmerism, miracles, and all gave way to the fresher interests of courtly loungers, chit-chat, and “bouquets of camellias.” For the next hour or so, her mind was occupied with the gossiping stories of Florentine life, its surface details all recounted by the simpering dandies who gathered around her carriage; its deeper not unfrequently darker histories being the province of Mr. Albert Jekyl. Then home to luncheon, for, as Haggerstone related, she dined always after the Opera, and it was then, somewhere verging on midnight, that she really began to live. Then, in all the blaze of dress and jewels, with beauty little impaired by years, and a manner the perfection of that peculiar school to which she attached herself, she was indeed a most attractive person. Kate Dalton's life was, of course, precisely the same. Except the few hours given to controversial topics, and which she passed in reading, and the occasional change from driving to riding in the Cascini, Kate's day was exactly that of her friend. Not, however, with the same results; for while one was wearied with the same routine of unvarying pleasure, tired of the monotonous circle of amusement, the other became each day more and more enamored of a life so unchanging in its happiness. What was uniformity to Lady Hester, imparted a sense of security to Kate. It was not alone the splendor that surrounded her, the thousand objects of taste and elegance that seemed to multiply around them, that captivated her so much, it was the absence of all care, the freedom from every thought that this state was a mere passing one. This Kate felt to be the very highest of enjoyments, and when at night she whispered to herself, “To-morrow will be like to-day,” she had said everything that could brighten anticipation. Her father's letter was the first shock to this delightful illusion. Her own false position of splendor, in contrast to his poverty, now came up palpably before her, and in place of those blissful reveries in which she often passed hours, there rose to her mind the bitter self-accusings of a penitent spirit. She never slept through the night; the greater part of it she spent in tears. Her absence from home, brief as it was, was quite enough to make her forget much of its daily life. She could, it is true, recall the penury and the privation, but not the feelings that grew out of them. “How changed must he have become to stoop to this!” was the exclamation that she uttered again and again. “Where was all that Dalton pride they used to boast of? What become of that family dignity which once was their bulwark against every blow of Fortune?” To these thoughts succeeded the sadder one, of what course remained for her to adopt? a difficulty the greater since she but half understood what was required of her. He spoke of a bill, and yet the letter contained none: before she broke the seal, it felt as though there was an enclosure, yet she found none; and if there were, of what use would it be? It was perfectly impossible that she could approach Sir Stafford with such a request; every sense of shame, delicacy, and self-respect revolted at the very thought. Still less could she apply to Lady Hester, whose extravagant and wasteful habits always placed her in want of money; and yet to refuse her father on grounds which he would deem purely selfish was equally out of the question. She well knew that in a moment of anger and impatience stung by what he would call the ingratitude of his children he would probably himself write to Sir Stafford, narrating every circumstance that drove him to the step. Oh, that she had never left him, never ceased to live the life of want and hardship to which time had accustomed her! all the poverty she had ever known brought no such humiliation as this! Poor Nelly's lot now was a hundredfold superior to hers. She saw, too, that reserve once broken on such a theme, her father would not scruple to renew the application as often as he needed money. It was clear enough that he saw no embarrassment, nor any difficulty for her in the matter; that it neither could offend her feelings nor compromise her position. Could she descend to an evasive or equivocal reply, his temper would as certainly boil over, and an insulting letter would at once be addressed to Sir Stafford. Were she to make the request and fail, he would order her home, and under what circumstances should she leave the house of her benefactors! And yet all this was better than success. In such harassing reflections warring and jarring in her mind, the long hours of the night were passed. She wept, too: the bitterest tears are those that are wrung from shame and sorrow mingled. Many a generous resolve, many a thought of self-devotion and sacrifice rose to her mind; at moments she would have submitted herself to any wound to self-esteem to have obtained her father's kind word, and at others all the indignity of a false position overwhelmed her, and she cried as if her very heart were bursting. Wearied and fevered, she arose and went into the garden. It was one of the brilliant mornings which for a week or ten days in Italy represent the whole season of spring. Although still early, the sun was hot, and the flowers and shrubs, refreshed by the heavy dew, were bursting out into renewed luxuriance in the warm glow. The fountains sparkled, and the birds were singing, and all seemed animated by that joyous spirit which seems the very breath of early morning, all save poor Kate, who, with bent-down head and slow step, loitered along the walks, lost in her gloomiest thoughts. To return home again was the only issue she could see to her difficulties, to share the humble fortunes of her father and sister, away from a world in which she had no pretension to live! And this, too, just when that same world had cast its fascinations round her, just when its blandishments had gained possession of her heart, and made her feel that all without its pale was ignoble and unworthy. No other course seemed, however, to offer itself, and she had just determined on its adoption, when the short, quick step of some one following her made her turn her head. As she did so, her name was pronounced, and Mr. Albert Jekyl, with his hat courteously removed, advanced towards her. “I see with what care Miss Dalton protects the roses of her cheeks,” said he, smiling; “and yet how few there are that know this simple secret.” “You give me a credit I have no claim to, Mr. Jekyl. I have almost forgotten the sight of a rising sun, but this morning I did not feel quite well a headache a sleepless night--” “Perhaps caused by anxiety,” interposed he, quietly. “I wish I had discovered your loss in time, but I only detected that it must be yours when I reached home.” “I don't comprehend you,” said she, with some hesitation. “Is not this yours, Miss Dalton?” said he, producing the bill, which had fallen unseen from her father's letter. “I found it on the floor of the small boudoir, and not paying much attention to it at the time, did not perceive the signature, which would at once have betrayed the ownership.” “It must have dropped from a letter I was reading,” said Kate, whose cheek was now scarlet, for she knew Jekyl well enough to be certain that her whole secret was by that time in his hands. Slighter materials than this would have sufficed for his intelligence to construct a theory upon. Nothing in his manner, however, evinced this knowledge, for he handed her the paper with an air of most impassive quietude; while, as if to turn her thoughts from any unpleasantness of the incident, he said, “You haven't yet heard, I suppose, of Lady Hester's sudden resolve to quit Florence?” “Leave Florence! and for where?” asked she, hurriedly. “For Midchekoff's villa at Como. We discussed it all last night after you left, and in twenty-four hours we are to be on the road.” “What is the reason of this hurried departure?” “The Ricketts invasion gives the pretext; but of course you know better than I do what a share the novelty of the scheme lends to its attractions.” “And we are to leave this to-morrow?” said Kate, rather to herself than for her companion. Jekyl marked well the tone and the expression of the speaker, but said not a word. Kate stood for a few seconds lost in thought. Her difficulties were thickening around her, and not a gleam of light shone through the gloomy future before her. At last, as it were overpowered by the torturing anxieties of her situation, she covered her face with her hands to hide the tears that would gush forth in spite of her. “Miss Dalton will forgive me,” said Jekyl, speaking in a low and most respectful voice, “if I step for once from the humble path I have tracked for myself in life, and offer my poor services as her adviser.” Nothing could be more deferential than the speech, or the way in which it was uttered, and yet Kate heard it with a sense of pain. She felt that her personal independence was already in peril, and that the meek and bashful Mr. Jekyl had gained a mastery over her. He saw all this, he read each struggle of her mind, and, were retreat practicable, he would have retreated; but, the step once taken, the only course was “forwards.” “Miss Dalton may reject my counsels, but she will not despise the devotion in which they are proffered. A mere accident” here he glanced at the paper which she still held in her fingers “a mere accident has shown me that you have a difficulty; one for which neither your habits nor knowledge of life can suggest the solution.” He paused, and a very slight nod from Kate emboldened him to proceed. “Were it not so, Miss Dalton were the case one for which your own exquisite tact could suffice, I never would have ventured on the liberty. I, who have watched you with wondering admiration, directing and guiding your course amid shoals and reefs and quicksands, where the most skilful might have found shipwreck, it would have been hardihood indeed for me to have offered my pilotage. But here, if I err not greatly, here is a new and unknown sea, and here I may be of service to you.” “Is it so plain, then, what all this means?” said Kate, holding out the bill towards Jekyl. “Alas! Miss Dalton,” said he, with a faint smile, “these are no enigmas to us who mix in all the worries and cares of life.” “Then how do you read the riddle?” said she, almost laughing at the easy flippancy of his tone. “Mr. Dalton being an Irish gentleman of a kind disposition and facile temper, suffers his tenantry to run most grievously into arrear. They won't pay, and he won't make them; his own creditors having no sympathy with such proceedings, become pressing and importunate. Mr. Dalton grows angry, and they grow irritable; he makes his agent write to them, they 'instruct' their attorney to write to him. Mr. D. is puzzled, and were it not that But, may I go on?” “Of course; proceed,” said she, smiling. “You'll not be offended, though?” said he, “because, if I have not the privilege of being frank, I shall be worthless to you.” “There is no serious offence without intention.” “Very true; but I do not wish there should be even a trivial transgression.” “I 'm not afraid. Go on,” said she, nodding her head. “Where was I, then? Oh! I remember. I said that Mr. Dalton, seeing difficulties thickening and troubles gathering, suddenly bethinks him that he has a daughter, a young lady of such attractions that, in a society where wealth and splendor and rank hold highest place, her beauty has already established a dominion which nothing, save her gentleness, prevents being a despotism.” “Mr. Jekyl mistakes the part of a friend when he becomes flatterer.” “There is no flattery in a plain unadorned truth,” said he, hastily. “And were it all as you say,” rejoined she, speaking with a heightened color and a flashing eye, “how could such circumstances be linked with those you spoke of?” “Easily enough, if I did but dare to tell it,” was his reply. “It is too late for reserve; go on freely,” said she, with a faint sigh. Jekyl resumed, “Mr. Dalton knows there are thousands could have told him so that his daughter may be a princess to-morrow if she wishes it. She has but to choose her rank and her nationality, and there is not a land in Europe in whose peerage she may not inscribe her name. It is too late for reserve,” said he, quickly, “and consequently too late for resentment. You must not be angry with me now; I am but speaking in your presence what all the world says behind your back. Hearing this, and believing it, as all believe it, what is there more natural than that he should address himself to her at whose disposal lie all that wealth can compass? The sun bestows many a gleam of warmth and brightness before he reaches the zenith. Do not mistake me. This request was scarcely fair; it was ill-advised. Your freedom should never have been jeopardized for such a mere trifle. Had your father but seen with his own eyes your position here, he would never have done this; but, being done, there is no harm in it.” “But what am I to do?” said Kate, trembling with embarrassment and vexation together. “Send the money, of course,” said he, coolly. “But how from what source?” “Your own benevolence, none other,” said he, as calmly. “There is no question of a favor, no stooping to an obligation necessary. You will simply give your promise to repay it at some future day, not specifying when; and I will find a banker but too happy to treat with you.” “But what prospect have I of such ability to pay? what resources can I reckon upon?” “You will be angry if I repeat myself,” said Jekyl, with deep humility. “I am already angry with myself that I should have listened to your proposal so indulgently; my troubles must, indeed, have affected me deeply when I so far forgot myself.” Jekyl dropped his head forward on his breast, and looked a picture of sorrow; after a while he said, “Sir Stafford Onslow would, I well know, but be honored by your asking him the slight favor; but I could not counsel you to do so. Your feelings would have to pay too severe a sacrifice, and hence I advise making it a mere business matter; depositing some ornament a necklace you were tired of, a bracelet, anything in fact, a nothing and thus there is neither a difficulty nor a disclosure.” “I have scarcely anything,” said Kate; “and what I have, have been all presents from Lady Hester.” “Morlache would be quite content with your word,” said Jekyl, blandly. “And if I should be unable to acquit the debt, will these few things I possess be sufficient to do it?” “I should say double the amount, as a mere guess.” “Can I dare I take your counsel?” cried she, in an accent of intense anxiety. “Can you reject it, when refusal will be so bitter?” Kate gave a slight shudder, as though that pang was greater than all the rest. “There is fortunately no difficulty in the matter whatever,” said Jekyl, speaking rapidly. “You will, of course, have many things to purchase before you leave this. Well; take the carriage and your maid, and drive to the Ponte Vecchio. The last shop on the right-hand side of the bridge is 'Morlache's.' It is unpromising enough outside, but there is wealth within to subsidize a kingdom. I will be in waiting to receive you, and in a few minutes the whole will be concluded; and if you have your letter ready, you can enclose the sum, and post it at once.” If there were many things in this arrangement which shocked Kate, and revolted against her sense of delicacy and propriety, there was one counterpoise more than enough to outweigh them all: she should be enabled to serve her father, she, who alone of all his children had never contributed, save by affection, to his comfort, should now materially assist him. She knew too well the sufferings and anxieties his straitened fortune cost him, she witnessed but too often the half-desperation in which he would pass days, borne down and almost broken-hearted! and she had witnessed that outbreak of joy he would indulge in when an unexpected help had suddenly lifted him from the depth of his poverty. To be the messenger of such good tidings to be associated in his mind with this assistance, to win his fervent “God bless you!” she would have put life itself in peril; and when Jekyl placed so palpably before her the promptitude with which the act could be accomplished, all hesitation ceased, and she promised to be punctual at the appointed place by three o'clock that same afternoon. “It is too early to expect to see Lady Hester,” said Jekyl; “and indeed, my real business here this morning was with yourself, so that now I shall drive out to Midchekoff's and make all the arrangements about the villa. Till three, then, good-bye!” “Good-bye,” said Kate, for the first time disposed to feel warmly to the little man, and half reproach herself with some of the prejudices she used to entertain regarding him. Jekyl now took his way to the stables, and ordering a brougham to be got ready for him, sauntered into the house, and took his coffee while he waited.	{ "id": "32061" }
35	RACCA MORLACHE.	There is something of mediaeval look and air about the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, which gives it a peculiar interest to the traveller. The quaint little low shops on either side, all glittering with gold and gems; the gorgeous tiaras of diamonds; the richly enamelled cups and vases aside of the grotesque ornaments of peasant costume; the cumbrous ear-rings of stamped gold; the old-fashioned clasps and buckles of massive make; the chains fashioned after long-forgotten models; the strings of Oriental pearls, costly and rare enough for queens to wear, are all thrown about in a rich profusion, curiously in contrast to the humble sheds for they are little more that hold them. The incessant roll of equipages,--the crowd and movement of a great city; the lingering peasant, gazing with rapturous eyes at the glittering wares; the dark Israelitish face that peers from within; the ever-flowing tide of population of every rank and age and country, giving a bustle and animation to the scene, so beautifully relieved by the view that opens on the centre of the bridge, and where, in a vacant space, the Arno is seen wending peacefully along, and scattering its circling eddies beneath the graceful arches of the “Santa Trinita,” that little glimpse of hill and vineyard and river, the cypress-clad heights of San Miniato, and the distant mountain of Vallombrosa, more beautiful far than all the gold Pactolus ever rolled, or all the gems that ever glittered on crown or coronet. There was one stall at the end of the bridge so humble-looking and so scantily provided that no stranger was seen to linger beside it. A few coral ornaments for peasant wear, some stamped medals for pious use, and some of those little silver tokens hung up by some devout hands as votive offerings at a holy shrine, were all that appeared; while, as if to confirm the impression of the scanty traffic that went on, the massive door was barred and bolted like the portal of a prison. An almost erased inscription, unrenewed for nigh half a century, told that this was the shop of “Racca Morlache.” There may have been much of exaggeration in the stories that went of the Jew's enormous wealth; doubtless many of the accounts were purely fabulous; but one fact is certain, that from that lowly roof went forth sums sufficient to maintain the credit of many a tottering state, or support the cost of warlike struggles to replace a dynasty. To him came the heads of despotic governments, the leaders of rebellious democracy, the Russian and the Circassian, the Carlist and the Cristino. To the proud champion of divine right, or the fearless promulgator of equality, to all he was accessible. Solvency and his profit were requirements he could not dispense with; but, for the rest, in what channel of future good and evil his wealth was to flow, whether to maintain a throne or sap its foundation, to uphold a faith or to desecrate its altars, to liberate a people or to bind their fetters more closely, were cares that sat lightly on his heart. He might, with his vast means, have supported a style like royalty itself. There was no splendor nor magnificence he need have denied himself; nor, as the world goes, any society from which he should be debarred, gold is the picklock to the doors of palaces as of prisons; but he preferred this small and miserable habitation, which for above two centuries had never borne any other name than the “Casa Morlache.” Various reasons were given out for a choice so singular; among others, it was said that the Grand-Duke was accustomed to visit the Jew by means of a secret passage from the “Pitti;” while some alleged that the secret frequenters of Morlache's abode all came by water, and that in the dark night many a boat skimmed the Arno, and directed its course to the last arch of the Ponte Vecchio. With these rumors we have no concern, nor with Morlache himself have we more than a passing business. When Kate Dalton had driven up to the door, she had all but determined to abandon her intention. The arguments which in the morning had taken her by surprise seemed now weak and futile, and she was shocked with herself for even the momentary yielding to Jekyl's counsels. Her only doubt was whether to drive on without further halt, or leave some short message, to the effect that she had called but could not delay there. This seemed the better and more courteous proceeding; and while she was yet speaking to the dark-eyed, hook-nosed boy who appeared at the door, Jekyl came up. “Be quick, Miss Dalton! Don't lose an instant,” said he. “Morlache is going to the palace, and we shall miss him.” “But I have changed my mind. I have resolved not to accept this assistance. It is better far better that I should not.” “It is too late to think of that now,” said he, interrupting, and speaking with some slight degree of irritation. “How too late? What do you mean?” “That I have already told Morlache the whole story, and obtained his promise for the loan.” “Oh, sir! why have you done this?” cried she, in a voice of anguish. “I had your free permission for it, Miss Dalton. When we parted this morning, the matter was fully agreed on between us; but still, if you desire to retract, your secret is in safe keeping. Morlache never betrays a confidence.” “And he has heard my name!” cried she, in a broken, sobbing tone. “Not for the first time, be assured. Even Croesus looked up from his ingots to ask if it were 'la belle Dalton;' and when I said 'Yes,' 'That's enough,' replied he; 'would that all my moneys had so safe investment!' But stay; there is Purvis yonder. He is pretending to examine an eye-glass in that shop opposite, but I see well that he is there only en vedette.” “What shall I do?” exclaimed the poor girl, now torn by impulses and emotions the most opposite. “One thing you must do at once,” said Jekyl; “get out of the carriage and visit two or three of the shops, as if in quest of some article of jewelry. His anxiety to learn the precise object of your search will soon draw him from his 'lair.'” The decision of this counsel, almost like a command, so far imposed upon Kate that she at once descended, and took Jekyl's arm along the bridge. They had not gone many yards when the short, little, shuffling step of Purvis was heard behind them. Lingering to gaze at some of the splendid objects exposed for sale, they at last reached a very splendid stall, where diamonds, pearls, and rubies lay in heaps of gorgeous profusion. And now Purvis had stationed himself exactly behind them, with his head most artistically adjusted to hear everything that passed between them. Jekyl seemed to feel his presence as if by an instinct, and without even turning his eye from the glass case, said, in a voice of some disparagement, “All modern settings! very lustrous very brilliant, but not at all what we are looking for.” Kate made no reply; for, while she had scruples about abetting a mere scheme, she was not the less eager to be free of the presence of the “Great Inquisitor.” “That, perhaps,” said Jekyl, pointing to a magnificent cross of brilliants, “would not go ill with the necklace, although the stones are smaller. Say something, anything,” added he, in a lower tone; “the spell is working.” “That is very handsome,” said Kate, pointing at a venture to an object before her. “So it is,” said Jekyl, quickly. “Let us see what value they place upon it. Oh, here is Mr. Purvis; how fortunate! Perhaps in all Florence there is not one so conversant with all that concerns taste and elegance, and, as an old resident, happily exempt from all the arts and wiles played off upon our countrymen.” “How d'ye do d'ye do?” cried Purvis, shaking hands with both. “You heard of the bl-bl-blunder I made last night about the Ar-Archduke?” “Not a word of it,” replied Jekyl. “I told him he was a-a-a fool,” cried Purvis, with a scream and a cackle that very constantly followed any confession of an impertinence. “Meno male!” exclaimed Jekyl. “Even princes ought to hear truth sometimes; but you can help us here. Mr. Purvis, do you see that chatelaine yonder, with a large emerald pendant; could you ascertain the price of it for Miss Dalton? They'll not attempt to be extortionate upon you, which they would, assuredly, if she entered the shop.” “To be sure; I'll do it with pl-pleasure. Who is it for?” “That 's a secret, Mr. Purvis; but you shall hear it afterwards.” “I guess al-ready,” said Scroope, with a cunning leer. “You 're going to be m-m-m-married, ain't you?” “Mr. Purvis, Mr. Purvis, I must call you to order,” said Jekyl, who saw that very little more would make the scene unendurable to Kate. “I hope it 's not an It-It-Italian fellow; for they 're all as poor as Laza-Laza-Laza--” “Yes, yes, of course; we know that. Your discretion is invaluable,” said Jekyl; “but pray step in, and ask this question for us.” “I'll tell who'll do better,” said Purvis, who, once full of a theme, never paid any attention to what was said by others. “Midche-Midche-Midche-k-k-off; he owns half of--” “Never mind what he owns, but remember that Miss Dalton is waiting all this time,” said Jekyl, who very rarely so far lost command of his temper; and at last Purvis yielded, and entered the shop. “Come now,” said Jekyl to his companion; “it will take him full five minutes to say 'chatelaine,' and before that we shall be safely housed.” And with these words he hurried her along, laughing, in spite of all her anxieties, at the absurdity of the adventure. “He 'll see the carriage when he comes out,” added he, “and so I 'll tell the coachman to drive slowly on towards the Pitti.” And thus, without asking her consent, he assumed the full guidance at once; and, ere she well knew how or why, she found herself within the dark and dusty precincts of Morlache's shop. Jekyl never gave Kate much time for hesitation, but hurried her along through a narrow passage, from which a winding flight of stone steps led downwards to a considerable distance, and at last opened upon a neat little chamber on the level of the Arno, the window opening on the stream, and only separated from it by a little terrace, covered with geraniums in full flower. There was a strange undulating motion that seemed communicated from the stream to the apartment, which Jekyl at once explained to his companion as a contrivance for elevating and depressing the chamber with the changes in the current of the river; otherwise the room must have been under water for a considerable portion of the year. While he descanted on the ingenuity of the mechanism, and pointed attention to the portraits along the walls, the Kings and Kaisers with whom Morlache had held moneyed relations, the minutes slipped on, and Jekyl' s powers as a talker were called upon to speak against time, the figety nervousness of his manner, and the frequent glances he bestowed at the timepiece, showing how impatiently he longed for the Jew's arrival. To all Kate's scruples he opposed some plausible pretext, assuring her that, if she desired it, no mention should be made of the loan; that the visit might be as one of mere curiosity, to see some of those wonderful gems which had once graced the crowns of royalty; and that, in any case, the brief delay would disembarrass them on the score of Purvis, whose spirit of inquiry would have called him off in some other direction. At last, when now upwards of half an hour had elapsed, and no sound nor sight bore token of the Jew's coming, Jekyl resolved to go in search of him; and requesting Kate to wait patiently for a few minutes, he left the room. At first, when she found herself alone, every noise startled and terrified her; the minutes, as she watched the clock, seemed drawn out to hours. She listened with an aching anxiety for Jekyl's return, while, with a sorrowing heart, she reproached herself for ever having come there. To this state of almost feverish excitement succeeded a low and melancholy depression, in which the time passed without her consciousness; the half-dulled sounds of the city, the monotonous plash of the stream as it flowed past, the distant cries of the boatmen as they guided their swift barks down the strong current, aiding and increasing a feeling that was almost lethargic. Already the sun had sunk below the hills, and the tall palaces were throwing their giant shadows across the river, the presage of approaching night, and still she sat there all alone. Jekyl had never returned, nor had any one descended the stairs since his departure. Twice had she shaken off the dreamy stupor that was over her, and tried to find the door of the chamber, but, concealed in the wainscoting, it defied her efforts; and now, worn out with anxiety and disappointed, she sat down beside the window, gazing listlessly at the water, and wondering when and how her captivity was to end. The lamps were now being lighted on the quays, and long columns of light streaked the dark river. Across these a black object was seen to glide, and as it passed, Kate could perceive it was a boat that advanced slowly against the current, and headed up the stream. As she watched, it came nearer and nearer; and now she could hear distinctly the sound of voices talking in French. What, however, was her surprise when, instead of making for the centre arches of the bridge, the boat was vigorously impelled across the river, and its course directed towards the very place where she sat? However painful her situation before, now it became downright agony. It was clear there were persons coming; in another moment she would be discovered, unable to explain by what course of events she had come there, and thus exposed to every surmise and suspicion that chance or calumny might originate. In that brief but terrible moment what self-accusings, what reproaches of Jekyl crossed her mind; and yet all these were as nothing to the misery which coming events seemed full of. For a second or two she stood irresolute, and then with something like an instinct of escape, she stepped out upon the little terrace that supported the flowers, and, trembling with fear, took her stand beneath the shadow of one of the great buttresses of the bridge. The frail and half-rotten timbers creaked and bent beneath her weight, and close under her feet rolled along the dark river, with a low and sullen sound like moaning. Meanwhile the boat came nearer, and slowly gliding along, was at last brought up at the window. Two figures passed into the chamber, and the boatmen, as if performing a long-accustomed task, rowed out a few lengths into the stream to wait. From the window, which still remained open, a stream of light now issued, and Kate's quick hearing could detect the rustling sound of papers on the table. “There they are,” said a voice, the first accents of which she knew to belong to the Abbe D'Esmonde. “There they are, Signor Morlache. We have no concealments nor reserve with you. Examine them for yourself. You will find reports from nearly every part of the kingdom; some more, some less favorable in their bearings, but all agreeing in the main fact, that the cause is a great one, and the success all but certain.” “I have told you before,” said the Jew, speaking in a thick, guttural utterance, “that my sympathies never lead me into expense. Every solvent cause is good, every bankrupt one the reverse, in my estimation.” “Even upon that ground I am ready to meet you. The committee--” “Ay, who are the committee?” interrupted the Jew, hastily. “The committee contains some of the first Catholic names of Ireland, men of landed fortune and great territorial influence, together with several of the higher clergy.” “The bishops?” “The bishops, almost to a man, are with us in heart; but their peculiar position requires the most careful and delicate conduct. No turn of fortune must implicate them, or our cause is lost forever.” “If your cause be all you say it is, if the nationality be so strong, and the energies so powerful as you describe, why not try the issue, as the Italians and the Hungarians are about to do?” said Morlache. “I can understand a loan for a defined and real object, the purchase of military stores and equipment, to provide arms and ammunition, and I can understand how the lender, too, could calculate his risk of profit or loss on the issue of the struggle; but here you want half a million sterling, and for what?” “To win a kingdom!” cried D'Esmonde, enthusiastically. “To bring back to the fold of the Church the long-lost sheep; and make Ireland, as she once was, the centre of holy zeal and piety!” “I am not a pope, nor a cardinal, not even a monsignore,” said Morlache, with a bitter laugh. “You must try other arguments with me; and once more I say, why not join that party who already are willing to risk their lives in the venture?” “Have I not told you what and who they are who form this party?” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “Read those papers before you. Study the secret reports sent from nearly every parish in the kingdom. In some you will find the sworn depositions of men on their death-beds, the last words their lips have uttered on earth, all concurring to show that Ireland has no hope save in the Church. The men who now stir up the land to revolt are not devoid of courage or capacity. They are bold, and they are able, but they are infidel. They would call upon their countrymen in the name of past associations, the wrongs of bygone centuries; they would move the heart by appeals, touching enough, Heaven knows, to the galling sores of serfdom, but they will not light one fire upon the altar; they will not carry the only banner that should float in the van of an Irish army. Their bold denouncings may warn some; their poetry will, perhaps, move others; but their prose and verse, like themselves, will be forgotten in a few years, and, save a few grassy mounds in a village churchyard, or a prisoner's plaint sent over the sea from a land of banishment, nothing will remain of Ireland's patriots.” “England is too powerful for such assailants,” said the Jew. “Very true; but remember that the stout three-decker that never struck to an enemy has crumbled to ruin beneath the dry rot,” said D'Esmonde, with a savage energy of manner. “Such is the case now. All is rot and corruption within her; pauperism at home, rebellion abroad. The nobles, more tolerant as the commonalty grows more ambitious; resources diminishing as taxation increases; disaffection everywhere, in the towns where they read, in the rural districts where they brood over their poverty; and lastly, but greatest of all, schism in the Church, a mutiny in that disorderly mass that was never yet disciplined to obedience. Are these the evidences of strength, or are they sure signs of coming ruin? Mark me,” said he, hurriedly, “I do not mean from all this that such puny revolt as we are now to see can shake powers like that of England. These men will have the same fate as Tone and Emmet, without the sympathy that followed them. They will fail, and fail egregiously; but it is exactly upon this failure that our hopes of success are based. Not a priest will join them. On the contrary, their scheme will be denounced from our altars; our flocks warned to stand aloof from their evil influence. Our bishops will be in close communication with the heads of the Government; all the little coquetries of confidence and frankness will be played off; and our loyalty, that's the phrase, our loyalty stand high in public esteem. The very jeers and insults of our enemies will give fresh lustre to our bright example, and our calm and dignified demeanor form the contrast to that rampant intolerance that assails us.” “But for all this classic dignity,” said Morlache, sneeringly, “you need no money; such nobility of soul is, after all, the cheapest of luxuries.” “You are mistaken, mistaken egregiously,” broke in D'Esmonde. “It is precisely at that moment that we shall require a strong friend behind us. The 'Press' is all-powerful in England. If it does not actually guide, it is the embodiment of public opinion, without which men would never clothe their sentiments in fitting phrase, or invest them with those short and pithy apothegms that form the watchwords of party. Happily, if it be great, it is venal; and although the price be a princely ransom, the bargain is worth the money. Fifty or a hundred thousand pounds, at that nick, would gain our cause. We shall need many advocates; some, in assumed self-gratulation over their own prescience, in supporting our claims in time past, and reiterating the worn assertion of our attachment to the throne and the constitution; others, to contrast our bearing with the obtrusive loyalty of Orangeism; and others, again, going further than either, to proclaim that, but for us, Ireland would have been lost to England; and had not our allegiance stood in the breach, the cause of rebellion would have triumphed.” “And is this character for loyalty worth so much money?” said the Jew, slowly. “Not as a mere empty name, not as a vain boast,” replied D'Esmonde, quickly; “but if the tree be stunted, its fruits are above price. Our martyrdom will not go unrewarded. The moment of peril over, the season of concessions will begin. How I once hated the word! how I used to despise those who were satisfied with these crumbs from the table of the rich man, not knowing that the time would come when we should sit at the board ourselves. Concession! the vocabulary has no one word I 'd change for it; it is conquest, dominion, sovereignty, all together. By concession, we may be all we strive for, but never could wrest by force. Now, my good Signor Morlache, these slow and sententious English are a most impulsive people, and are often betrayed into the strangest excesses of forgiveness and forgetfulness; insomuch that I feel assured that nothing will be refused us, if we but play our game prudently.” “And what is the game?” said the Jew, with impatience; “for it seems to me that you are not about to strike for freedom, like the Hungarians or the Lombards. What, then, is the prize you strive for?” “The Catholicism of Ireland, and then of England, the subjugation of the haughtiest rebel to the Faith, the only one whose disaffection menaces our Holy Church; for the Lutheranism of the German is scarce worth the name of enemy. England once Catholic, the world is our own!” The enthusiasm of his manner, and the excited tones of his round, full voice seemed to check the Jew, whose cold, sarcastic features were turned towards the priest with an expression of wonderment. “Let us come back from all this speculation to matter of plain fact,” said Morlache, after a long pause. “What securities are offered for the repayment of this sum? for, although the theme be full of interest to you, to me it has but the character of a commercial enterprise.” “But it ought not,” said D'Esmonde, passionately. “The downfall of the tyranny of England is your cause as much as ours. What Genoa and Venice were in times past, they may become again. The supremacy of the seas once wrested from that haughty power, the long-slumbering energies of Southern Europe will awaken, the great trading communities of the Levant will resume their ancient place, and the rich argosies of the East once more will float over the waters of the tideless sea.” “Not in our time, Abbe, not in our time,” said the Jew, smiling. “But are we only to build for ourselves?” said D'Esmonde. “Was it thus your own great forefathers raised the glorious Temple?” The allusion called up but a cold sneer on the Israelite's dark countenance, and D'Esmonde knew better than to repeat a blow which showed itself to be powerless. A tap at the door here broke in upon the colloquy, and Jekyl's voice was heard on the outside. “Say you are engaged, that you cannot admit him,” whispered D'Esmonde. “I do not wish that he should see me here.” “A thousand pardons, Morlache,” said Jekyl, from without; “but when I followed you to the 'Pitti,' I left a young lady here, has she gone away, or is she still here?” “I never saw her,” said Morlache. “She must have left before I returned.” “Thanks, good-bye,” said Jekyl; and his quick foot was heard ascending the stairs again. “The night air grows chilly,” said the Abbe, as he arose and shut the window; and the boatmen, mistaking the sound for a summons to approach, pulled up to the spot. With a sudden spring Kate bounded into the boat, while yet some distance off, and hurriedly said, “To the stairs beside the Santa Trinita.” The clink of money, as she took out her purse, made the brief command intelligible, and they shot down the stream with speed. “Do not speak of me,” said she, covering her face with her kerchief as she stepped from the boat; and a gold Napoleon enforced the caution. It was now night, the lamps were all lighted, and the streets crowded by that bustling throng of population whose hours of business or pleasure commence when day has closed. A thin drizzling rain was falling, and the footway was wet and muddy. Dressed in the height of fashion, all her attire suited to a carriage, Kate set out to walk homeward, with a heart sinking from terror. Many a time in her condition of poverty, with patched and threadbare cloak, had she travelled the dark road from Lichtenthal to Baden after nightfall, fearless and undismayed, no dread of danger nor of insult occurring to her happy spirit, the “Gute nacht” of some homeward-bound peasant the only sound that saluted her. But now, she was no longer in the secluded valley of the great Vaterland; her way led through the crowded thoroughfares of a great city, with all its crash and noise and movement. If, in her wild confusion, she had no thought for each incident of the morning, her mind was full of “self-accusings.” How explain to Lady Hester her long absence, and her return alone and on foot? Her very maid, Nina, might arraign her conduct, and regard her with distrust and suspicion. How should she appear in Jekyl's eyes, who already knew her secret? and, lastly, what answer return to her poor father's letter, that letter which was the cause of all her misfortunes? “I will tell him everything,” said she to herself, as she went along. “I will detail the whole events of this morning, and he shall see that my failure has not come of lukewarmness. I will also strive to show him the nature of my position, and let him know the full extent of the sacrifice he would exact from me. If he persist, what then? Is it better to go back and share the poverty I cannot alleviate? “But what alternative have I? Jekyl's flatteries are but fictions. Would I wish them to be otherwise? Alas, I cannot tell; I do not even know my own heart now. Oh for one true-hearted friend to guide and counsel me!” She thought of George Onslow, rash, impetuous, and ardent; she thought of the priest, D'Esmonde, but the last scene in which he figured made her shrink with terror from the man of dark intrigues and secret wiles. She even thought of poor Hanserl, who, in all the simplicity of his nature, she wished to have that moment beside her. “But he would say, 'Go back; return to the humble home you quitted; put away all the glittering gauds that are clinging to and clasping your very heart. Take, once more, your lowly place at hearth and board, and forget the bright dream of pleasure you have passed through.' But how forget it? Has it not become my hope, my very existence? How easy for those who have not tasted the intoxicating cup, to say, 'Be cool of heart and head!' Nor am I what I was. How then go back to be that which I have ceased to be? Would that I had never left it! Would that I could live again in the dreamland of the poets that we loved so well, and wander with dearest Nelly through those forest glades, peopled with the creations of Uhland, Tieck, and Chammisso! What a glorious world is theirs, and how unlike the real one!” Thus, lost in thoughts conflicting and jarring with each other, mingling the long past with the distant future, hoping and fearing, now seeking self-persuasion here, now controverting her own opinions there, she walked hurriedly on, unconscious of the time, the place, and even the rude glances bestowed upon her by many who gazed at her with an insolent admiration. What an armor is innocence! how proof against the venomed dart of malice? Kate never knew the ordeal through which she was passing. She neither saw the looks nor heard the comments of those that passed. If her mind ever turned from the throng of thoughts that oppressed it, it was when some momentary difficulty of the way recalled her to herself; for, as she escaped from the smaller streets, the crowd and crash increased, and she found herself borne along as in a strong current. “Does this lead to the Piazza Annunziata?” asked she of a woman at a fruit-stall. “Tell her, Giacomo,” said the woman to a youth, who, with a water-melon in his hand, lay at full length on the pavement. “Per Baccho! but she 's handsome!” said he, holding up the paper lantern to gaze at her. And Kate hurried on in terror.	{ "id": "32061" }
36	A STREET RENCONTRE	LADY HESTER ONSLOW had passed a day of martyrdom. There was scarcely a single contrariety in the long catalogue of annoyances which had not fallen to her share. Her servants, habitually disciplined to perfection, had admitted every bore of her acquaintance, while, to the few she really wished to see, admittance had been denied. The rumor of an approaching departure had got wind through the servants, and the hall and the courtyard were crowded with creditors, duns, and begging impostors of every age and class and country. It seemed as if every one with a petition or a bill, an unsatisfied complaint or an unsettled balance, had given each other a general rendezvous that morning at the Mazzarini Palace. It is well known how the most obsequious tradespeople grow peremptory when passports are signed and posthorses are harnessed. The bland courteousness with which they receive “your Ladyship's orders” undergoes a terrible change. Departure is the next thing to death. Another country sounds like another world. The deferential bashfulness that could not hint at the mention of money, now talks boldly of his debt. The solvent creditor, who said always “at your convenience,” has suddenly a most pressing call “to make up a large sum by Saturday.” All the little cajoleries and coquetries, all the little seductions and temptations of trade, are given up. The invitations to buy are converted into suggestions for “cash payment.” It is very provoking and very disenchanting! From a liberal and generous patron, you suddenly discover yourself transformed into a dubious debtor. All the halo that has surrounded your taste is changed for a chill atmosphere of suspicion and distrust. The tradesfolk, whose respectful voices never rose above a whisper in the hall, now grew clamorous in the antechamber; and more than once did they actually obtrude themselves in person within those charmed precincts inhabited by Lady Hester. What had become of Miss Dalton? where could she be all this while? Had not Mr. Jekyl called? what was he about that he had not “arranged” with all these “tiresome creatures”? Was there no one who knew what to do? Was not Captain Onslow, even, to be found? It was quite impossible that these people could be telling the truth; the greater number, if not all of them, must have been paid already, for she had spent a world of money latterly “somehow.” Ce'lestine was charged with a message to this effect, which had a result the very opposite to what it was intended; and now the noisy tongues and angry accents grew bolder and louder. Still none came to her rescue; and she was left alone to listen to the rebellious threatenings that murmured in the courtyard, or to read the ill-spelled impertinences of such as preferred to epistolize their complaints. The visitors who found their way to the drawing-room had to pass through this motley and clamorous host; and, at each opening of the door, the sounds swelled loudly out. More than once she bethought her of Sir Stafford; but shame opposed the resolution. His liberality, indeed, was boundless; and therein lay the whole difficulty. Were the matter one for discussion or angry remonstrance, she could have adventured it without a dread. She could easily have brought herself to confront a struggle, but was quite unequal to an act of submission. Among the numerous visitors who now thronged the salons, Lord Norwood, who had just returned from his shooting excursion in the Maremma, was the only one with whom she had anything like intimacy. “I am but a poor counsellor in such a case,” said he, laughing. “I was never dunned in my life, personally, I mean, for I always take care not to be found; and as to written applications, I know a creditor's seal and superscription as well as though I had seen him affix them. The very postmark is peculiar.” “This levity is very unfeeling at such a moment,” said Lady Hester, angrily; “and when you see me so utterly deserted, too!” “But where 's Jekyl? He ought to know how to manage this!” “He has never been here since morning. His conduct is inexcusable!” “And George?” “Out the whole day!” “And the 'Dalton'? for she has rather a good head, if I don't mistake her.” “She took the carriage into town, and has not returned.” “By Jove! I'd write a line to Sir Stafford; I 'd tell him that I was going for change of ah--, and all that sort of thing, to Como for a week or two, and that these people were so pestering and pressing, and all that; that, in fact, you were worried to death about it; and finding that your means were so very limited--” “But he has been most liberal. His generosity has been without bounds.” “So much the better; he'll come down all the readier now.” “I feel shame at such a course,” said she, in a weak, faint voice. “As I don't precisely know what that sensation is, I can't advise against it; but it must needs be a very powerful emotion, if it prevent you accepting money.” “Can you think of nothing else, Norwood?” “To be sure I can--there are twenty ways to do the thing. Close the shutters, and send for Buccellini; be ill dangerously ill and leave this to-morrow, at daybreak; or give a ball, like Dashwood, and start when the company are at supper. You lose the spoons and forks, to be sure; but that can't be helped. You might try and bully them, too though perhaps it 's late for that; and lastly and, I believe, best of all raise a few hundreds, and pay them each something.” “But how or where raise the money?” “Leave that to me, if it must be done. The great benefactor of mankind was the fellow that invented bills. The glorious philanthropist that first devised the bright expedient of living by paper, when bullion failed, was a grand and original genius. How many a poor fellow might have been rescued from the Serpentine by a few words scrawled over a five-shilling stamp! What a turn to a man's whole earthly career has been often given, as his pen glided over the imaginative phrase 'I promise to pay'!” Lady Hester paid no attention to the Viscount's moralizings. Shame indignant shame monopolized all her feelings. “Well,” said she, at last, “I believe it must be so. I cannot endure this any longer. Jekyl has behaved shamefully; and George I 'll never forgive. They ought to have taken care of all this. And now, Norwood, to procure the money what is to be done?” “Here 's the patent treasury for pocket use the 'Young Man's Best Companion,'” said he, taking out of a black morocco case three or four blank bill-stamps, together with a mass of acceptances of various kinds, the proceeds of various play debts, the majority of which he well knew to be valueless. “What amount will be sufficient, how much shall we draw for?” said he, seating himself, pen in hand, at the table. “I cannot even guess,” said she, trembling with embarrassment and confusion. “There are all these people's accounts and letters. I suppose they are all horrid cheats. I 'm sure I never got half the things, and that the rest are already paid for. But no matter now; let us have done with them at any cost.” “'Morlandi, coachmaker' pretty well for Signer Morlandi!” said Norwood “eleven hundred scudi for repairs to carriages for destroying your patent axles, and replacing English varnish by the lacquer of a tea-tray something less than two hundred and fifty pounds!” “He is an obliging creature,” said Lady Hester, “and always punctual.” “In that case we 'll deal generously with him. He shall have half his money, if he gives a receipt in full.” “'Legendre, coiffeur; eight thousand francs.' Pas mal, Monsieur Legendre! kid gloves and perfumes, Madonna bands and Macassar oil, are costly things to deal in.” “That is really iniquitous,” said Lady Hester. “I see every bouquet is put down at a hundred francs!” “A conservatory, at that rate, is better property than a coal-mine. Shall we say one thousand francs for this honest coiffeur?” “Impossible! He would scorn such an offer.” “Pardon me. I know these people somewhat better and longer than you do; and so far even from suffering in his estimation if that were a matter of any consequence you will rise in his good opinion. An Italian always despises a dupe, but entertains a sincere respect for all who detect knavery. I 'll set him down for one thousand, to be increased to fifteen hundred if he'll tell me how to cut down his neighbor, Guercini.” “What of Guercini? How much is his claim?” “A trifle under five thousand crowns.” “Nearly one thousand pounds!” exclaimed she. “Say, rather, eleven hundred and upwards,” said Norwood. “It is incredible how little I've had from him: a few trifling rings and brooches; some insignificant alterations and new settings; one or two little presents to Kate; and, I really believe, nothing more.” “We are getting deeper and deeper,” said Norwood, turning over the bills. “Contardo, the wine-merchant, and Frisani, table-decker, are both large claimants. If pine-apples were the daily food of the servants' hall, they could scarcely cut a more formidable figure in the reckoning, indeed, if the whole establishment did nothing but munch them during all their leisure hours, the score need not be greater. Do you know, Hester, that the rogueries of the Continent are a far heavier infliction than the income-tax, and that the boasted economy of a foreign residence is sensibly diminished by the unfortunate fact that one honest tradesman is not to be found from Naples to the North Pole? They are Spartans in deceit, and only disgraced whenever the rascality is detected. Now, it is quite absurd to read such an item as this: 'Bonbons and dried fruits, three hundred and seventy crowns!' Why, if your guests were stuffed with marrons glaces, this would be an exaggeration.” “You are very tiresome, Norwood,” said she, peevishly. “I don't want to be told that these people are all knaves; their character for honesty is no affair of mine; if it were, Buccellini could easily mesmerize any one of them and learn all his secrets. I only wish to get rid of them, it 's very distressing to hear their dreadful voices, and see their more dreadful selves in the court beneath.” “The task is somewhat more difficult than I bargained for,” said Norwood, thoughtfully. “I fancied a few 'hundreds' would suffice, but we must read 'thousands' instead. In any case, I 'll hold a conference with them, and see what can be done.” “Do so, then, and lose no time, for I see Midchekoff s chasseur below, and I 'm sure the Prince is coming.” Norwood gave her a look which made her suddenly become scarlet, and then left the room without speaking. If he had not been himself a debtor with the greater number of those who waited below, few could have acquitted themselves more adroitly in such a mission. He was an adept in that clever game by which duns are foiled and tradesmen mollified; he knew every little menace and every flattery to apply to them, when to soothe and when to snub them. All these arts he was both ready and willing to exercise, were it not for the unpleasant difficulty that his own embarrassments rendered him a somewhat dubious ambassador. In fact, as he himself phrased it, “it was playing advocate with one leg in the dock.” He lingered a little, therefore, as he went; he stopped on the landing of the stairs to peep out on the tumultuous assemblage beneath, like a general surveying the enemy's line before the engagement; nor was he over-pleased to remark that little Purvis was bustling about among the crowd, note-book and pencil in hand, palpably taking evidence and storing up facts for future mention. As he was still looking, the great gate was thrown open with a crash, and a caleche, dirty and travel-stained, was whirled into the court by three steaming and panting posters. After a brief delay, a short, thick-set figure, enveloped in travelling-gear, descended, and putting, as it seemed, a few questions as to the meaning of the assembled throng, entered the house. Curious to learn who, what, and whence the new arrival came, Norwood hurried downstairs; but all that he could learn from the postilion was that the stranger had posted from Genoa, using the greatest speed all the way, and never halting, save a few minutes for refreshment. The traveller was not accompanied by a servant, and his luggage bore neither name nor crest to give any clew as to his identity. That he was English, and that he had gone direct to Sir Stafford's apartments, was the whole sum of the Viscount's knowledge; but even this seemed so worthy of remark that he hastened back with the tidings to Lady Hester, instead of proceeding on his errand. She treated the announcement with less interest. It might be Proctor, Sir Stafford's man. Was he tall and black-whiskered? No, he was short; and, so far as Norwood saw, he thought him fair-haired. “She knew of nobody to bear that description. It might be an English physician from Genoa, there was one there, or in Nice, she forgot exactly which, who was celebrated for treating gout, or sore eyes, she could not remember precisely, but it was certainly one or the other. On recollection, however, it was probably gout, because he had attended Lord Hugmore, who was blind.” “In that case,” said Norwood, “Onslow would seem to be worse.” “Yes, poor man, much worse. George sat up with him the night before last, and said he suffered terribly. His mind used to wander at intervals, too, and he spoke as if he was very unhappy.” “Unhappy, a man with upwards of thirty thousand a year unhappy!” said Norwood, clasping his hands over his head as he spoke. “You forget, my Lord, that there are other considerations than moneyed ones which weigh at least with some persons; and if Onslow's fortune be a princely one, he may still feel compunctious regrets for his detestable conduct to me!” “Oh, I forgot that!” said Norwood, with a most laudable air of seriousness. “It was very kind of you, my Lord, very considerate and very kind, indeed, to forget it. Yet I should have fancied it was the very sentiment uppermost in the mind of any one entering this chamber, witnessing the solitary seclusion of my daily life, beholding the resources by which the weary hours are beguiled, not to speak of the ravages which sorrow has left upon these features.” “On that score, at least, I can contradict you, Hester,” said he, with a smile of flattering meaning. “It is now above eight years since first--” “How can you be so tiresome?” said she, pettishly. “Prince Midchekoff, my Lady, presents his compliments,” said a servant, “and wishes to know if your Ladyship will receive him at dinner to-day, and at what hour?” “How provoking! Yes, say, 'Yes, at eight o'clock,'” said she, walking up and down the room with impatience. “You 'll stay and meet him, Norwood. I know you 're not great friends; but no matter, George is so uncertain. He left us t' other day to entertain the Prince alone, Kate and myself, only fancy; and as he takes half-hour fits of silence, and Kate occasionally won't speak for a whole evening together, my part was a pleasant one.” “How Florence wrongs you both!” said Norwood. “They say that no one is more agreeable to your Ladyship than the Midchekoff,” said he, slowly and pointedly. “As Miss Dalton's admirer, I hope rumor adds that,” said she, hastily. “What? are you really serious? Has the Dalton pretensions?” “Perhaps not; but the Prince has,” interrupted Lady Hester. “But you are forgetting these people all the while. Do pray do something anything with them; and don't forget us at eight o'clock.” And with this Lady Hester hurried from the room, as if admonished by her watch of the lateness of the hour, but really anxious to escape further interrogatory from the Viscount. When Norwood reached the court, he was surprised to find it empty; not one of the eager creditors remained, but all was still and silent. “What has become of these good people?” asked he of the porter. “The stranger who arrived in the caleche awhile ago spoke a few words to them, and they went.” This was all that he knew, and being a porter, one of that privileged caste whose prerogative it is never to reveal what takes place before their eyes, his present communication was remarkable. “Would that the good genius had remembered me in his moment of generous abandonment!” muttered Norwood, as he took his road homeward to dress for dinner. Little scrupulous about the means of getting out of a difficulty, provided it were only successful, Norwood scarcely bestowed another thought upon the whole matter, and lounged along the streets, as forgetful of the late scene as though it had passed twenty years before. As the Viscount strolled along towards his lodgings, Kate Dalton, with trembling limbs and palpitating heart, threaded her way through the thronged streets, now wet and slippery from a thin rain that was falling. So long as her road lay through the less-frequented thoroughfares, her appearance excited little or no attention in the passers-by; but when she entered the Piazza Santa Trinita, all ablaze with gas-lamps and the reflected lights from brilliant shops, many stopped, turned, and gazed at the strange sight of a young and beautiful girl, attired in the very height of fashion, being alone and afoot at such an hour. Unaccountable even to mystery, as it seemed, there was something in her gait and carriage that at once repelled the possibility of a disparaging impression, and many touched or removed their hats respectfully as they made way for her to pass. To avoid the carriages, which whirled past in every direction and at tremendous speed, she passed close along by the houses; and, in doing so, came within that brilliant glare of light that poured from the glass doors of the great Cafe of the Piazza. It was exactly the hour when the idle loungers of Florence society that listless class who form the staple of our club life in England were swarming to talk of the plans of the evening, what resources of pleasure were available, and what receptions were open. The drizzling rain, and the cold, raw feeling of the air prevented their being seated, as their custom was, before the doors, where in every attitude of graceful languor they habitually smoked their cigars and discussed the passersby, in all the plenitude of recreative indolence. The group consisted of men of every age and country. There were princes and blacklegs and adventurers; some with real rank and fortune, others as destitute of character as of means. Many owned names great and renowned in history; others bore designations only chronicled in the records of criminal jurisprudence. All were well dressed, and, so far as cursory notice could detect, possessed the ease and bearing of men familiar with the habits of good society. Although mixing in very distinct circles, here, at least, they met every day on terms of familiar equality, discussing the politics of the hour and the events of the world with seeming frankness and candor. From a small chamber at the back of the cafe, a little tide of loungers seemed to ebb and flow; while the sharp rattling sound of a dice-box indicated the nature of the occupation that went forward there. The small apartment was thronged with spectators of the game; and even around the door several were standing, content to hear the tidings of a contest they could not witness. “To sit upon the Ponte Carraja, and chuck rouleaux of gold into the Arno, would be to the full as amusing, and not a more costly pastime,” said a sharp, ringing voice, which, once heard, there was no difficulty in recognizing as Haggerstone's. “But Onslow plays well,” said another. “When he's in luck, sir,” said the Colonel. “Let him always have the winning horse to ride, and I don't say he 'll lose the saddle; but Maraffi would win on a donkey.” “Is he a Russian?” asked one. “No, sir, he 's worse; he 's a Greek. I know everything about him. His mother was a Finlander, and the father a Cephalonian. I don't think Satan himself would ask a better parentage.” “What luck! By Jove! I never saw such luck!” said a voice from within the door. “Onslow has no chance with him.” “Nor will you, sir, if you persist in expressing your opinion in English,” said Haggerstone. “Maraffi speaks every language, plays every game, and knows the use of every weapon, from a jereed to a Joe Manton.” “I 'll not test his abilities at any of them,” said the other, laughing. “_Per Baccho! _ there goes something new,” said a young Italian, from the window that looked into the street. “Who's she?” “_Diantre! _” said the old Duc de Parivaux. “That is something very exquisite, indeed. She was splashed by that carriage that passed, and I just saw her foot.” “She's the prima donna from Milan.” “She 's the Cipriani. I know her figure perfectly.” “She 's very like the Princesse de Raoule.” “Taller, and younger.” “And fifty times handsomer. What eyes! By Jove! I wish the drosky would never move on! She is regularly imprisoned there.” “You are very ungallant, gentlemen, I must say,” said the young Count de Guilmard, the French secretary of legation, who, having finished his coffee and liquor, coolly arranged his curls beneath his hat before the glass, “very ungallant, indeed, not to offer an arm to an unprotected princess. We Frenchmen understand our devoirs differently.” And, so saying, he passed out into the street, while the rest pressed up closer to the window to observe his proceedings. “Cleverly done, Guilmard!” cried one. “See how he affects to have protected her from the pole of that carriage.” “She 'll not notice him.” “She will.” “She has.” “She has n't.” “She is moving his way!” “Not at all.” “She 's speaking!” “There, I told you he 'd succeed.” “But he hasn't, though.” Amid all these phrases, which rattled on more rapidly than we can write them, Onslow joined the party, one heavy venture on a single card having involved him in a tremendous loss. “Is that a countrywoman of yours, Onslow?” asked a young Russian noble. “If so, the entente cordiale with France seems scarcely so secure as statesmen tell us.” Onslow gave one glance through the window, and dashed into the street with a bound like the spring of a wild animal. He threw himself between Guilmard and Kate. The Frenchman lifted his cane, and the same instant he fell backwards upon the pavement, rather hurled than struck down by the strong arm of the young Guardsman. Before the lookers-on could hasten out, George had hailed a carriage, and, assisting Kate in, took his seat beside her, and drove off. So sudden was the whole incident, and so engrossing the terror of poor Kate's mind, that she saw nothing of what passed, and was merely conscious that by George's opportune coming she was rescued from the insolent attentions of the stranger. “Did he speak to you? Did he dare to address you?” asked Onslow, in a voice which boiling passion rendered almost unintelligible. “If he did, I know not,” said she, as she covered her face with shame, and struggled against the emotion that almost choked her. “He took your arm; he certainly laid hold of your hand!” “It was all so rapid that I can tell nothing,” said she, sobbing; “and although my courage never failed me till you came, then I thought I should have fainted.” “But how came you alone, and on foot, and at such an hour, too? Where had you been?” These questions he put with a sort of stern resolution that showed no evasive answer would rescue her. “Did you leave home without a carriage, or even a servant?” asked he again, as no answer was returned to his former question. “I did take a carriage in the morning; and and--” “Sent it away again,” continued George, impetuously. “And where did you drive to, where pass the day?” Kate hung her head in silence, while her heart felt as if it would burst from very agony. “This is no idle curiosity of mine, Miss Dalton,” said he, speaking with a slow and measured utterance. “The society you have mixed with here is not above any reproach nor beneath any suspicion. I insist upon knowing where you have been, and with whom? So, then, you refuse to speak, you will not tell. If it be Lady Hester's secret--” “No, no! The secret is mine, and mine only. I swear to you, by all we both believe in, that it has no concern with any one save myself.” [Illustration: 470] “And can you not confide it to me? Have I no right to ask for the confidence, Kate?” said he, with tenderness. “Know you any one more deeply and sincerely your friend than I am, more ready to aid, protect, or counsel you?” “But this I cannot--must not tell you,” said she, in accents broken by sobbing. “Let me know, at least, enough to refute the insolence of an imputation upon your conduct. I cannot tamely sit by and hear the slanderous stories that to-morrow or next day will gain currency through the town.” “I cannot, I cannot,” was all that she could utter. “If not me, then, choose some other defender. Unprotected and undefended you must not be.” “I need none, sir; none will asperse me!” said she, haughtily. “What! you say this? while scarce five minutes since I saw you outraged, insulted in the open street?” A burst of tears, long repressed, here broke from Kate; and for some minutes her sobs alone were heard in the silence. “I will ask but one question more, Miss Dalton,” said George, slowly, as the carriage passed under the arched gateway of the Palace, “and then this incident is sealed to me forever. Is this secret whatever it be in your own sole keeping; or is your confidence shared in by another?” “It is,” murmured Kate, below her breath. “You mean that it is shared?” asked he, eagerly. “Yes, Mr. Jekyl at least knows--” “Jekyl!” cried George, passionately; “and is Alfred Jekyl your adviser and your confidant? Enough; you have told me quite enough,” said he, dashing open the door of the carriage as it drew up to the house. He gave his hand to Kate to alight, and then, turning away, left her, without even a “good-bye,” while Kate hurried to her room, her heart almost breaking with agony. “I shall be late, Nina,” said she, affecting an air and voice of unconcern, as she entered her room; “you must dress me rapidly.” “Mademoiselle must have been too pleasantly engaged to remember the hour,” said the other, with an easy pertness quite different from her ordinary manner. More struck by the tone than by the words themselves, Kate turned a look of surprise on the speaker. “It is so easy to forget one's self at Morlache's, they say,” added the girl, with a saucy smile; and although stung by the impertinence, Kate took no notice of the speech. “Mademoiselle will of course never wear that dress again,” said Nina, as she contemptuously threw from her the mud-stained and rain-spotted dress she had worn that morning. “We have a Basque proverb, Mademoiselle, about those who go out in a carriage and come back on foot.” “Nina, what do you mean by these strange words and this still more strange manner?” asked Kate, with a haughtiness she had never before assumed towards the girl. “I do not pretend to say that Mademoiselle has not the right to choose her confidantes, but the Principessa de San Martello and the Duchessa di Rivoli did not think me beneath their notice.” “Nina, you are more unintelligible than ever,” cried Kate, who still, through all the dark mystery of her words, saw the lowering storm of coming peril. “I may speak too plainly, too bluntly, Mademoiselle, but I can scarcely be reproached with equivocating; and I repeat that my former mistresses honored me with their secret confidence; and they did wisely, too, for I should have discovered everything of myself, and my discretion would not have been fettered by a compact.” “But if I have no secrets,” said Kate, drawing herself up with a proud disdain, “and if I have no need either of the counsels or the discretion of my waiting-woman?” “In that case,” said Nina, quietly, “Mademoiselle has only perilled herself for nothing. The young lady who leaves her carriage and her maid to pass three hours at Morlache's, and returns thence, on foot, after nightfall, may truly say she has no secrets, at least, so far as the city of Florence is concerned.” “This is insolence that you never permitted yourself before,” said Kate, passionately. “And yet, if I were Mademoiselle's friend instead of her servant, I should counsel her to bear it.” “But I will not,” cried Kate, indignantly. “Lady Hester shall know of your conduct this very instant.” “One moment, Mademoiselle, just one moment,” said Nina, interposing herself between Kate and the door. “My tongue is oftentimes too ready, and I say things for which I am deeply sorry afterwards. Forgive me, I beg and beseech you, if I have offended; reject my counsels, disdain my assistance, if you will, but do not endanger yourself in an instant of anger. If you have but little control over your temper, I have even less over mine; pass out of that door as my enemy, and I am yours to the last hour of my life.” There was a strange and almost incongruous mixture of feeling in the way she uttered these words; at one moment abject in submission, and at the next hurling a defiance as haughty as though she were an injured equal. The conflict of the girl's passion, which first flushed, now left her pale as death, and trembling in every limb. Her emotion bespoke the most intense feeling, and Kate stood like one spellbound, before her. Her anger had already passed away, and she looked with almost a sense of compassion at the excited features and heaving bosom of the Spanish girl. “You wrong yourself and me too, Nina,” said Kate Dalton, at last. “I have every trust in your fidelity, but I have no occasion to test it.” “Be it so, Mademoiselle,” replied the other, with a courtesy. “Then all is forgotten,” said Kate, affecting a gayety she could not feel; “and now let me hasten downstairs, for I am already late.” “The Prince will have thought it an hour, Mademoiselle,” said the girl; the quiet demureness of her manner depriving the words of any semblance of impertinence. If Kate looked gravely, perhaps some little secret source of pleasure lay hid within her heart; and in the glance she gave at her glass, there was an air of conscious triumph that did not escape the lynx-eyed Nina. “My Lady is waiting dinner, Miss Dalton,” said a servant, as he tapped at the door; and Kate, with many a trouble warring in her breast, hastened downstairs, in all the pride of a loveliness that never was more conspicuous.	{ "id": "32061" }
37	PROPOSALS.	KATE found Lady Hester, the Prince, and Mr. Jekyl awaiting her as she entered the drawing-room, all looking even more bored and out of sorts than people usually do who have been kept waiting for their dinner. “Everybody has sworn to be as tiresome and disagreeable as possible to-day,” said Lady Hester. “George said he'd dine here, and is not coming; Lord Norwood promised, and now writes me word that an unavoidable delay detains him; and here comes Miss Dalton, the mirror of punctuality when all else are late, a full half-hour after the time. There, dear, no excuses nor explanations about all you have been doing, the thousand calls you 've made, and shops you 've ransacked. I 'm certain you 've had a miserable day of it.” Kate blushed deeply, and dreaded to meet Jekyl' s eye; but when she did, that little glassy orb was as blandly meaningless as any that ever rattled in the head of a Dutch doll. Even as he gave his arm to lead her in to dine, nothing in his manner or look betrayed anything like a secret understanding between them. A bystander might have deemed him a new acquaintance. “Petits diners” have, generally, the prerogative of agreeability; they are the chosen reunions of a few intimates, who would not dilute their pleasantry even by a single bore. They are also the bright occasions for those little culinary triumphs which never can be attempted in a wider sphere. Epigrams, whether of lamb or language, require a select and special jury to try them; but just in the same proportion as the success of such small parties is greater, so is their utter failure, when by any mischance there happens a breakdown in the good spirits or good humor of the company. We have said enough to show that the ladies, at least, might be excused for not displaying those thousand attractions of conversation which all centre on the one great quality, ease of mind. The Prince was more than usual out of sorts, a number of irritating circumstances having occurred to him during the morning. A great sovereign, on whom he had lavished the most profuse attentions, had written him a letter of thanks, through his private secretary, enclosing a snuff-box, instead of sending him an autograph, and the first class of the national order. His glover, in Paris, had forgotten to make his right hand larger than the left, and a huge packet that had just arrived was consequently useless. His chef had eked out a salmi of ortolans by a thrush; and it was exactly that unlucky morsel the Cardinal had helped himself to at breakfast, and immediately sent his plate away in disappointment. Rubion, too, his ninth secretary, had flatly refused to marry a little danseuse that had just come out in the ballet, a piece of insolence and rebellion on his part not to be tolerated; and when we add to these griefs an uncomfortable neckcloth, and the tidings of an insurrection in a Russian province where he owned immense property in mines, his state of irritability may be leniently considered. Jekyl, if truth were told, had as many troubles of his own to confront as any of the rest. If the ocean he sailed in was not a great Atlantic, his bark was still but a cockleshell; his course in life required consummate skill and cleverness, and yet never could be safe even with that. Notwithstanding all this, he alone was easy, natural, and agreeable, not as many an inferior artist would have been agreeable, by any over-effort to compensate for the lack of co-operation in others, and thus make their silence and constraint but more palpable, his pleasantry was tinged with the tone of the company, and all his little smartnesses were rather insinuated than spoken. Quite satisfied if the Prince listened, or Lady Hester smiled, more than rewarded when they once both laughed at one of his sallies, he rattled on about the Court and the town talk, the little scandals of daily history, and the petty defections of those dear friends they nightly invited to their houses. While thus, as it were, devoting himself to the amusement of the others, his real occupation was an intense study of their thoughts, what was uppermost in their minds, and in what train their speculations were following. He had long suspected the Prince of being attracted by Kate Dalton; now he was certain of it. Accustomed almost from childhood to be flattered on every hand, and to receive the blandest smiles of beauty everywhere, Midchekoff's native distrust armed him strongly against such seductions; and had Kate followed the path of others, and exerted herself to please him, her failure would have been certain. It was her actual indifference her perfect carelessness on the subject was the charm to his eyes, and he felt it quite a new and agreeable sensation not to be made love to. Too proud of her own Dalton blood to feel any elevation by the marked notice of the great Russian, she merely accorded him so much of her favor as his personal agreeability seemed to warrant; perhaps no designed flattery could have been so successful. Another feeling, also, enhanced his admiration of her. It was a part of that barbaric instinct which seemed to sway all his actions, to desire the possession of whatever was unique in life. Those forms or fancies of which nature stamps but one, and breaks the die, these were a passion with him. To possess a bluer turquoise than any king or kaiser, to own an arab of some color never seen before, to have a picture by some artist who never painted but one; but whether it were a gem, a vase, a weapon, a diamond, or a dog, its value had but one test, that it had none its exact equal. Now, Kate Dalton realized these conditions more than any one he had ever met. Her very beauty was peculiar; combining, with much of feminine softness and delicacy, a degree of determination and vigor of character that to Midchekoff smacked of queenly domination. There was a species of fierte about her that distinguished her among other women. All that he had seen done by an illustrious title and a diamond tiara, she seemed capable of effecting in the simplest costume and without an effort. All these were wonderful attractions to his eyes; and if he did not fall in love, it was simply because he did not know how. He, however, did what to him served as substitute for the passion; he coveted an object which should form one of the greatest rarities of his collection, and the possession of which would give him another title to that envy, the most delicious tribute the world could render him. There were some drawbacks to his admiration; her birth was not sufficiently illustrious. His own origin was too recent to make an alliance of this kind desirable, and he wished that she had been a princess; even de la main, gauche of some royal house. Jekyl had done his best, by sundry allusions to Irish greatness, and the blood of various monarchs of Munster and Conuaught, in times past; but the Prince was incredulous as to Hibernian greatness; probably the remembrance of an Irish diamond once offered him for sale had tinged his mind with this sense of disparagement as to all Irish magnificence. Still Kate rose above every detracting influence, and he thought of the pride in which he should parade her through Europe as his own. Had she been a barb or a bracelet, an antique cup or a Sevres jar, he never would have hesitated about the acquisition. Marriage, however, was a more solemn engagement; and he did not quite fancy any purchase that cost more than mere money. Nothing but the possibility of losing her altogether could have overcome this cautious scruple; and Jekyl had artfully insinuated such a conjuncture. “George Onslow's attentions were,” he said, “quite palpable; and although up to this Miss Dalton did not seem to give encouragement, who could tell what time and daily intercourse might effect? There was Norwood, too, with the rank of peeress in his gift; there was no saying how an ambitious girl might be tainted by that bait.” In fact, the Prince had no time to lose; and, although nothing less accorded with his tastes than what imposed haste, he was obliged to bestir himself on this occasion. If we have dwelt thus long upon the secret thoughts of the company, it is because their conversation was too broken and unconnected for recording. They talked little, and that little was discursive. An occasional allusion to some social topic, a chance mention of their approaching departure from Florence, some reference to Como and its scenery, formed the whole; and then, in spite of Jekyl, whose functions of “fly-wheel” could not keep the machine a-moving, long pauses would intervene, and each lapse into a silence apparently more congenial than conversation. All this while Jekyl seemed to be reading the complex scheme of doubt, irresolution, and determination that filled Midchekoff's mind. The stealthy glances of the Russian's eyes towards Kate, the almost painful anxiety of his manner, to see if she noticed him while speaking, his watchful observance of her in her every accent and gesture, told Jekyl the struggle that was then passing within him. He had seen each of these symptoms before, though in a less degree, when the coveted object was a horse or a picture; and he well knew how nothing but the dread of a competition for the prize would rouse him from this state of doubt and uncertainty. The evening dragged slowly over, and it was now late, when Lord Norwood made his appearance. With a brief apology for not coming to dinner, he drew Jekyl to one side, and, slipping an arm within his, led him into an adjoining room. “I say, Jekyl,” whispered he, as they retired out of earshot of the others, “here's a pretty mess Onslow's got in. There has been a fracas in the street about Miss Dalton. How she came there at such a time, and alone, is another matter; and George has struck Guilmard, knocked him down, by Jove! and no mistake; and they're to meet tomorrow morning. Of course, there was nothing else for it; a blow has but one reparation, George will have to stand the fire of the first shot in Europe.” Jekyl hated a duel. Had he been a member of the Peace Congress, he could not have detested the arbitrament of arms more heartily. 'It involved partisanship, it severed intimacies, it barred general intercourse, and often closed up for a whole season the pleasantest houses of a town. The announcement of a strict blockade never struck a mercantile community with more terror. To Norwood the prospect was directly the opposite. Not only an adept in all the etiquette and ceremonial of such meetings, he liked to see his name circulated in these affairs as a kind of guarantee of his readiness to seek a similar reparation for injury. He had trusted for many a year on his dexterity at twelve paces, and he never missed an opportunity of sustaining the prestige of a “dead shot.” It was, then, with an ardor of amateurship that he narrated the various little preliminary steps which had already been taken. Merkheim, the Austrian secretary, had called on him, on the part of Guilmard; and as, in a case so clear, there was little to arrange, the only difficulty lay in the choice of weapons. “The Frenchman claims the sword,” said Norwood; “and it is always awkward to decline that proposition for a soldier. But I suppose George has about as much chance with one weapon as the other.” “You think he 'll kill him, my Lord?” “I think so. If the offence had been less flagrant or less public, possibly not. But a blow! to be struck down in the open street! I don't see how he can do less.” “What a break-up it will cause here!” said Jekyl, with a nod of his head in the direction of the drawing-room. “It will send them all back to England, I suppose.” “I suppose it will,” added Jekyl, mournfully. “What a bore! It's particularly unpleasant for me, for I hold some half-dozen of George's acceptances, not due yet; and, of course, the governor will never think of acquitting them.” “I conclude it is inevitable the meeting, I mean?” said Jekyl. “To be sure it is. Onslow took care of that! By the way, Jekyl, how came she there at such an hour, and alone, too?” “She had been shopping, I fancy, and missed the carriage. There was some blunder, I have heard, about the coachman drawing up at the wrong door.” “No go, Master Jekyl. Don't try it on with me, old fellow. You know all about it, if you like to tell.” “I assure you, my Lord, you give me a credit I don't deserve.” “You know the whole story from beginning to end, Jekyl. I 'd back you against the field, my boy.” The other shook his head with an air of supreme innocence. “Then George knows it?” added Norwood, half asserting, half asking the question. “He may, my Lord, for aught I can tell.” “If so, he's treating me unfairly,” said Norwood, rising and pacing the room. “As his friend in this affair, there should be no reserve or concealment with me. You can surely say that much, Jekyl, eh? What a close fellow you are!” “It is so easy not to blab when one has nothing to tell,” said Jekyl, smiling. “Come, there is something you can tell me. Where does that small corridor behind George's apartment lead to? There is a door at the end of it, and, I fancy, a stair beyond it.” “That, if I mistake not, leads up to Lady Hester. No, I remember now; it leads to Miss Dalton's room.” “Just so; I could have sworn it.” “Why so, my Lord?” asked Jekyl, whose curiosity was now excited to the utmost. “That 's my secret, Master Jekyl.” “But the door is always locked and bolted from within,” said Jekyl, “and there is no keyhole on the outside.” “I'll not stand pumping, Jekyl. If you had been frank with me, perhaps I should have been as open with you.” For an instant Jekyl hesitated what course to follow. It might be that Norwood really knew something of great importance. It might be that his discovery was valueless. And yet, if it concerned Kate in any way, the information would be all-important, his great game being to make her a princess, and yet preserve such an ascendancy over her as would render her his own slave. “She's a strange girl, that Dalton,” said Norwood. “I wish she had about forty thousand pounds.” “She may have more than that yet, my Lord,” said Jekyl, dryly. “How do you mean, Jekyl? Is there any truth in that story about the Irish property? Has she really a claim on the estate? Tell me all you know, old fellow, and I 'll be on the square with you throughout.” Jekyl, who in his remark had darkly alluded to the prospect of Kate's marriage with Midchekoff, now saw that Norwood had totally misconceived his meaning, and like a shrewd tactician, determined to profit by the blunder. “Come, Jekyl, be frank and aboveboard. What are her prospects?” “Better than I have told you, my Lord,” replied he, coolly. “If I cannot--for I am not at liberty to explain why--I am quite ready to pledge my word of honor to the truth of what I say, or, what your Lordship will think more of, to back my opinion by a bet.” “By Jove! that is news!” said the Viscount, leaning his head on the chimney to reflect. “You are such a slippery dog, Master Jekyl, you have so many turnings and windings in you, one is never quite sure with you; but supposing now, for argument's sake, that one thought of making this fair damsel a peeress, is there no hitch in the affair no screw loose that one ought to look to?” “In her birth, my Lord?” “No; d--n her birth! I mean about the tin.” “I believe, my Lord, that I can save you all speculation on the subject when I say that pursuit would be hopeless there. The Midchekoff has gained the start, and must win in a canter.” “That Tartar fellow! nonsense, man; I know better than that. He 'll never marry anything under royalty; the fellow's mother was a serf, and he must wash that spot out of his blood whenever he can.” “You are mistaken, my Lord. He only waits to be certain of being accepted, to offer himself.” “Refuse him!” said Norwood, laughing, “there's not that girl in Europe would refuse him. If every decoration he wore on his breast were a stripe of the knout upon his back, his wealth would cover all.” “The Prince would give half his fortune to be assured of all you say, my Lord,” said Jekyl, gravely. “By Jove! one might make a good thing of it, even that way,” said Norwood, half aloud. “I say, Jekyl,” added he, louder, “how much are you to have? nay, nay, man, there 's no impertinence in the question, we are both too much men of the world for that. It 's quite clear that this is your scheme. Now, what 's the damage?” “My Lord, you are as flattering to my abilities as unjust to my character.” “We 'll suppose all that said,” broke in Norwood, impatiently; “and now we come back to the original question, whether I cannot afford to be as liberal as the Russian. Only be explicit, and let us understand each other.” “My Lord, I will not insult myself by believing I comprehend you;” said Jekyl, calmly. And before Norwood could detain him he left the room. “Jekyl, come back, man! just hear me out you've mistaken me! Confound the cur,” muttered the Viscount, “with his hypocritical affectation as if I did not know his metier as well as I know my bootmaker's.” Norwood walked noiselessly to the door of the salon and peeped in. Lady Hester, the Prince, and Jekyl were in earnest conversation in one quarter; while Kate sat apart, apparently engaged with her embroidery-frame, but in reality too deeply sunk in thought to notice the bright tints before her. Norwood entered listlessly, and strolling across the room, took a place beside her. She moved slightly as he drew forward his chair, and, then, as she drew back her flounce, Norwood saw that it was of deep black lace. He coolly took out his pocket-book wherein he had deposited the torn fragment, and, regarding it with attention, saw that it perfectly corresponded with the dress. So leisurely and with such circumspection did he proceed that several minutes elapsed before he looked up. “You are meditative, my Lord, to-night,” said Kate, at last, making an effort to relieve an awkward situation; “what are you thinking of, pray?” “Admiring your dress, Miss Dalton, which strikes me as singularly beautiful and becoming.” “Great praise this, from such an acknowledged judge as Lord Norwood,” said she, smiling. “I prefer it to antique lace, which in general is too heavy and cumbrous for my taste; I like these fine and delicate tissues, so frail and gossamer-like, not but their frailty, like all other frailty, incurs occasionally a heavy penalty; as here, for instance, you see this has been torn.” “So it has,” said Kate, with confusion, “and I never noticed it. What a quick eye you must have, my Lord!” “And a sharp ear, too, Miss Dalton,” said he, significantly; “in fact, I am one of those people whose every-day faculties do duty for what in others goes by the name of cleverness. It 's a great pity,” said he, looking down at the dress; “you see, Miss Dalton, what a false step can do.” “And yet I cannot remember when this occurred,” said she, assuming to misunderstand his equivocal expression. “Not recall it, not a clew to the mishap?” asked he, shrewdly. “None,” said she, blushing at the pertinacity with which he clung to the theme; “but it's of no consequence.” “Would Miss Dalton think it very singular if I should be able to assist her memory? Would she accept the service as kindly as it was proffered, too?” “Really, my Lord, you begin to speak in riddles,” said she, more than ever piqued at his persistence. “And yet,” said he, following out the thread of his own thoughts, “I am assuredly as safe a counsellor as Albert Jekyl.” Kate grew deadly pale, but never replied to this speech. “And certainly,” resumed he, “the man who speaks in his own name should ever take precedence of an envoy.” “My Lord,” said she, firmly, “the very little which I can understand of your words implies a pretension to knowledge and influence over me which I disdain to accept; but still I cannot believe that you seriously mean to insult me.” “Of course not,” said he; “I have come on a very different errand. If I did passingly allude to bygones, it was to show you that you can afford to be candid when I am frank. We two, united, would walk over the course, and no mistake, that 's what I was coming to. I don't mean to say that the Russian is not richer egad! there 's no disputing that, still, as to rank, a peer of Great Britain, I take it, is the equal of any man. Not to remind you of the old adage about 'a bird in the hand' I speak frankly, because you are your own mistress.” “Kate, if Lord Norwood will excuse you, come to me for one instant,” cried Lady Hester. “Just say yes, before you go, or, if not yes, tell me that I have ground for hope,” whispered Norwood. But she arose without speaking. [Illustration: 484] “I'll not stand a 'hedge,' by Jove!” said Norwood, sulkily; “play or pay, nothing else for me.” “Allow me to pass you, my Lord,” said Kate, courteously. “One word, off or on, Miss Dalton,” said he, rising, and affecting to make way, while he still barred the passage. A proud, disdainful smile was all the reply she vouchsafed. “All right,” said he, insolently; “only remember how we stand, Miss Dalton, and whenever you want to repair the mischance of your lace flounce, don't forget the piece is in my keeping;” and he opened the pocket-book as he spoke, and exhibited the fragment before her. Sick with a terror she could neither explain nor realize, she lay back again in her chair, unable to move, while Norwood glided quietly away and left the room. “Dear Kate, have you forgotten me all this time?” said Lady Hester, whom Kate now perceived was alone on the sofa, Midchekoff and Jekyl having retired into an adjoining gallery, where they walked slowly along, side by side, deep in conversation. “You shouldn't have suffered Norwood to engross your attention in that manner, my dear. The Prince has been quite put out by it, and at such a moment, too, and how flushed you are! What has he been saying?” “I can scarcely remember,” said Kate, confusedly. “Well, it's of no consequence, dear, because I have got something to tell you that would speedily make you forget it. You know, Kate, how I always prophesied wonderful things for you, just as I did before for poor Georgina Elderton, and she married a Rajah afterwards, and died Begum of something ending in 'Bad.' Indeed, I might say it ended in bad for herself, poor dear, for I believe she was poisoned. But, to come back, I always said that you also would have astonishing luck. I told Sir Stafford so. The first day I saw you, 'She 'll be like Georgina,' I said. 'You 'll see that girl in a wonderful position one of these days.' It is not that men care for their wives more than formerly, I rather fancy the reverse, but they have got a most intense passion just now for beauty. Wealth and good blood were once the only requisites, but they are both disregarded now, in comparison with good looks. I suppose the fashion won't last, it would be very absurd if it should, but while it is the mode one ought to profit by it. Just as I am wearing all those horrid old brocades of my great-grand-aunt's, with odious flowers of crimson and yellow, now that the taste in dress is 'rococo,' but of course in a year or two people will recover their senses again, and pretty girls without portions be left for sub-alterns in the line, as Providence intended they should. Don't you think so, dear?” The brief question at the end of this long rambling speech would possibly have puzzled Kate to reply to, had not Lady Hester been far too much occupied in her own speculations to care for a rejoinder. “You'll hear people talk a deal of nonsense about unequal marriages, and they'll quote Heaven knows what instances of girls, generally Irish ones, picking up princes and royal dukes, and all ending unhappily. Don't believe a word of it, dearest; there 's never misery where there 's large fortune. The people who cry in velvet always shed rose-water tears, that don't hurt the skin or spoil the complexion. Not that I can say so of myself,” added she, with a deep sigh; “but I am a creature apart. I fervently trust nature does not often form similar ones. Buccellini told me that I had a fifth pair of nerves, I assure you he did. It was a very shocking thing, and probably he ought never to have mentioned it to me; but it perfectly explains the excessive sensibility of my whole nature, does n't it, dear?” Kate smiled assent, and Lady Hester went on: “Then, as to religion, my dear, I'm afraid, indeed, we all think too little about it. I 'm sure I 'm quite shocked at what I see in society. It was only the other night Lady Grace Morton kept her seat when the Cardinal was speaking to her. I apologized to him for it afterwards, and he said, with such a sweet smile, 'If these Protestants would only give us back our churches, we 'd forgive their keeping their chairs.' The mot was very pretty, in French, and well turned was n't it? Of course, then, you 'll make no obstacle about the Greek Church, which I believe is exactly like your own, only that the priest has a beard, which I think more becoming. It looks affectionate, too; it always gives one the idea of devotion, a girl changing her faith for her husband; and really, in this tiresome age we live in, a new religion is the only new thing one ever hears of. Your excellent family that sweet sister and the dear old papa will probably make a fuss about it; but you know, after all, how absurd that is, and if you were to marry a Chinese, there 's no saying what strange creatures you 'd have to pray to. You 'll have to go to Russia, but only for presentation; that over, the Prince will obtain a renewal of his permission to reside abroad; still, if you have to pass a winter at St. Petersburg, it will be far from disagreeable. The women are too fond of caviare and high play; but they dress just as well as in Paris, and wear better diamonds. Midchekoff's jewels are unequalled; and, now that I think of it, there 's one thing I 've set my heart on, and you must positively promise to give me, a little stiletto with an emerald hilt and handle. I have pined for it there 's no other word these three years. He wore it in London, and I have never had it out of my thoughts since. You can afford to be very generous, dearest. How I envy you that pleasure! and the delight you 'll feel in providing for poor papa and Mary no, Elizabeth, I mean how absurd! I should say Ellen. It was something about that tale of Elizabeth, the Exile of Siberia, was running in my mind. The Prince will do whatever you suggest, and, indeed, he has already hinted about your brother Frank joining the Russian service. He 'll have him named an officer in the Emperor's Guard. You must insist, too, upon La Rocca being your own settled upon yourself. They tell me it 's the sweetest spot in the world; and I 'll always live there when you don't want it. I mention this about the settlement, because there 's no saying how men will behave. I 'm sure I never could have anticipated such a return as I have met with from Sir Stafford. And then, you know, with a Russian, one cannot be too guarded. Don't you agree with me? Well, never mind, you 'll perhaps come round to my opinion later. But here comes the Prince, and it will be as well you should retire, dearest. I'll see you in your dressing-room, and tell you everything.” And with this assurance Kate retired, with a head and heart as full as ever young lady's felt. Kate was hastening to her room, when a short, quick step behind her made her turn round, and she saw Purvis endeavoring to overtake her. “Oh! I have you at last,” said he, puffing for breath; “and what a ch-chase I 've had for it! I 've been in five rooms already, and nearly had a f-f-fight with that Frenchwoman of Lady Hester's. She 's a regular T-T-Tartar, she is, and almost boxed my ears for looking into a small case where my Lady's r-ringlets are kept ha! ha! ha! I saw them, though, two long and two short, and a pl-pl-plait for the back of the head. How she m-m-makes up at night!” “I must say that you have the strangest mode of requiting hospitality,” said Kate, haughtily. “It 's all very well to talk of hospi-hospi-hospi--” Here a fit of gaping brought on coughing, which, after a violent struggle, ended in the forced utterance of the last syllable of the word, but with such fatigue and exhaustion that he seemed scarcely able to continue; at last, however, he did resume. “It's all very well to talk of that, but we got in here by our own cl-cl-cleverness; at least by Zoe's.” “Less good-natured persons would find another word for it, Mr. Purvis.” “So they would. Haggerstone called it a Ricketty stratagem. No matter; we 're in ha! ha! ha! and he 's out. The pr-pr-proof of the pu-pu-pudding--” “Will you excuse me, sir, if I say I must leave you?” “Don't go, don't go; I've something very important to to tell you. And first, Zoe my sister Zoe wants to see you. The cook has been most im-im-impertinent to her. She says it was ginger she put in the maca-maca-roni, instead of P-P--Parmesan; all his truffles are only Piedmontese. That is n't all: don't be in such a h-hurry. They 've changed the wine, too. We had Ch-Ch-Chambertin yesterday, and they 've given us P-Pomard to-day. How is that to be borne?” “I really see but one remedy for it, sir,” said Kate, scornfully. “So Zoe said; that 's exactly her opinion. They must be sent away. Zoe knows a very ti-ti-tidy cook. He 's not a a top-sawyer, you know, but he can r-roast a bit of beef, and make a c-capital rice-pudding, and he 'll come for six dollars a month. Wouldn't that be a sa-saving? Zoe told him to c-call to-day, and speak to La-Lady Hester.” “He will find that difficult, sir,” said Kate, dryly. “And as for the b-butler, such a j-j-jackanapes I never saw; and Zoe would advise you to take little Pierrette, the fellow you see every day at the Pergola; he sells the tickets outside the door. He looks r-r-ragged enough now, but when he 's dressed--” “You must see, sir,” interposed Kate, “that these are all details in which it would be both indelicate and impertinent for me to intrude an opinion about.” “Not when you li-live in the house; not when you're dome-dome-domesticated with the family. We 're all in the same bo-boat now; and Zoe says somebody must steer it. Now Lizetta, Zoe's maid, would keep the k-keys herself.” “Pray remember, sir, this is Lady Hester Onslow's house.” “Egad! it w-won't be long so, if she goes on as she's d-doing. Martha saw the meat-cart come in this morning, and I had a p-p-peep into the servants' hall when the fl-flunkeys were feeding, and such w-w-waste, such re-reckless--” “Good-evening, Mr. Purvis; I cannot stay longer,” said Kate. And, before he could interpose a word, she hastened from the spot, and, passing rapidly up the stairs, gained her own room, leaving Purvis to bethink him over the mass of things he had not touched upon, and on which he had mainly intended to debate.	{ "id": "32061" }
38	AN ARRIVAL.	LET us go back a few hours in our history, and follow the short and burly figure which, emerging from the travelling-carriage in the courtyard of the palace, pushed his way through the noisy throng of duns, and entered the house. “How are you, Proctor how is your master?” said he, as he threw off his great-coat, and unrolled a capacious muffler from his throat. “How is Sir Stafford?” “Oh, Dr. Grounsell, glad you've come, sir. It will be a real pleasure to my master to see you again, sir.” “How is he, man, how 's the gout?” “Poorly, very poorly, sir. Things have gone badly here, doctor, since you left us,” said he, with a sigh. “Yes, yes; I know it all; I have heard all about that. But his health tell me of his health.” “Greatly broken, sir. No sleep o' nights without opium, and no real rest even with that.” “And his spirits?” “Broken too, sir. He's not what you remember him, sir, nor anything like it. No pleasant joke, sir, when anything goes amiss, as it used to be; no turning it off with a merry laugh! He 's fretful and impatient about the merest trifles, and he that never wanted attendance is now always complaining that he 's neglected, and deserted and forsaken by all the world.” “Does the Captain come often to see and sit with him?” “Every day, sir; but these visits do rather harm than good. Sir Stafford is vexed at what goes on in the house; and Master George, I don't know how it is, but he don't calm him down, and they have oftentimes angry words together; not but my master is frequently in the wrong, and taxes the young gentleman with what he can't help; for you see, sir, my Lady--” “D--n! I mean, tell me about Sir Stafford; it is of him I want to hear. Does he read?” “He makes me read to him every day, sir, all about the money-market and railroad shares; sometimes twice over, indeed; and when I ask if he would n't like to hear about what goes on in politics, he always says, 'No, Proctor, let's have the City article again.'” “And his letters does n't he read them?” “The Captain reads them for him, sir; and now and then writes the answers, for he can't hold a pen himself! Oh, you 'll not know him when you see him! He that was so large and fine a man, I lift him in and out of bed as if he were a baby.” “Has he no acquaintance here?” “None, sir.” “Are there no inquiries after his health?” “Yes, sir; there's plenty of people he used to give money to when he was up and about poor actors, and painters, and the like they come every day to know how he is. Some of them leave begging letters, which I never give him; but most go away without a word.” “And his countrymen here are there none who ask after him?” “No, sir. The only English we ever see visit my Lady, and never come to this side of the house at all.” “Does Miss Dalton come to inquire for him?” “Every morning and every night too, sir. I suppose it must be without my Lady's orders, or even knowledge; for once, when Sir Stafford was sitting up in his dressing-room, and I asked her if she would n't like to come in and sit a few minutes with him, she turned away without speaking; and I saw, from her manner, that she was crying.” “What are all these people outside, who are they?” “My Lady's tradespeople, sir. They've heard she's going for a few weeks to Como, and they 've come with all their bills, as if she was a runaway.” “Go and tell them to leave this, send them away, Proctor. It would do your master great injury were he to overhear them. Say that everything shall be paid in a day or two; that Sir Stafford remains here, and is responsible for all.” Proctor hastened out on his errand, and the doctor sat down and covered his face with his hands. “Poor Stafford! is all your trustful affection come to this? Is it thus that your unbounded generosity, your noble hospitality, are requited?” When Proctor returned, he proceeded to detail, for the doctor's information, the various events which had occurred during his absence. With most, Grounsell was already acquainted, and listened to the particulars without surprise or emotion. “So it is, so it is,” muttered he to himself; “there may be more cant of virtue, a greater share of hypocrisy in our English morals, but, assuredly, these things do not happen with us as we see them here. There would seem a something enervating in the very air of the land, that a man like him should have sunk down into this besotted apathy! When can I see him, Proctor?” “He 's dozing just now, sir; but about midnight he wakes up and asks for his draught. If that won't be too late for you--” “Too late for me! Why, what else have I travelled for, night and day, without intermission? Be cautious, however, about how you announce me. Perhaps it would be better I should see the Captain first.” “You 'll scarcely find him at home, sir, at this hour; he generally comes in between three and four.” “Show me to his room. I 'll write a few lines for him in case we don't meet.” Proctor accompanied the doctor across the courtyard, and, guiding him up a small stair, reached the terrace off which George Onslow's apartment opened. The window-shutters of the room were not closed, nor the curtains drawn; and in the bright light of several candles that shone within, Grounsell saw two figures seated at a table, and busily engaged in examining the details of a case of pistols which lay before them. “That will do, Proctor,” said Grounsell; “you may leave me now. I'll be with you at twelve.” And thus saying, he gently pushed him towards the door of the terrace, which he closed and bolted after him, and then noiselessly returned to his former place. There were few things less congenial to Grounsell's nature than playing the spy. It was a part he thoroughly detested, nor did he think that it admitted of defence or palliation; still, the whole habit of his mind through life had impressed him with a disparaging opinion of himself. The limited sphere of his duties, the humble routine of his daily walk, and the very few friendships he had inspired, all tended to increase this impression, till at last he looked upon himself as one who could only be useful by the sacrifice of personal feeling and the abnegation of all self-esteem; and thus he would have declined to know another man for what he deemed of no consequence in himself. His fault was not thinking too well of others, but thinking too meanly of himself. The scene before him now was enough to suggest deep anxiety. Notes and letters littered the floor and the table; the embers of a large fire of papers lay on the hearth; open drawers and boxes stood on every side; all betokening preparation, the object of which the pistol-case sufficiently indicated. As they sat with their backs to the window, Grounsell could not recognize the figures; but the voice of one proclaimed him to be George Onslow. “And where is this place on the way to Arezzo?” asked he. “No; on the opposite side of the city, off the high-road to Bologna. It is a little park, surrounding a summer palace of the Grand Duke, they call Pratolino,” said the other. “They all agree that it is the best spot to be found; no molestation, nor interference of any kind; and a capital breakfast of fresh trout to be had at the inn.” “An interesting consideration for such as have good appetites,” said Onslow, laughing. “I never saw a Frenchman who had not, on such an occasion,” rejoined the other, snapping the pistol as he spoke. “I like these straight stocks; you are almost always certain of your man, with a stiff arm and a low aim.” “I don't know that I 've forgotten anything, Norwood,” said Onslow, rising and pacing the room with folded arms. “You 've written to the governor?” “Yes; and mentioned those acceptances,” said Onslow, with a sneering severity that the other never seemed to notice. “You're quite safe, whatever happens.” “Hang it, man, I wasn't thinking of that; curse the money, it never entered my thoughts.” “My father will pay it,” said George, dryly, and continued his walk. “As you have alluded to it, I hope you spoke of it as a loan, anything like a play transaction suggests a mess of scandal and stories.” “I have called it a debt, and that is quite sufficient.” “All right whatever you like. And now about this girl. Do you intend to let this mystery continue, or do you think that, under the circumstances, Lady Hester should still retain her as a friend and companion?” “I know of nothing to her disparagement, nor have I yet met one who does. That there are circumstances which she does not deem fitting to entrust to my keeping is no just cause of allegation against her.” “You are very honorable to say so, George; but I must confess it is more than she deserves at your hands.” “How do you mean?” “That she means to take the Russian, that's all.” “Well, and why not? Would not such a match be a brilliant one for a girl of much higher rank and pretension?” “What's the use of all this fencing, man?” said Norwood, half angrily, “I know better how matters stand. Do you remember the night you lost so heavily at Macao? Well, I was lying stretched on the sofa, yonder, by the light of the fire only, when the door opened, and she stepped gently in.” “What, Kate Dalton?” “Yes, Kate Dalton. Oh! impossible, if you like deny it as much as you please, but she has not equal hardihood, that I can tell you; and if she had, here is the proof that could condemn her, this fragment of her lace flounce was caught in the door as she banged it in her escape; and this very evening I compared it with the dress in question; ay, and showed her the rent from which it came.” Twice did George compel Norwood to repeat over this story; and then sat down, overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. “You swear to me, then, Onslow, that you never saw her here, never knew of her coming?” said he, after a long silence between them. “Never, I swear!” said the other, solemnly. “Then, some other is the fortunate man, that's all. How good if it should turn out to be Jekyl!” And he laughed heartily at the absurdity of the conceit. “No more of this,” said Onslow, passionately. “The tone of the society we live in here would seem to warrant any or every imputation, even on those whose lives are spotless; and I know of no greater degradation than the facility of our belief in them. In this instance, however, my conscience is at ease; and I reject, with contempt, the possibility of a stain upon that girl's honor.” “The sentiment does more credit to your chivalry than your shrewdness, George,” said the Viscount, sarcastically. “But as you are about to stake your life on the issue, I cannot impugn your sincerity.” A hasty movement of George towards the window here alarmed Grounsell, and he noiselessly withdrew, and descended the stairs again. “A precious mess of trouble do I find ready for me,” muttered he, as he passed across the courtyard. “Debt, duelling, and sickness, such are the pleasures that welcome me; and these not the worst, perhaps, if the causes of them were to be made known!” “My Lady has just heard of your arrival, doctor, and begs you will have the kindness to step up to her room,” said Proctor, coming to meet him. “I 'm tired, I 'm fatigued. Say I 'm in bed,” said Grounsell, angrily. “Her maid has just seen you, sir,” suggested Proctor, mildly. “No matter; give the answer I tell you; or stay perhaps it would be better to see her. Yes, Proctor, show me the way.” And muttering to himself, “The meeting will not be a whit pleasanter for her than me,” he followed the servant up the stairs. Well habituated to Lady Hester's extravagant and costly tastes, Grounsell was yet unprepared for the gorgeous decorations and splendid ornaments of the chambers through which he passed, and he stopped from time to time in amazement to contemplate a magnificence which was probably rather heightened than diminished by the uncertain light of the candles the servant carried. He peered at the china vases; he passed his hand across the malachite and jasper tables; he narrowly inspected the rich mosaics, as though doubtful of their being genuine; and then, with a deep sigh, almost deep enough to be a groan, he moved on in sadness. A bust of Kate Dalton the work of a great sculptor, and an admirable likeness caught his eye, and he gazed at it with signs of strong emotion. There was much beauty in it, and of a character all her own; but still the cold marble had caught up, in traits sterner than those of life, the ambitious bearing of the head and the proud elevation of the brow. “And she has become this already!” said he, half aloud. “Oh, how unlike poor Nelly's model! how different from the simple and beauteous innocence of those saint-like features!” “My Lady will see you, sir,” said Celestine, breaking in upon his musings. And he followed her into the chamber, where, seated in a deeply cushioned chair, Lady Hester reclined, dressed in all the perfection of an elegant deshabille. Grounsell was, assuredly, not the man to be most taken by such attractions, yet he could not remain entirely insensible to them; and he felt a most awkward sense of admiration as he surveyed her. With all a woman's quickness, her Ladyship saw the effect she had produced, and languidly extending her hand, she vouchsafed the nearest approach to a smile with which she had ever favored him. As if suddenly recalling all his old antipathies and prejudices, Grounsell was himself in a moment, and, scarcely touching the taper and jewelled fingers, he bowed ceremoniously and took his seat at a little distance off. “This is a very unexpected pleasure indeed,” sighed Lady Hester; “you only arrived to-night?” “Half an hour ago, madam; and but for your Ladyship's summons I should have been in bed.” “How do you find Sir Stafford looking poorly, I fear?” “I haven't yet seen him, madam, but I am prepared for a great change.” “I fear so,” sighed she, plaintively; “George says, quite a break up; and Buccellini calls it 'Gotta Affievolita,' and says it is very fatal with elderly people.” “The vulgar phrase of a 'broken heart' is more expressive, madam, and perhaps quite as pathological.” Lady Hester drew proudly up, and seemed preparing herself for a coming encounter. They were old antagonists, and well knew each other's mode of attack. On the present occasion, however, Grounsell did not seek a contest, and was satisfied by a single shot at the enemy, as if trying the range of his gun. “You will probably advise a change of air and scene, Dr. Grounsell,” said she, calmly, and as though inviting pacific intercourse. “It is precisely what I have come for, madam,” answered he, in a short, dry voice. “Sir Stafford's affairs require his immediate return to England. The vicissitudes that attend on great commercial enterprises threaten him with large very large losses.” Lady Hester fell back in her chair, and this time, at least, her pale cheek and her powerless attitude were not feigned nor counterfeited; but Grounsell merely handed her a smelling-bottle from the table, and went on: “The exact extent of his liabilities cannot be ascertained at once, but they must be considerable. He will be fortunate if there remain to him one fourth of his property.” Lady Hester's head fell heavily back, and she fainted away. The doctor rose, and sprinkled her forehead with water, and then patiently sat down with his finger on her wrist to watch the returning tide of circulation. Assured at length of her restored consciousness, he went on: “A small establishment, strict economy, a watchful supervision of every domestic arrangement, together with the proceeds of the sale of all the useless trumpery by which he is at present surrounded, will do much; but he must be seconded, madam, seconded and aided, not thwarted and opposed. George can exchange into a regiment in India; the proper steps have been already taken for that purpose.” “Have you been thoughtful enough, sir, in your general care of this family, to engage a small house for us at Brighton?” “I have seen one at Ramsgate, madam,” replied he, dryly; “but the rent is more than we ought to give.” “Are we so very poor as that, sir?” said she, sarcastically, laying emphasis on the pronoun. “Many excellent and worthy persons, madam, contrive to live respectably on less.” “Is Miss Onslow to go out as a governess, doctor? I am afraid you have forgotten her share in these transactions?” “I have a letter from her in my pocket, madam, which would show that she herself is not guilty of this forgetfulness, wherein she makes the very proposition you allude to.” “And me? Have you no sphere of self-denial and duty have you no degrading station, nor menial servitude, adapted to my habits?” “I know of none, madam,” said Grounsell, sternly. “Varnish will no more make a picture than fine manners prove a substitute for skill or industry.” “This is really too much, sir,” said she, rising, her face now crimson with anger; “and even if all you have said prove true, reverse of fortune can bring no heavier infliction than the prospect of your intimacy and obtrusive counsels.” “You may not need them, madam. In adversity,” said Grounsell, with a smile, “healthy stomachs get on very well without bitters.” And so saying, he bowed and left the room. For a few moments Lady Hester sat overwhelmed by the tidings she had just heard, and then, suddenly rising, she rang the bell for her maid. “Send Miss Dalton to me, Celestine; say I wish to speak to her immediately,” said she. “This may be the last time we shall speak to each other ere we invert our positions,” muttered she to herself. And in the working of her features might be read all the agony of the reflection.	{ "id": "32061" }
39	PRATOLINO.	How like the great world is every little section of it! How full of all its passions and interests, its warring jealousies and its selfish struggles! Within the Mazzarini Palace that night were at work every emotion and sentiment which sway the wide communities of men; and hope and fear, the yearnings of ambition, and the gloomy forebodings of despair, sat beside the pillows of those who, in vain, sought sleep and forgetfulness. Before that long night ended, Sir Stafford had learned his ruin, for it was little less. Kate had yielded, to the pressing entreaties of Lady Hester, her consent to accept Midchekoff; and, just as day was breaking, George Onslow stole to his father's bedside to see him once more, perhaps for the last time. It would be difficult to say in which of those three hearts the darkest sorrow brooded. With noiseless step and cautious gesture, George crossed the little sitting-room, and entered his father's chamber; and, without awaking the servant, who kept watch habitually without, but now had dropped off to sleep, he gained the bedside, and sat down. The terrible tidings he had just heard were evidently working on Sir Stafford's brain, and, despite all the influence of his opiate, still engaged his faculties; for his lips continued to move rapidly, and short broken sentences fell from him incessantly. “Poor George! poor George!” he muttered from time to time, and the tears rolled down the young man's cheek as he heard them. “How unworthy of him have I been!” thought he; “how shamefully unworthy and forgetful! Here should have been my place, for those hours which I have spent in noisy dissipation and debauch; and now I come for the first time, and probably the last! Oh, my poor father! How will you bear up against the shock that is preparing for you? for, with all my faults, I know how you have loved me!” A heavy tear dropped from him on the old man's cheek as he said this; and gently brushing it off with his hand, Sir Stafford opened his eyes and awoke. A mild and gentle smile broke over his features as he saw his son beside him, and he drew him towards him, and kissed him. “Have you been long here, George?” said he, affectionately. “But a few minutes. I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” muttered the other, in confusion, “Have you seen Grounsell yet? Has he told you?” asked Sir Stafford. “Grounsell? no, sir. I did not even hear of his arrival. What are his tidings?” “The saddest, perhaps, one friend can bring another,” sighed Onslow, as he covered his eyes with his hand. “Nay, nay, I am wrong,” said he, rapidly. “So long as Sydney and yourself are spared to me I have no right to say this; still, George, it is a terrible blow that strikes a man down from affluence to poverty, and, in place of wealth and power, leaves him nothing but insignificance and ruin!” “Good heavens, father! is your brain wandering? What fancies are these that are flitting across your mind?” “Sad and stern truths, my poor boy,” replied the old man, grasping his son's hand in his fevered palm. “A few weeks more will see the great house of Onslow bankrupt. These things cannot be told too briefly, George,” said he, speaking with a tremulous and eager rapidity. “One should hear misfortune early, to gain more time for future measures. A great crash has fallen upon the moneyed interest of England. The vast speculations in railways have overreached themselves; failures of great houses abroad have added to the difficulty. The correspondents whose solvency we never doubted are tottering to ruin. Every post brings tidings of some new failure; and from Odessa, from Hamburg, and from the ports of the Baltic to the distant shores of the New World, there is nothing but bankruptcy.” “But you have large estates, sir; you possess property of various kinds beyond the reach of these casualties.” “I own nothing to which my creditors have not a just right; nor, if I did, could I exercise the privilege of retaining it, George,” said the old man. “From what Grounsell tells me, there will be sufficient to meet every claim, but no more. There will remain nothing after. Lady Hester's settlement will, of course, secure to her a moderate competence; and we--you and I must look about, and see how we can face this same world we have been feasting so long. My time in it will needs be brief; but you, who may look forward with hope to long years of life, must bethink you at once of the new path before you. Arouse yourself, then, to the task, and I do not know but I may be prouder of you yet, buffeting the wild waves of adversity, and fighting the manful part of a bold, courageous spirit, than I have ever been in seeing you in the brilliant circle of all your high and titled acquaintances. Ay, George, the English merchant never died out in my heart, for all the aristocratic leaven which accident mixed up with my fortunes. I never ceased to glory in the pride of wealth accumulated by generous enterprises and honorable toil. I loved the life of labor that disciplined the faculties, and exercised not alone intelligence, but turned to use the gentler charities of life, linking man to man, as brethren journeying the same road, with different burdens, perhaps, but with the same goal. For myself, therefore, I have few cares. It remains with you to make them even fewer.” “Tell me what you propose for me, sir,” said George, in a low, weak voice. “First of all, George, you ought to leave the army. Grounsell, I must tell you, is not of this opinion; he advises an exchange into a regiment in India, but I think differently. To repair, if it be possible, the shattered wreck of our fortunes, you must address yourself to business life and habits. You 'll have to visit the West Indies, and, probably, the East. We still possess property in Ceylon, of value; and our coffee plantations there, as yet only in their infancy, need nothing but good management to ensure success. Grounsell laughed at my suggesting you for such duties, but I know you better, George, far better, than he does. The English pluck that storms a breach or heads a charge is the very same quality that sustains a man on the long dark road of adverse fortune. I have often told Grounsell that the stuff was in you, George.” The young man squeezed his father's hand, but was obliged to turn away his head to hide the tears which filled his eyes; for what a terrible deception was he practising at that very moment, and what duplicity was there even in the silence with which he heard him! For a few seconds Sir Stafford seemed to revel in all the bright visions of a warm fancy. The prospect his imagination had conjured up appeared to have momentarily lifted him above the reach of sorrow. He thought of his son engaged in the active business of life, and displaying in this new career the energies and resources of a bold and courageous spirit. He imagined the high-principled youth becoming the British merchant, and making the name of “Onslow” great and respected in the old arena of all their victories, the city of London. Could this but come to pass, were this dream to be realized, and he would bless the hour that wrecked his fortune, and thus made his poverty the foundation of future greatness. “I confess, George,” said he, “that I have a pride in thinking that I knew you better than others did, and that I read in the very wayward caprices of your disposition the impatience of an active mind, and not the ennui of an indolent one.” From this the old man branched off into his plans for the future; and, as if the emergency had suggested energy, talked well and clearly of all that was to be done. They were to start for England at once. Sir Stafford felt as if he was able to set out that very day. Some weeks would elapse before the crash came, and in the interval every preparation might be taken. “I hope,” said he, feelingly, “that I have few enemies; I am not sanguine enough to say, none; but, such as they are, they will not seek to humiliate me, I trust, by any unnecessary publicity.” The theme was a very painful one, and for a few seconds he could not go on. At last he resumed: “The extravagance of this household, George, will give much and just offence. It must be retrenched, and from this very day, from this very hour. You will look to this. It must not be said of us that, with ruin before us, we continued these habits of wasteful excess. Let these troops of idle servants be discharged at once. Except Lady Hester's carriage, sell off all equipage. Take no heed of what will be the town talk; such a downfall as ours can never be kept a secret. Let us only take care that we fall with dignity. Grounsell will remain here after us to settle everything, and our departure ought to be as speedy as may be. But you are not listening, George; do you hear me?” It was quite true George heeded little of what his father spoke; for, with bent-down head, he was trying to catch the sounds of what seemed a long, low whistle from the court without. As he listened, the whistle was repeated; he knew now that it was Norwood's signal, and that “his time was up.” “I must leave you, my dear father,” said he, assuming all that he could of calmness. “I have an appointment this morning, and one that I cannot well shake off. Norwood and I have promised to meet some friends at Pratolino.” “It was of that same Norwood I wished to speak to you, George. The sophistry of thinking him 'no worse than his set' will serve no longer. Such men are not fitting acquaintances for one whose character must be above reproach. Norwood is a most unworthy friend for you.” “I scarcely ever thought of him in that light. We are intimate, it is true; but such intimacy is not friendship.” “The greater the pollution of such acquaintanceship, then,” said the old man, gravely. “To see the dark side of such a nature, and yet live under its baneful shadow, is infinitely worse, George, than all the self-deception of a rash confidence. Keep your promise to-day, but I beseech you, let it be for the last time in such company.” Again the whistle was heard, and with the sharp crack of a whip, denoting impatience; and fearful that some accident might betray his secret, George clasped the old man's hand fervidly within his own, and hurried away without a word. “Is that George?” cried Norwood, as he stood beside a calessino ready harnessed, and with lamps lighted, for the morning was still dark, “is that George? Why, where have you been loitering this half-hour, man? Our time is six sharp, and it is now considerably past five, and the way lies all up hill.” “I have often done the distance in half an hour,” said George, angrily. “Perhaps the errand was a pleasanter one,” rejoined Norwood, laughing; “but jump in, for I feel certain the others are before us.” George Onslow was in no mood for talking as he took his seat beside his companion. The late scene with his father and the approaching event were enough to occupy him, even had his feeling for Norwood been different from what it was; but in reality never had he experienced the same dislike for the Viscount. All the flippant ease, all the cool indifference he displayed, were only so many offences to one whose thoughts were traversing the whole current of his life, from earliest boyhood down to that very moment. A few hours hence he might be no more! And thence arose to his mind the judgments men would pass upon him, the few who would speak charitably, the still fewer who would regret him. “What a career!” thought he. “What use to have made of fortune, station, health, and vigor; to have lived in dissipation, and die for a street brawl! And poor Kate! to what unfeeling scandal will this unhappy meeting expose you! how impossible to expect that truth will ever penetrate through that dark atmosphere of mystery and malevolence the world will throw over the event!” Norwood was provoked at the silence, and tried in various ways to break it. He spoke of the road, the weather, the horse's trotting action, the scenery, over which the breaking day now threw fitful and uncertain lights, but all in vain; and at last, piqued by non-success, he spitefully pointed attention to a little valley beside the road, and said, “Do you see that spot yonder, near the pine-trees? that 's where Harry Mathews was shot. Malzahn sent the bullet through the brain at forty paces. They were both first-rate pistol-shots, and the only question was who should fire first. Harry determined to reserve his shot, and he carried the privilege into the other world with him. Malzahn knew he might trust his skill, and fired the very instant he took his ground. The moral of which is, always try and have first fire with a foreigner.” “I heard the sound of wheels behind us; who are they?” said George, not heeding either the story or the counsel. “The doctor, I suspect. I ordered a calessino to wait for him at the door of the palace, and bring him up as fast as possible.” “If Guilmard be equal to his reputation, we shall not want his services,” said Onslow, with a faint smile. “Who can tell? We 'll put you up at a short distance; and there 's nothing shakes the nerves of your practised pistol-shot more than ten or twelve paces.” The road here became so steep that they were obliged to get down and walk for some distance, while the horse toiled slowly up behind them. As they went, Norwood continued to talk on incessantly of this, that, and t' other, as though bound to occupy the attention of his companion; while George, with half-closed eyes, strolled onward, deep in his own thoughts. “We 're not far off the place now, George,” said Norwood, at last, “and I wish you 'd throw off that look of care and abstraction. These foreign fellows will be quite ready to misinterpret it. Seem at your ease, man, and take the thing as I have seen you take it before, as rather good fun than otherwise.” “But that is precisely what I do not feel it,” said George, smiling quietly. “Twenty-four hours ago, when life had every possible advantage to bestow on me, with the prospect of an ample fortune before me, I was perfectly ready to turn out with any man who had the right to ask me; and now that I am ruined--” “Ruined!” broke in Norwood; “what do you mean? You have not lost to that Greek fellow so largely as that?” “Now that my father is on the verge of utter ruin,” repeated George, slowly, “the news came last night, I never felt the desire of life so strong within me. A few days or weeks more will make it public gossip, so I may tell you that we have not escaped the torrent that is sweeping away so many of the richest houses in Europe; and what between our immense liabilities and my father's scrupulous sense of honor, the chances are we shall be utterly beggared.” “The devil!” exclaimed Norwood, whose thoughts at once reverted to his own claims on George, and the unpaid acceptances he still held of his. “That's what I feel so strange,” said George, now speaking with a degree of warmth and interest, “that it should be exactly when life ceases to give promise that I should care for it; and I own to you, I 'd give anything that this meeting was not before me.” Norwood started, and turned his keen eyes on the other, but in the calm, unmoved features he saw no traces of fear or even agitation; and it was in his habitually calm voice Onslow resumed, “Yes, I wish the Count's hand would shake a little, Norwood. I 'd be most grateful to the bullet that would take to the right or the left of me.” “Come, come, George, no more of this. We are alone here, it's true; but if you talk this way now, you may chance to look like it by and by.” “And if I do not, my looks will strangely belie my sentiments, that I can tell you,” said Onslow, with a quiet laugh. “I don't care how you read the confession, Norwood, but I tell you frankly, that if the insult in this instance admitted of an apology, if there were any way to come off consistent with honor, I 'd take it, and not fight this Frenchman.” “Have you forgotten his reputation as a shot?” asked Norwood, hastily. “I was not thinking of it. My mind was dwelling merely on myself and my own interests, how far my life, if preserved, could be rendered useful to others, and in what way my death might occasion detriment and injury.” “A most mercantile estimate of profit and loss, by Jove!” said Norwood, laughing; “and perhaps it is fortunate for you there is no amende possible, for if Guilmard should miss you--” “As to these acceptances,” said George, not paying attention to what the other said, “I 'd prefer that they should not be presented to my father under our actual circumstances. My horses and carriages, and some other trumpery of mine, when sold, will more than meet them, and I have given orders to that end.” “Come, old fellow, it's not gone that far yet,” said Norwood, affecting a tone of friendship, suggested by the self-satisfaction the promise of payment afforded him. “But, hush! There they are, all together. Let us talk no more of these matters; and now, George, for Heaven's sake, be cool.” Norwood drew the other's arm within his own as he said this, and advanced to where a group of some half-dozen persons were standing, beside a low balcony, overlooking the Val d'Arno and the graceful valley in which Florence stands. Norwood quitted his friend's arm as he came forward and saluted the company. Nothing could possibly be more easy and unconstrained than the tone of their conversation, as they chatted away about the prospect beneath, and over which, like a gauzy veil, the gray shadow of dawn was hanging. With the exception of an Italian or two, they were all French, the young fashionables who were the loungers of the salons and cafes of the city. “Have you breakfasted, my Lord?” said one. “If not, let me recommend some excellent cutlets, which are not too cold, even yet.” “And the best chocolate I ever tasted out of Paris,” cried another. “Thanks,” said Norwood. “We 'll profit by the good counsel.” And, taking a cigar from his case, he lighted it from Guilmard's, as, with hands in his paletot, he sat negligently on the wall, surveying the scene below him. “Come, George, let's have something,” whispered Norwood, eagerly; for the vacant and unoccupied stare of Onslow continued to cause the Viscount the most intense anxiety. “These fellows are affecting to be devilish cool. Let us not be behindhand.” And, rather by force than mere persuasion, he dragged Onslow along, and entered the little parlor of the inn. A large table, covered with the remains of an ample breakfast, stood in the middle of the room, and a dish of cutlets was placed to keep hot before the stove. Several loose sheets of paper lay scattered about the table, on which were scrawled absurd and ill-drawn caricatures of duels, in which attitudes of extravagant fear and terror predominated. Norwood glanced at them for a moment, and then contemptuously threw them into the fire. “Sit down, George,” said he, placing a chair for the other; “and, if you cannot eat, at least take a 'nip' of brandy. Jekyl will be up, I suppose, in a few minutes. I told him to come with the doctor.” “I never felt an appetite at this early hour,” said Onslow; “and perhaps the present is not the time to suggest one.” “Did you remark Guilmard?” said Norwood, as he helped himself to a cutlet, and prepared his plate most artistically for a savory meal. “Did you observe him, George?” “No; I never looked that way.” “By Jove! he has got a tremendous scar on his cheek; the whole length, from the eye to the corner of his mouth. English knuckles do not certainly improve French physiognomy. A left-hander, eh?” “I remember nothing about it,” said Onslow, carelessly. “Well, you 've left him a memorandum of the transaction, any way,” said the Viscount, as he ate on. “And you were talking about an apology awhile ago?” “I was wishing that the case admitted of one,” said Onslow, calmly. Norwood gave a sidelong glance at the speaker, and, although he said nothing, a gesture of angry impatience revealed what was passing within him. “Do try that brandy. Well, then, take a glass of curacoa,” said he, pushing the bottle towards him. “Something! anything, in fact, you would say, Norwood, that might serve to make my courage 'carry the bead;' but you are altogether mistaken in inc. It is not of myself I am thinking; my anxieties are. But what could you care, or even understand, about my motives? Finish your breakfast, and let us make an end of this affair.” “In one minute more I'm your man; but if I have a weakness, it is for a plain roast truffle, with butter. It was a first love of mine, and, as the adage says, 'only revient toujours.' Were I in your shoes this morning, George, I 'd not leave one on the dish.” “On what principle, pray?” asked Onslow, smiling. “On that of the old Cardinal, who, when his doctors pronounced his case hopeless, immediately ordered a supper of ortolans with olives. It was a grand opportunity to indulge without the terror of an indigestion; and _a propos_ to such themes, where can our worthy doctor be all this time? The calessino was close up with us all the way.” Leaving Norwood to continue his meal, George strolled out in quest of the surgeon, but none had seen nor knew anything of him. An empty calessino was standing on the roadside, but the driver only knew that the gentleman who came with him had got out there, and entered the park. “Then we shall find him near the little lake,” said Norwood, coolly, as George returned, disappointed. “But it's strange, too, that he should be alone. Jekyl was to have been with him. These foreigners ever insist upon two seconds on either side. Like the gambler that always is calling for fresh cards, it looks very like a suspicion of foul play. Go back, George, and see if the fellow knows nothing of Jekyl. You 've only to name him, for every cab, cad, and barcaruolo of Florence is acquainted with Master Albert.” George returned to the spot, but without any success. The man stated that he took his stand, as he was desired, at the gate of the palace, and that a little man, apparently somewhat elderly, came out and asked which way the others had gone, and how long before they had started. “See that you pick them up then,” said he, “but don't pass them. He talked incessantly,” added the man, “the whole way, but in such bad Italian that I could make nothing of it, and so I answered at random. If I were tired of him, I fancy he was sick of me; and when he got out yonder, and passed into the park, it was a relief to us both.” George was just turning away, when his eye caught a glimpse of the glorious landscape beneath, on which a freshly risen sun was shedding all its splendor. There are few scenes, even in Italy, more striking than the Val d'Arno around Florence. The beautiful city itself, capped with many a dome and tower, the gigantic castle of the Bargello, the graceful arch of the Baptistery, the massive facade of the Pitti, all, even to the lone tower on the hill where Galileo watched, rich in their storied memories; while on the gentle slope of the mountain stood hundreds of beauteous villas, whose very names are like spells to the imagination, and the Dante, the Alfieri, the Boccaccio, vie in interest with the sterner realities of the Medici, the Pazzi, the Salviati, and the Strozzi. What a flood of memory pours over the mind, to think how every orange-grove and terrace, how each clump of olives, or each alley of cedars, have witnessed the most intense passions, or the most glorious triumphs of man's intellect or ambition, and that every spot we see has its own claim to immortality! Not in such mood as this, however, did Onslow survey the scene. It was in the rapt admiration of its picturesque beauty. The glittering river, now seen and lost again, the waving tree-tops, the parterres of bright flowers, the stately palaces, whose terraces were shadowed by the magnolia, the oleander, and the fig, all made up a picture of rich and beautiful effect, and he longed to throw himself on the deep grass and gaze on it for hours. As he stood thus, unable to tear himself away, he heard the sharp cracking of a postilion's whip immediately beneath him, and, on looking down, saw two heavily laden travelling-carriages, which all the power of eight horses to each could barely drag along against the steep ascent. A mounted courier in advance proclaimed that the travellers were persons of condition, and everything about the equipages themselves indicated wealth and station. As Onslow knew all who moved in a certain class in society, he was curious to see who was journeying northward so early in the year, and, stepping into a little copse beside the road, he waited for the carriages to pass. They came slowly forward, now halting to “breathe” the weary horses, now struggling for a brief space against the hill, and at last, turning a sharp angle of the way, the first carriage drew short up, directly in front of where he stood. The panels bore the flaunting and pretentious arms of Prince Midchekoff, with many an armorial emblem, which, however tolerated in the rest of Europe, the Czar would not suffer within his own dominions. As George glanced at these, he started, for a well-known voice caught his ear, and, forgetting his desire of concealment, he leaned forward to listen. It was Kate was speaking; he could not hear the words, but the accents were her own. “Oh for one look at her, for the last time!” thought he; and dashed headlong through the copse towards where, by another bend, the road made a rapid turn upwards. Already the horses had regained their wind, and were away at a brisk trot, as George tore onward through the closely interwoven branches and thick underwood of the grove. There was no path, nor, once out of sight or sound of the road, anything to guide him; but he dashed on, in the direction he supposed the carriage must take. At every step the way grew more intricate and difficult; the pits the peasants dig for chestnut leaves, the little heaps collected for firewood, intercepted him at each moment. With torn clothes and bleeding hands he still rushed madly, resolutely bent upon his object; and, with many a bruise and many a scar, at last gained the open country just in time to see the second carriage crowning the peak of the mountain above his head, while he could hear the sharp, clanking sound of the drag as they fastened it to the leading carriage. Any attempt to overtake them on the hill must now be hopeless. He well knew the pace at which a continental postilion descends a mountain, and how the steepest galleries of Alps and Apennines are often galloped down at speed. For miles below him he could see the winding zigzags of the road, and at each turning he fancied how he might catch sight of her. The mountain itself was terraced with vineyards from base to summit; but, from the steepness of its side, these terraces were but narrow strips of ground, barely sufficient for the vine-dresser to pass when tending his plants, or gathering in their produce. To look down on this giant stair, for such it seemed, was a giddy sensation, and few could have surveyed the precipitous descent without a sense of danger. Onslow's thoughts, however, had but one object, to see Kate once, and for the last time. By a straight descent of the mountain, leaping from terrace to terrace, it was possible for him to reach the bottom before the carriages could traverse the winding course of the road; and no sooner was the thought conceived than he proceeded to execute it. It is difficult to convey to those who have never seen these terraced flights of earth a true notion of the peril of such an undertaking; but they who have beheld them will acknowledge that little short of utter recklessness could dare it. Less leaping than dropping from height to height, the slightest impulse will carry the footsteps beyond the edge of the terrace, and then all self-control is lost, and destruction, to every appearance, inevitable. The youth whose nerves have been trained by the sports of fox-hunting and deer-stalking, however, is seldom unprepared for sudden danger; and George never hesitated when once the undertaking seemed practicable. By sidelong leaps he descended the first three or four terraces well and safely. Impressed with the risk of the exploit, he never turned his eyes from the spot whereon he meant to alight, and measured every bound with accuracy. Suddenly, however, his attention was caught by the postilion's bugle sounding, several hundred feet below him, and, in a bend of the road, he saw the dust left by the fast-descending carriage. Forgetful of safety, of everything, save his object, he leaped at random, and with a tremendous bound cleared one terrace completely, and alighted on the one beneath it. The impulse drove him forwards, and ere he could recover, he was on the very verge of the cliff. Even yet his presence of mind might have rescued him, when the loose masonry gave way, and carried him down with it. He fell forwards, and headlong; the force of the descent carried him on, and now, half falling, half-struggling, he bounded from height to height, till, shattered, maimed, and bleeding, he rolled, an unconscious heap of clay, in the long grass of the valley. Not fifty yards from where he lay, the carriages passed, and Kate even leaned from the window to gaze upon the winding glen, little thinking how terrible an interest that quiet scene was filled with. And so the equipages held their speed, and pressed onward; while, with a faint breathing, poor George lay, sleeping that dreamless slumber that seems a counterfeit of death. END OF VOL. I.	{ "id": "32061" }
1	SHANGHAIED	This is to be a story of a battle, at least one murder, and several sudden deaths. For that reason it begins with a pink tea and among the mingled odors of many delicate perfumes and the hale, frank smell of Caroline Testout roses. There had been a great number of debutantes “coming out” that season in San Francisco by means of afternoon teas, pink, lavender, and otherwise. This particular tea was intended to celebrate the fact that Josie Herrick had arrived at that time of her life when she was to wear her hair high and her gowns long, and to have a “day” of her own quite distinct from that of her mother. Ross Wilbur presented himself at the Herrick house on Pacific Avenue much too early upon the afternoon of Miss Herrick's tea. As he made, his way up the canvased stairs he was aware of a terrifying array of millinery and a disquieting staccato chatter of feminine voices in the parlors and reception-rooms on either side of the hallway. A single high hat in the room that had been set apart for the men's use confirmed him in his suspicions. “Might have known it would be a hen party till six, anyhow,” he muttered, swinging out of his overcoat. “Bet I don't know one girl in twenty down there now--all mamma's friends at this hour, and papa's maiden sisters, and Jo's school-teachers and governesses and music-teachers, and I don't know what all.” When he went down he found it precisely as he expected. He went up to Miss Herrick, where she stood receiving with her mother and two of the other girls, and allowed them to chaff him on his forlornness. “Maybe I seem at my ease,” said Ross Wilbur to them, “but really I am very much frightened. I'm going to run away as soon as it is decently possible, even before, unless you feed me.” “I believe you had luncheon not two hours ago,” said Miss Herrick. “Come along, though, and I'll give you some chocolate, and perhaps, if you're good, a stuffed olive. I got them just because I knew you liked them. I ought to stay here and receive, so I can't look after you for long.” The two fought their way through the crowded rooms to the luncheon-table, and Miss Herrick got Wilbur his chocolate and his stuffed olives. They sat down and talked in a window recess for a moment, Wilbur toeing-in in absurd fashion as he tried to make a lap for his plate. “I thought,” said Miss Herrick, “that you were going on the Ridgeways' yachting party this afternoon. Mrs. Ridgeway said she was counting on you. They are going out with the 'Petrel.'” “She didn't count above a hundred, though,” answered Wilbur. “I got your bid first, so I regretted the yachting party; and I guess I'd have regretted it anyhow,” and he grinned at her over his cup. “Nice man,” she said--adding on the instant, “I must go now, Ross.” “Wait till I eat the sugar out of my cup,” complained Wilbur. “Tell me,” he added, scraping vigorously at the bottom of the cup with the inadequate spoon; “tell me, you're going to the hoe-down to-night?” “If you mean the Assembly, yes, I am.” “Will you give me the first and last?” “I'll give you the first, and you can ask for the last then.” “Let's put it down; I know you'll forget it.” Wilbur drew a couple of cards from his case. “Programmes are not good form any more,” said Miss Herrick. “Forgetting a dance is worse.” He made out the cards, writing on the one he kept for himself, “First waltz--Jo.” “I must go back now,” said Miss Herrick, getting up. “In that case I shall run--I'm afraid of girls.” “It's a pity about you.” “I am; one girl, I don't say, but girl in the aggregate like this,” and he pointed his chin toward the thronged parlors. “It un-mans me.” “Good-by, then.” “Good-by, until to-night, about--?” “About nine.” “About nine, then.” Ross Wilbur made his adieu to Mrs. Herrick and the girls who were receiving, and took himself away. As he came out of the house and stood for a moment on the steps, settling his hat gingerly upon his hair so as not to disturb the parting, he was not by any means an ill-looking chap. His good height was helped out by his long coat and his high silk hat, and there was plenty of jaw in the lower part of his face. Nor was his tailor altogether answerable for his shoulders. Three years before this time Ross Wilbur had pulled at No. 5 in his varsity boat in an Eastern college that was not accustomed to athletic discomfiture. “I wonder what I'm going to do with myself until supper time,” he muttered, as he came down the steps, feeling for the middle of his stick. He found no immediate answer to his question. But the afternoon was fine, and he set off to walk in the direction of the town, with a half-formed idea of looking in at his club. At his club he found a letter in his box from his particular chum, who had been spending the month shooting elk in Oregon. “Dear Old Man,” it said, “will be back on the afternoon you receive this. Will hit the town on the three o'clock boat. Get seats for the best show going--my treat--and arrange to assimilate nutriment at the Poodle Dog--also mine. I've got miles of talk in me that I've got to reel off before midnight. Yours. “JERRY.” “I've got a stand of horns for you, Ross, that are Glory Hallelujah.” “Well, I can't go,” murmured Wilbur, as he remembered the Assembly that was to come off that night and his engaged dance with Jo Herrick. He decided that it would be best to meet Jerry as he came off the boat and tell him how matters stood. Then he resolved, since no one that he knew was in the club, and the instalment of the Paris weeklies had not arrived, that it would be amusing to go down to the water-front and loaf among the shipping until it was time for Jerry's boat. Wilbur spent an hour along the wharves, watching the great grain ships consigned to “Cork for orders” slowly gorging themselves with whole harvests of wheat from the San Joaquin Valley; lumber vessels for Durban and South African ports settling lower and lower to the water's level as forests of pine and redwood stratified themselves along their decks and in their holds; coal barges discharging from Nanaimo; busy little tugs coughing and nuzzling at the flanks of the deep-sea tramps, while hay barges and Italian whitehalls came and went at every turn. A Stockton River boat went by, her stern wheel churning along behind, like a huge net-reel; a tiny maelstrom of activity centred about an Alaska Commercial Company's steamboat that would clear for Dawson in the morning. No quarter of one of the most picturesque cities in the world had more interest for Wilbur than the water-front. In the mile or so of shipping that stretched from the docks where the China steamships landed, down past the ferry slips and on to Meiggs's Wharf, every maritime nation in the world was represented. More than once Wilbur had talked to the loungers of the wharves, stevedores out of work, sailors between voyages, caulkers and ship chandlers' men looking--not too earnestly--for jobs; so that on this occasion, when a little, undersized fellow in dirty brown sweater and clothes of Barbary coast cut asked him for a match to light his pipe, Wilbur offered a cigar and passed the time of day with him. Wilbur had not forgotten that he himself was dressed for an afternoon function. But the incongruity of the business was precisely what most amused him. After a time the fellow suggested drinks. Wilbur hesitated for a moment. It would be something to tell about, however, so, “All right, I'll drink with you,” he said. The brown sweater led the way to a sailors' boarding-house hard by. The rear of the place was built upon piles over the water. But in front, on the ground floor, was a barroom. “Rum an' gum,” announced the brown sweater, as the two came in and took their places at the bar. “Rum an' gum, Tuck; wattle you have, sir?” “Oh--I don't know,” hesitated Wilbur; “give me a mild Manhattan.” While the drinks were being mixed the brown sweater called Wilbur's attention to a fighting head-dress from the Marquesas that was hung on the wall over the free-lunch counter and opposite the bar. Wilbur turned about to look at it, and remained so, his back to the barkeeper, till the latter told them their drinks were ready. “Well, mate, here's big blocks an' taut hawse-pipes,” said the brown sweater cordially. “Your very good health,” returned Wilbur. The brown sweater wiped a thin mustache in the hollow of his palm, and wiped that palm upon his trouser leg. “Yessir,” he continued, once more facing the Marquesas head-dress. “Yessir, they're queer game down there.” “In the Marquesas Islands, you mean?” said Wilbur. “Yessir, they're queer game. When they ain't tattoin' theirselves with Scripture tex's they git from the missionaries, they're pullin' out the hairs all over their bodies with two clam-shells. Hair by hair, y' understan'?” “Pull'n out 'er hair?” said Wilbur, wondering what was the matter with his tongue. “They think it's clever--think the women folk like it.” Wilbur had fancied that the little man had worn a brown sweater when they first met. But now, strangely enough, he was not in the least surprised to see it iridescent like a pigeon's breast. “Y' ever been down that way?” inquired the little man next. Wilbur heard the words distinctly enough, but somehow they refused to fit into the right places in his brain. He pulled himself together, frowning heavily. “What--did--you--say?” he asked with great deliberation, biting off his words. Then he noticed that he and his companion were no longer in the barroom, but in a little room back of it. His personality divided itself. There was one Ross Wilbur--who could not make his hands go where he wanted them, who said one word when he thought another, and whose legs below the knee were made of solid lead. Then there was another Ross Wilbur--Ross Wilbur, the alert, who was perfectly clear-headed, and who stood off to one side and watched his twin brother making a monkey of himself, without power and without even the desire of helping him. This latter Wilbur heard the iridescent sweater say: “Bust me, if y' a'n't squiffy, old man. Stand by a bit an' we'll have a ball.” “Can't have got--return--exceptionally--and the round table--pull out hairs wi' tu clamsh'ls,” gabbled Wilbur's stupefied double; and Wilbur the alert said to himself: “You're not drunk, Ross Wilbur, that's certain; what could they have put in your cocktail?” The iridescent sweater stamped twice upon the floor and a trap-door fell away beneath Wilbur's feet like the drop of a gallows. With the eyes of his undrugged self Wilbur had a glimpse of water below. His elbow struck the floor as he went down, and he fell feet first into a Whitehall boat. He had time to observe two men at the oars and to look between the piles that supported the house above him and catch a glimpse of the bay and a glint of the Contra Costa shore. He was not in the least surprised at what had happened, and made up his mind that it would be a good idea to lie down in the boat and go to sleep. Suddenly--but how long after his advent into the boat he could not tell--his wits began to return and settle themselves, like wild birds flocking again after a scare. Swiftly he took in the scene. The blue waters of the bay around him, the deck of a schooner on which he stood, the Whitehall boat alongside, and an enormous man with a face like a setting moon wrangling with his friend in the sweater--no longer iridescent. “What do you call it?” shouted the red man. “I want able seamen--I don't figger on working this boat with dancing masters, do I? We ain't exactly doing quadrilles on my quarterdeck. If we don't look out we'll step on this thing and break it. It ain't ought to be let around loose without its ma.” “Rot that,” vociferated the brown sweater. “I tell you he's one of the best sailor men on the front. If he ain't we'll forfeit the money. Come on, Captain Kitchell, we made show enough gettin' away as it was, and this daytime business ain't our line. D'you sign or not? Here's the advance note. I got to duck my nut or I'll have the patrol boat after me.” “I'll sign this once,” growled the other, scrawling his name on the note; “but if this swab ain't up to sample, he'll come back by freight, an' I'll drop in on mee dear friend Jim when we come back and give him a reel nice time, an' you can lay to that, Billy Trim.” The brown sweater pocketed the note, went over the side, and rowed off. Wilbur stood in the waist of a schooner anchored in the stream well off Fisherman's wharf. In the forward part of the schooner a Chinaman in brown duck was mixing paint. Wilbur was conscious that he still wore his high hat and long coat, but his stick was gone and one gray glove was slit to the button. In front of him towered the enormous red-faced man. A pungent reek of some kind of rancid fat or oil assailed his nostrils. Over by Alcatraz a ferry-boat whistled for its slip as it elbowed its way through the water. Wilbur had himself fairly in hand by now. His wits were all about him; but the situation was beyond him as yet. “Git for'd,” commanded the big man. Wilbur drew himself up, angry in an instant. “Look here,” he began, “what's the meaning of this business? I know I've been drugged and mishandled. I demand to be put ashore. Do you understand that?” “Angel child,” whimpered the big man. “Oh, you lilee of the vallee, you bright an' mornin' star. I'm reely pained y'know, that your vally can't come along, but we'll have your piano set up in the lazarette. It gives me genuine grief, it do, to see you bein' obliged to put your lilee white feet on this here vulgar an' dirtee deck. We'll have the Wilton carpet down by to-morrer, so we will, my dear. Yah-h!” he suddenly broke out, as his rage boiled over. “Git for'd, d'ye hear! I'm captain of this here bathtub, an' that's all you need to know for a good while to come. I ain't generally got to tell that to a man but once; but I'll stretch the point just for love of you, angel child. Now, then, move!” Wilbur stood motionless--puzzled beyond expression. No experience he had ever been through helped in this situation. “Look here,” he began, “I--” The captain knocked him down with a blow of one enormous fist upon the mouth, and while he was yet stretched upon the deck kicked him savagely in the stomach. Then he allowed him to rise, caught him by the neck and the slack of his overcoat, and ran him forward to where a hatchway, not two feet across, opened in the deck. Without ado, he flung him down into the darkness below; and while Wilbur, dizzied by the fall, sat on the floor at the foot of the vertical companion-ladder, gazing about him with distended eyes, there rained down upon his head, first an oilskin coat, then a sou'wester, a pair of oilskin breeches, woolen socks, and a plug of tobacco. Above him, down the contracted square of the hatch, came the bellowing of the Captain's voice: “There's your fit-out, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, which the same our dear friend Jim makes a present of and no charge, because he loves you so. You're allowed two minutes to change, an' it is to be hoped as how you won't force me to come for to assist.” It would have been interesting to have followed, step by step, the mental process that now took place in Ross Wilbur's brain. The Captain had given him two minutes in which to change. The time was short enough, but even at that Wilbur changed more than his clothes during the two minutes he was left to himself in the reekind dark of the schooner's fo'castle. It was more than a change--it was a revolution. What he made up his mind to do--precisely what mental attitude he decided to adopt, just what new niche he elected wherein to set his feet, it is difficult to say. Only by results could the change be guessed at. He went down the forward hatch at the toe of Kitchell's boot--silk-hatted, melton-overcoated, patent-booted, and gloved in suedes. Two minutes later there emerged upon the deck a figure in oilskins and a sou'wester. There was blood upon the face of him and the grime of an unclean ship upon his bare hands. It was Wilbur, and yet not Wilbur. In two minutes he had been, in a way, born again. The only traces of his former self were the patent-leather boots, still persistent in their gloss and shine, that showed grim incongruity below the vast compass of the oilskin breeches. As Wilbur came on deck he saw the crew of the schooner hurrying forward, six of them, Chinamen every one, in brown jeans and black felt hats. On the quarterdeck stood the Captain, barking his orders. “Consider the Lilee of the Vallee,” bellowed the latter, as his eye fell upon Wilbur the Transformed. “Clap on to that starboard windlass brake, sonny.” Wilbur saw the Chinamen ranging themselves about what he guessed was the windlass in the schooner's bow. He followed and took his place among them, grasping one of the bars. “Break down!” came the next order. Wilbur and the Chinamen obeyed, bearing up and down upon the bars till the slack of the anchor-chain came home and stretched taut and dripping from the hawse-holes. “'Vast heavin'!” And then as Wilbur released the brake and turned about for the next order, he cast his glance out upon the bay, and there, not a hundred and fifty yards away, her spotless sails tense, her cordage humming, her immaculate flanks slipping easily through the waves, the water hissing and churning under her forefoot, clean, gleaming, dainty, and aristocratic, the Ridgeways' yacht “Petrel” passed like a thing of life. Wilbur saw Nat Ridgeway himself at the wheel. Girls in smart gowns and young fellows in white ducks and yachting caps--all friends of his--crowded the decks. A little orchestra of musicians were reeling off a quickstep. The popping of a cork and a gale of talk and laughter came to his ears. Wilbur stared at the picture, his face devoid of expression. The “Petrel” came on--drew nearer--was not a hundred feet away from the schooner's stern. A strong swimmer, such as Wilbur, could cover the distance in a few strides. Two minutes ago Wilbur might have-- “Set your mains'l,” came the bellow of Captain Kitchell. “Clap on to your throat and peak halyards.” The Chinamen hurried aft. Wilbur followed.	{ "id": "321" }
2	A NAUTICAL EDUCATION.	In the course of the next few moments, while the little vessel was being got under way, and while the Ridgeways' “Petrel” gleamed off into the blue distance, Wilbur made certain observations. The name of the boat on which he found himself was the “Bertha Millner.” She was a two-topmast, 28-ton keel schooner, 40 feet long, carrying a large spread of sail--mainsail, foresail, jib, flying-jib, two gaff-topsails, and a staysail. She was very dirty and smelt abominably of some kind of rancid oil. Her crew were Chinamen; there was no mate. But the cook--himself a Chinaman--who appeared from time to time at the door of the galley, a potato-masher in his hand, seemed to have some sort of authority over the hands. He acted in a manner as a go-between for the Captain and the crew, sometimes interpreting the former's orders, and occasionally giving one of his own. Wilbur heard the Captain address him as Charlie. He spoke pigeon English fairly. Of the balance of the crew--the five Chinamen--Wilbur could make nothing. They never spoke, neither to Captain Kitchell, to Charlie, nor to each other; and for all the notice they took of Wilbur he might easily have been a sack of sand. Wilbur felt that his advent on the “Bertha Millner” was by its very nature an extraordinary event; but the absolute indifference of these brown-suited Mongols, the blankness of their flat, fat faces, the dulness of their slanting, fishlike eyes that never met his own or even wandered in his direction, was uncanny, disquieting. In what strange venture was he now to be involved, toward what unknown vortex was this new current setting, this current that had so suddenly snatched him from the solid ground of his accustomed life? He told himself grimly that he was to have a free cruise up the bay, perhaps as far as Alviso; perhaps the “Bertha Millner” would even make the circuit of the bay before returning to San Francisco. He might be gone a week. Wilbur could already see the scare-heads of the daily papers the next morning, chronicling the disappearance of “One of Society's Most Popular Members.” “That's well, y'r throat halyards. Here, Lilee of the Vallee, give a couple of pulls on y'r peak halyard purchase.” Wilbur stared at the Captain helplessly. “No can tell, hey?” inquired Charlie from the galley. “Pullum disa lope, sabe?” Wilbur tugged at the rope the cook indicated. “That's well, y'r peak halyard purchase,” chanted Captain Kitchell. Wilbur made the rope fast. The mainsail was set, and hung slatting and flapping in the wind. Next the for'sail was set in much the same manner, and Wilbur was ordered to “lay out on the ji'boom and cast the gaskets off the jib.” He “lay out” as best he could and cast off the gaskets--he knew barely enough of yachting to understand an order here and there--and by the time he was back on the fo'c'sle head the Chinamen were at the jib halyard and hoisting away. “That's well, y'r jib halyards.” The “Bertha Millner” veered round and played off to the wind, tugging at her anchor. “Man y'r windlass.” Wilbur and the crew jumped once more to the brakes. “Brake down, heave y'r anchor to the cathead.” The anchor-chain, already taut, vibrated and then cranked through the hawse-holes as the hands rose and fell at the brakes. The anchor came home, dripping gray slime. A nor'west wind filled the schooner's sails, a strong ebb tide caught her underfoot. “We're off,” muttered Wilbur, as the “Bertha Millner” heeled to the first gust. But evidently the schooner was not bound up the bay. “Must be Vallejo or Benicia, then,” hazarded Wilbur, as the sails grew tenser and the water rippled ever louder under the schooner's forefoot. “Maybe they're going after hay or wheat.” The schooner was tacking, headed directly for Meiggs's wharf. She came in closer and closer, so close that Wilbur could hear the talk of the fishermen sitting on the stringpieces. He had just made up his mind that they were to make a landing there, when-- “Stand by for stays,” came the raucous bark of the Captain, who had taken on the heel. The sails slatted furiously as the schooner came about. Then the “Bertha Millner” caught the wind again and lay over quietly and contentedly to her work. The next tack brought the schooner close under Alcatraz. The sea became heavier, the breeze grew stiff and smelled of the outside ocean. Out beyond them to westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak vista of gray-green water roughened with white-caps. “Stand by for stays.” Once again as the rudder went hard over, the “Bertha Millner” fretted and danced and shook her sails, calling impatiently for the wind, chafing at its absence like a child reft of a toy. Then again she scooped the nor'wester in the hollow palms of her tense canvases and settled quietly down on the new tack, her bowsprit pointing straight toward the Presidio. “We'll come about again soon,” Wilbur told himself, “and stand over toward the Contra Costa shore.” A fine huge breath of wind passed over the schooner. She heeled it on the instant, the water roaring along her quarter, but she kept her course. Wilbur fell thoughtful again, never more keenly observant. “She must come about soon,” he muttered uneasily, “if she's going to stand up toward Vallejo.” His heart sank with a sudden apprehension. A nervousness he could not overcome seized upon him. The “Bertha Millner” held tenaciously to the tack. Within fifty yards of the Presidio came the command again: “Stand by for stays.” Once more, her bows dancing, her cordage rattling, her sails flapping noisily, the schooner came about. Anxiously Wilbur observed the bowsprit as it circled like a hand on a dial, watching where now it would point. It wavered, fluctuated, rose, fell, then settled easily, pointing toward Lime Point. Wilbur felt a sudden coldness at his heart. “This isn't going to be so much fun,” he muttered between his teeth. The schooner was not bound up the bay for Alviso nor to Vallejo for grain. The track toward Lime Point could mean but one thing. The wind was freshening from the nor'west, the ebb tide rushing out to meet the ocean like a mill-race, at every moment the Golden Gate opened out wider, and within two minutes after the time of the last tack the “Bertha Millner” heeled to a great gust that had come booming in between the heads, straight from the open Pacific. “Stand by for stays.” As before, one of the Chinese hands stood by the sail rope of the jib. “Draw y'r jib.” The jib filled. The schooner came about on the port tack; Lime Point fell away over the stern rail. The huge ground swells began to come in, and as she rose and bowed to the first of these it was precisely as though the “Bertha Millner” were making her courtesy to the great gray ocean, now for the first time in full sight on her starboard quarter. The schooner was beating out to sea through the Middle Channel. Once clear of the Golden Gate, she stood over toward the Cliff House, then on the next tack cleared Point Bonita. The sea began building up in deadly earnest--they were about to cross the bar. Everything was battened down, the scuppers were awash, and the hawse-holes spouted like fountains after every plunge. Once the Captain ordered all men aloft, just in time to escape a gigantic dull green roller that broke like a Niagara over the schooner's bows, smothering the decks knee-deep in a twinkling. The wind blew violent and cold, the spray was flying like icy small-shot. Without intermission the “Bertha Millner” rolled and plunged and heaved and sank. Wilbur was drenched to the skin and sore in every joint, from being shunted from rail to mast and from mast to rail again. The cordage sang like harp-strings, the schooner's forefoot crushed down into the heaving water with a hissing like that of steam, blocks rattled, the Captain bellowed his orders, rope-ends flogged the hollow deck till it reverberated like a drum-head. The crossing of the bar was one long half-hour of confusion and discordant sound. When they were across the bar the Captain ordered the cook to give the men their food. “Git for'rd, sonny,” he added, fixing Wilbur with his eye. “Git for'rd, this is tawble dee hote, savvy?” Wilbur crawled forward on the reeling deck, holding on now to a mast, now to a belaying-pin, now to a stay, watching his chance and going on between the inebriated plunges of the schooner. He descended the fo'c'sle hatch. The Chinamen were already there, sitting on the edges of their bunks. On the floor, at the bottom of the ladder, punk-sticks were burning in an old tomato-can. Charlie brought in supper--stewed beef and pork in a bread-pan and a wooden kit--and the Chinamen ate in silence with their sheath-knives and from tin plates. A liquid that bore a distant resemblance to coffee was served. Wilbur learned afterward to know the stuff as Black Jack, and to be aware that it was made from bud barley and was sweetened with molasses. A single reeking lamp swung with the swinging of the schooner over the centre of the group, and long after Wilbur could remember the grisly scene--the punk-sticks, the bread-pan full of hunks of meat, the horrid close and oily smell, and the circle of silent, preoccupied Chinese, each sitting on his bunk-ledge, devouring stewed pork and holding his pannikin of Black Jack between his feet against the rolling of the boat. Wilbur looked fearfully at the mess in the pan, recalling the chocolate and stuffed olives that had been his last luncheon. “Well,” he muttered, clinching his teeth, “I've got to come to it sooner or later.” His penknife was in the pocket of his waist-coat, underneath his oilskin coat. He opened the big blade, harpooned a cube of pork, and deposited it on his tin plate. He ate it slowly and with savage determination. But the Black Jack was more than he could bear. “I'm not hungry enough for that just now,” he told himself. “Say, Jim,” he said, turning to the Chinaman next him on the bunk-ledge, “say, what kind of boat is this? What you do--where you go?” The other moved away impatiently. “No sabe, no sabe,” he answered, shaking his head and frowning. Throughout the whole of that strange meal these were the only words spoken. When Wilbur came on deck again he noted that the “Bertha Millner” had already left the whistling-buoy astern. Off to the east, her sails just showing above the waves, was a pilot-boat with the number 7 on her mainsail. The evening was closing in; the Farallones were in plain sight dead ahead. Far behind, in a mass of shadow just bluer than the sky, he could make out a few twinkling lights--San Francisco. Half an hour later Kitchell came on deck from his supper in the cabin aft. He glanced in the direction of the mainland, now almost out of sight, then took the wheel from one of the Chinamen and commanded, “Ease off y'r fore an' main sheets.” The hands eased away and the schooner played off before the wind. The staysail was set. The “Bertha Millner” headed to southwest, bowling easily ahead of a good eight-knot breeze. Next came the order “All hands aft!” and Wilbur and his mates betook themselves to the quarterdeck. Charlie took the wheel, and he and Kitchell began to choose the men for their watches, just as Wilbur remembered to have chosen sides for baseball during his school days. “Sonny, I'll choose you; you're on my watch,” said the Captain to Wilbur, “and I will assoom the ree-sponsibility of your nautical eddoocation.” “I may as well tell you at once,” began Wilbur, “that I'm no sailor.” “But you will be, soon,” answered the Captain, at once soothing and threatening; “you will be, Mister Lilee of the Vallee, you kin lay to it as how you will be one of the best sailormen along the front, as our dear friend Jim says. Before I git throo with you, you'll be a sailorman or shark-bait, I can promise you. You're on my watch; step over here, son.” The watches were divided, Charlie and three other Chinamen on the port, Kitchell, Wilbur, and two Chinamen on the starboard. The men trooped forward again. The tiny world of the schooner had lapsed to quiet. The “Bertha Millner” was now clear of the land, that lay like a blur of faintest purple smoke--ever growing fainter--low in the east. The Farallones showed but their shoulders above the horizon. The schooner was standing well out from shore--even beyond the track of the coasters and passenger steamers--to catch the Trades from the northwest. The sun was setting royally, and the floor of the ocean shimmered like mosaic. The sea had gone down and the fury of the bar was a thing forgotten. It was perceptibly warmer. On board, the two watches mingled forward, smoking opium and playing a game that looked like checkers. Three of them were washing down the decks with kaiar brooms. For the first time since he had come on board Wilbur heard the sound of their voices. The evening was magnificent. Never to Wilbur's eyes had the Pacific appeared so vast, so radiant, so divinely beautiful. A star or two burned slowly through that part of the sky where the pink began to fade into the blue. Charlie went forward and set the side lights--red on the port rigging, green on the starboard. As he passed Wilbur, who was leaning over the rail and watching the phosphorus flashing just under the surface, he said: “Hey, you go talkee-talk one-piecey Boss, savvy Boss--chin-chin.” Wilbur went aft and came up on the poop, where Kitchell stood at the wheel, smoking an inverted “Tarrier's Delight.” “Now, son,” began Kitchell, “I natch'ly love you so that I'm goin' to do you a reel favor, do you twig? I'm goin' to allow you to berth aft in the cabin, 'long o' me an' Charlie, an' beesides you can make free of my quarterdeck. Mebbee you ain't used to the ways of sailormen just yet, but you can lay to it that those two are reel concessions, savvy? I ain't a mush-head, like mee dear friend Jim. You ain't no water-front swine, I can guess that with one hand tied beehind me. You're a toff, that's what you are, and your lines has been laid for toffs. I ain't askin' you no questions, but you got brains, an' I figger on gettin' more outa you by lettin' you have y'r head a bit. But mind, now, you get gay once, sonny, or try to flimflam me, or forget that I'm the boss of the bathtub, an' strike me blind, I'll cut you open, an' you can lay to that, son. Now, then, here's the game: You work this boat 'long with the coolies, an' take my orders, an' walk chalk, an' I'll teach you navigation, an' make this cruise as easy as how-do-you-do. You don't, an' I'll manhandle you till y'r bones come throo y'r hide.” “I've no choice in the matter,” said Wilbur. “I've got to make the best of a bad situation.” “I ree-marked as how you had brains,” muttered the Captain. “But there's one thing,” continued Wilbur; “if I'm to have my head a little, as you say, you'll find we can get along better if you put me to rights about this whole business. Why was I brought aboard, why are there only Chinese along, where are we going, what are we going to do, and how long are we going to be gone?” Kitchell spat over the side, and then sucked the nicotine from his mustache. “Well,” he said, resuming his pipe, “it's like this, son. This ship belongs to one of the Six Chinese Companies of Chinatown in Frisco. Charlie, here, is one of the shareholders in the business. We go down here twice a year off Cape Sain' Lucas, Lower California, an' fish for blue sharks, or white, if we kin ketch 'em. We get the livers of these an' try out the oil, an' we bring back that same oil, an' the Chinamen sell it all over San Francisco as simon-pure cod-liver oil, savvy? An' it pays like a nitrate bed. I come in because it's a Custom-house regulation that no coolie can take a boat out of Frisco.” “And how do I come in?” asked Wilbur. “Mee dear friend Jim put a knock-me-out drop into your Manhattan cocktail. It's a capsule filled with a drug. You were shanghaied, son,” said the Captain, blandly. ***** About an hour later Wilbur turned in. Kitchell showed him his bunk with its “donkey's breakfast” and single ill-smelling blanket. It was located under the companionway that led down into the cabin. Kitchell bunked on one side, Charlie on the other. A hacked deal table, covered with oilcloth and ironed to the floor, a swinging-lamp, two chairs, a rack of books, a chest or two, and a flaring picture cut from the advertisement of a ballet, was the room's inventory in the matter of furniture and ornament. Wilbur sat on the edge of his bunk before undressing, reviewing the extraordinary events of the day. In a moment he was aware of a movement in one of the other two bunks, and presently made out Charlie lying on his side and holding in the flame of an alcohol lamp a skewer on which some brown and sticky stuff boiled and sizzled. He transformed the stuff to the bowl of a huge pipe and drew on it noisily once or twice. In another moment he had sunk back in his bunk, nearly senseless, but with a long breath of an almost blissful contentment. “Beast!” muttered Wilbur, with profound disgust. He threw off his oilskin coat and felt in the pocket of his waistcoat (which he had retained when he had changed his clothes in the fo'c'sle) for his watch. He drew it out. It was just nine o'clock. All at once an idea occurred to him. He fumbled in another pocket of the waistcoat and brought out one of his calling-cards. For a moment Wilbur remained motionless, seated on the bunk-ledge, smiling grimly, while his glance wandered now to the sordid cabin of the “Bertha Millner” and the opium-drugged coolie sprawled on the “donkey's breakfast,” and now to the card in his hand on which a few hours ago he had written: “First waltz--Jo.”	{ "id": "321" }
3	THE LADY LETTY	Another day passed, then two. Before Wilbur knew it he had settled himself to his new life, and woke one morning to the realization that he was positively enjoying himself. Daily the weather grew warmer. The fifth day out from San Francisco it was actually hot. The pitch grew soft in the “Bertha Millner's” deck seams, the masts sweated resin. The Chinamen went about the decks wearing but their jeans and blouses. Kitchell had long since abandoned his coat and vest. Wilbur's oilskins became intolerable, and he was at last constrained to trade his pocket-knife to Charlie for a suit of jeans and wicker sandals, such as the coolies wore--and odd enough he looked in them. The Captain instructed him in steering, and even promised to show him the use of the sextant and how to take an observation in the fake short and easy coasting style of navigation. Furthermore, he showed him how to read the log and the manner of keeping the dead reckoning. During most of his watches Wilbur was engaged in painting the inside of the cabin, door panels, lintels, and the few scattered moldings; and toward the middle of the first week out, when the “Bertha Millner” was in the latitude of Point Conception, he and three Chinamen, under Kitchell's directions, ratlined down the forerigging and affixed the crow's nest upon the for'mast. The next morning, during Charlie's watch on deck, a Chinaman was sent up into the crow's nest, and from that time on there was always a lookout maintained from the masthead. More than once Wilbur looked around him at the empty coruscating indigo of the ocean floor, wondering at the necessity of the lookout, and finally expressed his curiosity to Kitchell. The Captain had now taken not a little to Wilbur; at first for the sake of a white man's company, and afterward because he began to place a certain vague reliance upon Wilbur's judgment. Kitchell had reemarked as how he had brains. “Well, you see, son,” Kitchell had explained to Wilbur, “os-tensiblee we are after shark-liver oil--and so we are; but also we are on any lay that turns up; ready for any game, from wrecking to barratry. Strike me, if I haven't thought of scuttling the dough-dish for her insoorance. There's regular trade, son, to be done in ships, and then there's pickin's an' pickin's an' pickin's. Lord, the ocean's rich with pickin's. Do you know there's millions made out of the day-bree and refuse of a big city? How about an ocean's day-bree, just chew on that notion a turn; an' as fur a lookout, lemmee tell you, son, cast your eye out yon,” and he swept the sea with a forearm; “nothin', hey, so it looks, but lemmee tell you, son, there ain't no manner of place on the ball of dirt where you're likely to run up afoul of so many things--unexpected things--as at sea. When you're clear o' land lay to this here pree-cep', 'A million to one on the unexpected.'” The next day fell almost dead calm. The hale, lusty-lunged nor'wester that had snorted them forth from the Golden Gate had lapsed to a zephyr, the schooner rolled lazily southward with the leisurely nonchalance of a grazing ox. At noon, just after dinner, a few cat's-paws curdled the milky-blue whiteness of the glassy surface, and the water once more began to talk beneath the bow-sprit. It was very hot. The sun spun silently like a spinning brass discus over the mainmast. On the fo'c'sle head the Chinamen were asleep or smoking opium. It was Charlie's watch. Kitchell dozed in his hammock in the shadow of the mainsheet. Wilbur was below tinkering with his paint-pot about the cabin. The stillness was profound. It was the stillness of the summer sea at high noon. The lookout in the crow's nest broke the quiet. “Hy-yah, hy-yah!” he cried, leaning from the barrel and calling through an arched palm. “Hy-yah, one two, plenty, many tortle, topside, wattah; hy-yah, all-same tortle.” “Hello, hello!” cried the Captain, rolling from his hammock. “Turtle? Where-away?” “I tink-um 'bout quallah mile, mebbee, four-piecee tortle all-same weatha bow.” “Turtle, hey? Down y'r wheel, Jim, haul y'r jib to win'ward,” he commanded the man at the wheel; then to the men forward: “Get the dory overboard. Son, Charlie, and you, Wing, tumble in. Wake up now and see you stay so.” The dory was swung over the side, and the men dropped into her and took their places at the oars. “Give way,” cried the Captain, settling himself in the bow with the gaff in his hand. “Hey, Jim!” he shouted to the lookout far above, “hey, lay our course for us.” The lookout nodded, the oars fell, and the dory shot forward in the direction indicated by the lookout. “Kin you row, son? asked Kitchell, with sudden suspicion. Wilbur smiled. “You ask Charlie and Wing to ship their oars and give me a pair.” The Captain complied, hesitating. “Now, what,” he said grimly, “now, what do you think you're going to do, sonny?” “I'm going to show you the Bob Cook stroke we used in our boat in '95, when we beat Harvard,” answered Wilbur. Kitchell gazed doubtfully at the first few strokes, then with growing interest watched the tremendous reach, the powerful knee-drive, the swing, the easy catch, and the perfect recover. The dory was cutting the water like a gasoline launch, and between strokes there was the least possible diminishing of the speed. “I'm a bit out of form just now,” remarked Wilbur, “and I'm used to the sliding seat; but I guess it'll do.” Kitchell glanced at the human machine that once was No. 5 in the Yale boat and then at the water hissing from the dory's bows. “My Gawd!” he said, under his breath. He spat over the bows and sucked the nicotine from his mustache, thoughtfully. “I ree-marked,” he observed, “as how you had brains, my son.” A few minutes later the Captain, who was standing in the dory's bow and alternately conning the ocean's surface and looking back to the Chinaman standing on the schooner's masthead, uttered an exclamation: “Steady, ship your oars, quiet now, quiet, you damn fools! We're right on 'em--four, by Gawd, an' big as dinin' tables!” The oars were shipped. The dory's speed dwindled. “Out your paddles, sit on the gun'l, and paddle ee-asy.” The hands obeyed. The Captain's voice dropped to a whisper. His back was toward them and he gestured with one free hand. Looking out over the water from his seat on the gun'l, Wilbur could make out a round, greenish mass like a patch of floating seaweed, just under the surface, some sixty yards ahead. “Easy sta'board,” whispered the Captain under his elbow. “Go ahead, port; e-e-easy all, steady, steady.” The affair began to assume the intensity of a little drama--a little drama of midocean. In spite of himself, Wilbur was excited. He even found occasion to observe that the life was not so bad, after all. This was as good fun as stalking deer. The dory moved forward by inches. Kitchell's whisper was as faint as a dying infant's: “Steady all, s-stead-ee, sh-stead--” He lunged forward sharply with the gaff, and shouted aloud: “I got him--grab holt his tail flippers, you fool swabs; grab holt quick--don't you leggo--got him there, Charlie? If he gets away, you swine, I'll rip y' open with the gaff--heave now--heave--there--there--soh, stand clear his nippers. Strike me! he's a whacker. I thought he was going to get away. Saw me just as I swung the gaff, an' ducked his nut.” Over the side, bundled without ceremony into the boat, clawing, thrashing, clattering, and blowing like the exhaust of a donkey-engine, tumbled the great green turtle, his wet, green shield of shell three feet from edge to edge, the gaff firmly transfixed in his body, just under the fore-flipper. From under his shell protruded his snake-like head and neck, withered like that of an old man. He was waving his head from side to side, the jaws snapping like a snapped silk handkerchief. Kitchell thrust him away with a paddle. The turtle craned his neck, and catching the bit of wood in his jaw, bit it in two in a single grip. “I tol' you so, I tol' you to stand clear his snapper. If that had been your shin now, eh? Hello, what's that?” Faintly across the water came a prolonged hallooing from the schooner. Kitchell stood up in the dory, shading his eyes with his hat. “What's biting 'em now?” he muttered, with the uneasiness of a captain away from his ship. “Oughta left Charlie on board--or you, son. Who's doin' that yellin', I can't make out.” “Up in the crow's nest,” exclaimed Wilbur. “It's Jim, see, he's waving his arms.” “Well, whaduz he wave his dam' fool arms for?” growled Kitchell, angry because something was going forward he did not understand. “There, he's shouting again. Listen--I can't make out what he's yelling.” “He'll yell to a different pipe when I get my grip of him. I'll twist the head of that swab till he'll have to walk back'ard to see where he's goin'. Whaduz he wave his arms for--whaduz he yell like a dam' philly-loo bird for? What's him say, Charlie?” “Jim heap sing, no can tell. Mebbee--tinkum sing, come back chop-chop.” “We'll see. Oars out, men, give way. Now, son, put a little o' that Yale stingo in the stroke.” In the crow's nest Jim still yelled and waved like one distraught, while the dory returned at a smart clip toward the schooner. Kitchell lathered with fury. “Oh-h,” he murmured softly through his gritted teeth. “Jess lemmee lay mee two hands afoul of you wunst, you gibbering, yellow philly-loo bird, believe me, you'll dance. Shut up!” he roared; “shut up, you crazy do-do, ain't we coming fast as we can?” The dory bumped alongside, and the Captain was over the rail like quicksilver. The hands were all in the bow, looking and pointing to the west. Jim slid down the ratlines, bubbling over with suppressed news. Before his feet had touched the deck Kitchell had kicked him into the stays again, fulminating blasphemies. “Sing!” he shouted, as the Chinaman clambered away like a bewildered ape; “sing a little more. I would if I were you. Why don't you sing and wave, you dam' fool philly-loo bird?” “Yas, sah,” answered the coolie. “What you yell for? Charlie, ask him whaffo him sing.” “I tink-um ship,” answered Charlie calmly, looking out over the starboard quarter. “Ship!” “Him velly sick,” hazarded the Chinaman from the ratlines, adding a sentence in Chinese to Charlie. “He says he tink-um ship sick, all same; ask um something--ship velly sick.” By this time the Captain, Wilbur, and all on board could plainly make out a sail some eight miles off the starboard bow. Even at that distance, and to eyes so inexperienced as those of Wilbur, it needed but a glance to know that something was wrong with her. It was not that she failed to ride the waves with even keel, it was not that her rigging was in disarray, nor that her sails were disordered. Her distance was too great to make out such details. But in precisely the same manner as a trained physician glances at a doomed patient, and from that indefinable look in the face of him and the eyes of him pronounces the verdict “death,” so Kitchell took in the stranger with a single comprehensive glance, and exclaimed: “Wreck!” “Yas, sah. I tink-um velly sick.” “Oh, go to 'll, or go below and fetch up my glass--hustle!” The glass was brought. “Son,” exclaimed Kitchell--“where is that man with the brains? Son, come aloft here with me.” The two clambered up the ratlines to the crow's nest. Kitchell adjusted the glass. “She's a bark,” he muttered, “iron built--about seven hundred tons, I guess--in distress. There's her ensign upside down at the mizz'nhead--looks like Norway--an' her distress signals on the spanker gaff. Take a blink at her, son--what do you make her out? Lord, she's ridin' high.” Wilbur took the glass, catching the stranger after several clumsy attempts. She was, as Captain Kitchell had announced, a bark, and, to judge by her flag, evidently Norwegian. “How she rolls!” muttered Wilbur. “That's what I can't make out,” answered Kitchell. “A bark such as she ain't ought to roll thata way; her ballast'd steady her.” “What's the flags on that boom aft--one's red and white and square-shaped, and the other's the same color, only swallow-tail in shape?” “That's H. B., meanin: 'I am in need of assistance.'” “Well, where's the crew? I don't see anybody on board.” “Oh, they're there right enough.” “Then they're pretty well concealed about the premises,” turned Wilbur, as he passed the glass to the Captain. “She does seem kinda empty,” said the Captain in a moment, with a sudden show of interest that Wilbur failed to understand. “An' where's her boats?” continued Kitchell. “I don't just quite make out any boats at all.” There was a long silence. “Seems to be a sort of haze over her,” observed Wilbur. “I noticed that, air kinda quivers oily-like. No boats, no boats--an' I can't see anybody aboard.” Suddenly Kitchell lowered the glass and turned to Wilbur. He was a different man. There was a new shine in his eyes, a wicked line appeared over the nose, the jaw grew salient, prognathous. “Son,” he exclaimed, gimleting Wilbur with his contracted eyes; “I have reemarked as how you had brains. I kin fool the coolies, but I can't fool you. It looks to me as if that bark yonder was a derelict; an' do you know what that means to us? Chaw on it a turn.” “A derelict?” “If there's a crew on board they're concealed from the public gaze--an' where are the boats then? I figger she's an abandoned derelict. Do you know what that means for us--for you and I? It means,” and gripping Wilbur by the shoulders, he spoke the word into his face with a savage intensity. “It means salvage, do you savvy? --salvage, salvage. Do you figger what salvage on a seven-hundred-tonner would come to? Well, just lemmee drop it into your think tank, an' lay to what I say. It's all the ways from fifty to seventy thousand dollars, whatever her cargo is; call it sixty thousand--thirty thou' apiece. Oh, I don't know!” he exclaimed, lapsing to landman's slang. “Wha'd I say about a million to one on the unexpected at sea?” “Thirty thousand!” exclaimed Wilbur, without thought as yet. “Now y'r singin' songs,” cried the Captain. “Listen to me, son,” he went on, rapidly shutting up the glass and thrusting it back in the case; “my name's Kitchell, and I'm hog right through.” He emphasized the words with a leveled forefinger, his eyes flashing. “H--O--G spells very truly yours, Alvinza Kitchell--ninety-nine swine an' me make a hundred swine. I'm a shoat with both feet in the trough, first, last, an' always. If that bark's abandoned, an' I says she is, she's ours. I'm out for anything that there's stuff in. I guess I'm more of a beach-comber by nature than anything else. If she's abandoned she belongs to us. To 'll with this coolie game. We'll go beach-combin', you and I. We'll board that bark and work her into the nearest port--San Diego, I guess--and get the salvage on her if we have to swim in her. Are you with me?” he held out his hand. The man was positively trembling from head to heel. It was impossible to resist the excitement of the situation, its novelty--the high crow's nest of the schooner, the keen salt air, the Chinamen grouped far below, the indigo of the warm ocean, and out yonder the forsaken derelict, rolling her light hull till the garboard streak flashed in the sun. “Well, of course, I'm with you, Cap,” exclaimed Wilbur, gripping Kitchell's hand. “When there's thirty thousand to be had for the asking I guess I'm a 'na'chel bawn' beach-comber myself.” “Now, nothing about this to the coolies.” “But how will you make out with your owners, the Six Companies? Aren't you bound to bring the 'Bertha' in?” “Rot my owners!” exclaimed Kitchell. “I ain't a skipper of no oil-boat any longer. I'm a beach-comber.” He fixed the wallowing bark with glistening eyes. “Gawd strike me,” he murmured, “ain't she a daisy? It's a little Klondike. Come on, son.” The two went down the ratlines, and Kitchell ordered a couple of the hands into the dory that had been rowing astern. He and Wilbur followed. Charlie was left on board, with directions to lay the schooner to. The dory flew over the water, Wilbur setting the stroke. In a few moments she was well up with the bark. Though a larger boat than the “Bertha Millner,” she was rolling in lamentable fashion, and every laboring heave showed her bottom incrusted with barnacles and seaweed. Her fore and main tops'ls and to'gallants'ls were set, as also were her lower stays'ls and royals. But the braces seemed to have parted, and the yards were swinging back and forth in their ties. The spanker was brailed up, and the spanker boom thrashed idly over the poop as the bark rolled and rolled and rolled. The mainmast was working in its shoe, the rigging and backstays sagged. An air of abandonment, of unspeakable loneliness, of abomination hung about her. Never had Wilbur seen anything more utterly alone. Within three lengths the Captain rose in his place and shouted: “Bark ahoy!” There was no answer. Thrice he repeated the call, and thrice the dismal thrashing of the spanker boom and the flapping of the sails was the only answer. Kitchell turned to Wilbur in triumph. “I guess she's ours,” he whispered. They were now close enough to make out the bark's name upon her counter, “Lady Letty,” and Wilbur was in the act of reading it aloud, when a huge brown dorsal fin, like the triangular sail of a lugger, cut the water between the dory and the bark. “Shark!” said Kitchell; “and there's another!” he exclaimed in the next instant, “and another! Strike me, the water's alive with 'em'! There's a stiff on the bark, you can lay to that”; and at that, acting on some strange impulse, he called again, “Bark ahoy!” There was no response. The dory was now well up to the derelict, and pretty soon a prolonged and vibratory hissing noise, strident, insistent, smote upon their ears. “What's that?” exclaimed Wilbur, perplexed. The Captain shook his head, and just then, as the bark rolled almost to her scuppers in their direction, a glimpse of the deck was presented to their view. It was only a glimpse, gone on the instant, as the bark rolled back to port, but it was time enough for Wilbur and the Captain to note the parted and open seams and the deck bulging, and in one corner blown up and splintered. The captain smote a thigh. “Coal!” he cried. “Anthracite coal. The coal he't up and generated gas, of course--no fire, y'understand, just gas--gas blew up the deck--no way of stopping combustion. Naturally they had to cut for it. Smell the gas, can't you? No wonder she's hissing--no wonder she rolled--cargo goes off in gas--and what's to weigh her down? I was wondering what could 'a' wrecked her in this weather. Lord, it's as plain as Billy-b'damn.” The dory was alongside. Kitchell watched his chance, and as the bark rolled down caught the mainyard-brace hanging in a bight over the rail and swung himself to the deck. “Look sharp!” he called, as Wilbur followed. “It won't do for you to fall among them shark, son. Just look at the hundreds of 'em. There's a stiff on board, sure.” Wilbur steadied himself on the swaying broken deck, choking against the reek of coal-gas that hissed upward on every hand. The heat was almost like a furnace. Everything metal was intolerable to the touch. “She's abandoned, sure,” muttered the Captain. “Look,” and he pointed to the empty chocks on the house and the severed lashings. “Oh, it's a haul, son; it's a haul, an' you can lay to that. Now, then, cabin first,” and he started aft. But it was impossible to go into the cabin. The moment the door was opened suffocating billows of gas rushed out and beat them back. On the third trial the Captain staggered out, almost overcome with its volume. “Can't get in there for a while yet,” he gasped, “but I saw the stiff on the floor by the table; looks like the old man. He's spit his false teeth out. I knew there was a stiff aboard.” “Then there's more than one,” said Wilbur. “See there!” From behind the wheel-box in the stern protruded a hand and forearm in an oilskin sleeve. Wilbur ran up, peered over the little space between the wheel and the wheel-box, and looked straight into a pair of eyes--eyes that were alive. Kitchell came up. “One left, anyhow,” he muttered, looking over Wilbur's shoulder; “sailor man, though; can't interfere with our salvage. The bark's derelict, right enough. Shake him out of there, son; can't you see the lad's dotty with the gas?” Cramped into the narrow space of the wheel-box like a terrified hare in a blind burrow was the figure of a young boy. So firmly was he wedged into the corner that Kitchell had to kick down the box before he could be reached. The boy spoke no word. Stupefied with the gas, he watched them with vacant eyes. Wilbur put a hand under the lad's arm and got him to his feet. He was a tall, well-made fellow, with ruddy complexion and milk-blue eyes, and was dressed, as if for heavy weather, in oilskins. “Well, sonny, you've had a fine mess aboard here,” said Kitchell. The boy--he might have been two and twenty--stared and frowned. “Clean loco from the gas. Get him into the dory, son. I'll try this bloody cabin again.” Kitchell turned back and descended from the poop, and Wilbur, his arm around the boy, followed. Kitchell was already out of hearing, and Wilbur was bracing himself upon the rolling deck, steadying the young fellow at his side, when the latter heaved a deep breath. His throat and breast swelled. Wilbur stared sharply, with a muttered exclamation: “My God, it's a girl!” he said.	{ "id": "321" }
4	MORAN	Meanwhile Charlie had brought the “Bertha Millner” up to within hailing distance of the bark, and had hove her to. Kitchell ordered Wilbur to return to the schooner and bring over a couple of axes. “We'll have to knock holes all through the house, and break in the skylights and let the gas escape before we can do anything. Take the kid over and give him whiskey; then come along back and bear a hand.” Wilbur had considerable difficulty in getting into the dory from the deck of the plunging derelict with his dazed and almost helpless charge. Even as he slid down the rope into the little boat and helped the girl to follow, he was aware of two dull, brownish-green shadows moving just beneath the water's surface not ten feet away, and he knew that he was being stealthily watched. The Chinamen at the oars of the dory, with that extraordinary absence of curiosity which is the mark of the race, did not glance a second time at the survivor of the “Lady Letty's” misadventure. To them it was evident she was but a for'mast hand. However, Wilbur examined her with extraordinary interest as she sat in the sternsheets, sullen, half-defiant, half-bewildered, and bereft of speech. She was not pretty--she was too tall for that--quite as tall as Wilbur himself, and her skeleton was too massive. Her face was red, and the glint of blue ice was in her eyes. Her eyelashes and eyebrows, as well as the almost imperceptible down that edged her cheek when she turned against the light, were blond almost to whiteness. What beauty she had was of the fine, hardy Norse type. Her hands were red and hard, and even beneath the coarse sleeve of the oilskin coat one could infer that the biceps and deltoids were large and powerful. She was coarse-fibred, no doubt, mentally as well as physically, but her coarseness, so Wilbur guessed, would prove to be the coarseness of a primitive rather than of a degenerate character. One thing he saw clearly during the few moments of the dory's trip between bark and schooner--the fact that his charge was a woman must be kept from Captain Kitchell. Wilbur knew his man by now. It could be done. Kitchell and he would take the “Lady Letty” into the nearest port as soon as possible. The deception would have to be maintained only for a day or two. He left the girl on board the schooner and returned to the derelict with the axes. He found Kitchell on the house, just returned from a hasty survey of the prize. “She's a daisy,” vociferated the Captain, as Wilbur came aboard. “I've been havin' a look 'round. She's brand-new. See the date on the capst'n-head? Christiania is her hailin' port--built there; but it's her papers I'm after. Then we'll know where we're at. How's the kid?” “She's all right,” answered Wilbur, before he could collect his thoughts. But the Captain thought he had reference to the “Bertha.” “I mean the kid we found in the wheel-box. He doesn't count in our salvage. The bark's been abandoned as plain as paint. If I thought he stood in our way,” and Kitchell's jaw grew salient. “I'd shut him in the cabin with the old man a spell, till he'd copped off. Now then, son, first thing to do is to chop vents in this yere house.” “Hold up--we can do better than that,” said Wilbur, restraining Kitchell's fury of impatience. “Slide the big skylight off--it's loose already.” A couple of the schooner's hands were ordered aboard the “Lady Letty,” and the skylight removed. At first the pour of gas was terrific, but by degrees it abated, and at the end of half an hour Kitchell could keep back no longer. “Come on!” he cried, catching up an axe; “rot the difference.” All the plundering instincts of the man were aroused and clamoring. He had become a very wolf within scent of its prey--a veritable hyena nuzzling about its carrion. “Lord!” he gasped, “t' think that everything we see, everything we find, is ours!” Wilbur himself was not far behind him in eagerness. Somewhere deep down in the heart of every Anglo-Saxon lies the predatory instinct of his Viking ancestors--an instinct that a thousand years of respectability and taxpaying have not quite succeeded in eliminating. A flight of six steps, brass-bound and bearing the double L of the bark's monogram, led them down into a sort of vestibule. From the vestibule a door opened directly into the main cabin. They entered. The cabin was some twenty feet long and unusually spacious. Fresh from his recollection of the grime and reek of the schooner, it struck Wilbur as particularly dainty. It was painted white with stripes of blue, gold and pea-green. On either side three doors opened off into staterooms and private cabins, and with each roll of the derelict these doors banged like an irregular discharge of revolvers. In the centre was the dining-table, covered with a red cloth, very much awry. On each side of the table were four arm chairs, screwed to the deck, one somewhat larger at the head. Overhead, in swinging racks, were glasses and decanters of whiskey and some kind of white wine. But for one feature the sight of the “Letty's” cabin was charming. However, on the floor by the sliding door in the forward bulkhead lay a body, face upward. The body was that of a middle-aged, fine-looking man, his head covered with the fur, ear-lapped cap that Norwegians affect, even in the tropics. The eyes were wide open, the face discolored. In the last gasp of suffocation the set of false teeth had been forced half-way out of his mouth, distorting the countenance with a hideous simian grin. Instantly Kitchell's eye was caught by the glint of the gold in which these teeth were set. “Here's about $100 to begin with,” he exclaimed, and picking up the teeth, dropped them into his pocket with a wink at Wilbur. The body of the dead Captain was passed up through the skylight and slid out on the deck, and Wilbur and Kitchell turned their attention to what had been his stateroom. The Captain's room was the largest one of the six staterooms opening from the main cabin. “Here we are!” exclaimed Kitchell as he and Wilbur entered. “The old man's room, and no mistake.” Besides the bunk, the stateroom was fitted up with a lounge of red plush screwed to the bulkhead. A roll of charts leaned in one corner, an alarm clock, stopped at 1:15, stood on a shelf in the company of some dozen paper-covered novels and a drinking-glass full of cigars. Over the lounge, however, was the rack of instruments, sextant, barometer, chronometer, glass, and the like, securely screwed down, while against the wall, in front of a swivel leather chair that was ironed to the deck, was the locked secretary. “Look at 'em, just look at 'em, will you!” said Kitchell, running his fingers lovingly over the polished brass of the instruments. “There's a thousand dollars of stuff right here. The chronometer's worth five hundred alone, Bennett & Sons' own make.” He turned to the secretary. “Now!” he exclaimed with a long breath. What followed thrilled Wilbur with alternate excitement, curiosity, and a vivid sense of desecration and sacrilege. For the life of him he could not make the thing seem right or legal in his eyes, and yet he had neither the wish nor the power to stay his hand or interfere with what Kitchell was doing. The Captain put the blade of the axe in the chink of the secretary's door and wrenched it free. It opened down to form a sort of desk, and disclosed an array of cubby-holes and two small doors, both locked. These latter Kitchell smashed in with the axe-head. Then he seated himself in the swivel chair and began to rifle their contents systematically, Wilbur leaning over his shoulder. The heat from the coal below them was almost unbearable. In the cabin the six doors kept up a continuous ear-shocking fusillade, as though half a dozen men were fighting with revolvers; from without, down the open skylight, came the sing-song talk of the Chinamen and the wash and ripple of the two vessels, now side by side. The air, foul beyond expression, tasted of brass, their heads swam and ached to bursting, but absorbed in their work they had no thought of the lapse of time nor the discomfort of their surroundings. Twice during the examination of the bark's papers, Kitchell sent Wilbur out into the cabin for the whiskey decanter in the swinging racks. “Here's the charter papers,” said Kitchell, unfolding and spreading them out one by one; “and here's the clearing papers from Blyth in England. This yere's the insoorance, and here, this is--rot that, nothin' but the articles for the crew--no use to us.” In a separate envelope, carefully sealed and bound, they came upon the Captain's private papers. A marriage certificate setting forth the union between Eilert Sternersen, of Fruholmen, Norway, and Sarah Moran, of some seaport town (the name was indecipherable) of the North of England. Next came a birth certificate of a daughter named Moran, dated twenty-two years back, and a bill of sale of the bark “Lady Letty,” whereby a two-thirds interest was conveyed from the previous owners (a shipbuilding firm of Christiania) to Capt. Eilert Sternersen. “The old man was his own boss,” commented Kitchell. “Hello!” he remarked, “look here”; a yellowed photograph was in his hand the picture of a stout, fair-haired woman of about forty, wearing enormous pendant earrings in the style of the early sixties. Below was written: “S. Moran Sternersen, ob. 1867.” “Old woman copped off,” said Kitchell, “so much the better for us; no heirs to put in their gab; an'--hold hard--steady all--here's the will, s'help me.” The only items of importance in the will were the confirmation of the wife's death and the expressly stated bequest of “the bark known as and sailing under the name of the 'Lady Letty' to my only and beloved daughter, Moran.” “Well,” said Wilbur. The Captain sucked his mustache, then furiously, striking the desk with his fist: “The bark's ours!” there was a certain ring of defiance in his voice. “Damn the will! I ain't so cock-sure about the law, but I'll make sure.” “As how?” said Wilbur. Kitchell slung the will out of the open port into the sea. “That's how,” he remarked. “I'm the heir. I found the bark; mine she is, an' mine she stays--yours an' mine, that is.” But Wilbur had not even time to thoroughly enjoy the satisfaction that the Captain's words conveyed, before an idea suddenly presented itself to him. The girl he had found on board of the bark, the ruddy, fair-haired girl of the fine and hardy Norse type--that was the daughter, of course; that was “Moran.” Instantly the situation adjusted itself in his imagination. The two inseparables father and daughter, sailors both, their lives passed together on ship board, and the “Lady Letty” their dream, their ambition, a vessel that at last they could call their own. Then this disastrous voyage--perhaps the first in their new craft--the combustion in the coal--the panic terror of the crew and their desertion of the bark, and the sturdy resolution of the father and daughter to bring the “Letty” in--to work her into port alone. They had failed; the father had died from gas; the girl, at least for the moment, was crazed from its effects. But the bark had not been abandoned. The owner was on board. Kitchell was wrong; she was no derelict; not one penny could they gain by her salvage. For an instant a wave of bitterest disappointment passed over Wilbur as he saw his $30,000 dwindling to nothing. Then the instincts of habit reasserted themselves. The taxpayer in him was stronger than the freebooter, after all. He felt that it was his duty to see to it that the girl had her rights. Kitchell must be made aware of the situation--must be told that Moran, the daughter, the Captain's heir, was on board the schooner; that the “kid” found in the wheel-box was a girl. But on second thought that would never do. Above all things, the brute Kitchell must not be shown that a girl was aboard the schooner on which he had absolute command, nor, setting the question of Moran's sex aside, must Kitchell know her even as the dead Captain's heir. There was a difference in the men here, and Wilbur appreciated it. Kitchell, the law-abiding taxpayer, was a weakling in comparison with Kitchell, the free-booter and beach-comber in sight of his prize. “Son,” said the Captain, making a bundle of all the papers, “take these over to my bunk and hide 'em under the donkey's breakfast. Stop a bit,” he added, as Wilbur started away. “I'll go with you. We'll have to bury the old man.” Throughout all the afternoon the Captain had been drinking the whiskey from the decanter found in the cabin; now he stood up unsteadily, and, raising his glass, exclaimed: “Sonny, here's to Kitchell, Wilbur & Co., beach-combers, unlimited. What do you say, hey?” “I only want to be sure that we've a right to the bark,” answered Wilbur. “Right to her--ri-hight to 'er,” hiccoughed the Captain. “Strike me blind, I'd like to see any one try'n take her away from Alvinza Kitchell now,” and he thrust out his chin at Wilbur. “Well, so much the better, then,” said Wilbur, pocketing the papers. The pair ascended to the deck. The burial of Captain Sternersen was a dreadful business. Kitchell, far gone in whiskey, stood on the house issuing his orders, drinking from one of the decanters he had brought up with him. He had already rifled the dead man's pockets, and had even taken away the boots and fur-lined cap. Cloths were cut from the spanker and rolled around the body. Then Kitchell ordered the peak halyards unrove and used as lashings to tie the canvas around the corpse. The red and white flags (the distress signals) were still bound on the halyards. “Leave 'em on. Leave 'em on,” commanded Kitchell. “Use 'm as a shrou'. All ready now, stan' by to let her go.” Wilbur looked over at the schooner and noted with immense relief that Moran was not in sight. Suddenly an abrupt reaction took place in the Captain's addled brain. “Can't bury 'um 'ithout 'is teeth,” he gabbled solemnly. He laid back the canvas and replaced the set. “Ole man'd ha'nt me 'f I kep' 's teeth. Strike! look a' that, I put 'em in upside down. Nev' min', upsi' down, downsi' up, whaz odds, all same with ole Bill, hey, ole Bill, all same with you, hey?” Suddenly he began to howl with laughter “T' think a bein' buried with y'r teeth upsi' down. Oh, mee, but that's a good grind. Stan' by to heave ole Uncle Bill over--ready, heave, an' away she goes.” He ran to the side, waving his hat and looking over. “Goo'-by, ole Bill, by-by. There you go, an' the signal o' distress roun' you, H. B. 'I'm in need of assistance.' Lord, here comes the sharks--look! look! look at um fight! look at um takin' ole Bill! I'm in need of assistance. I sh'd say you were, ole Bill.” Wilbur looked once over the side in the churning, lashing water, then drew back, sick to vomiting. But in less than thirty seconds the water was quiet. Not a shark was in sight. “Get over t' the 'Bertha' with those papers, son,” ordered Kitchell; “I'll bide here and dig up sh' mor' loot. I'll gut this ole pill-box from stern to stem-post 'fore I'll leave. I won't leave a copper rivet in 'er, notta co'er rivet, dyhear?” he shouted, his face purple with unnecessary rage. Wilbur returned to the schooner with the two Chinamen, leaving Kitchell alone on the bark. He found the girl sitting by the rudderhead almost as he had left her, looking about her with vague, unseeing eyes. “Your name is Moran, isn't it?” he asked. “Moran Sternersen.” “Yes,” she said, after a pause, then looked curiously at a bit of tarred rope on the deck. Nothing more could be got out of her. Wilbur talked to her at length, and tried to make her understand the situation, but it was evident she did not follow. However, at each mention of her name she would answer: “Yes, yes, I'm Moran.” Wilbur turned away from her, biting his nether lip in perplexity. “Now, what am I going to do?” he muttered. “What a situation! If I tell the Captain, it's all up with the girl. If he didn't kill her, he'd do worse--might do both. If I don't tell him, there goes her birthright, $60,000, and she alone in the world. It's begun to go already,” he added, listening to the sounds that came from the bark. Kitchell was raging to and fro in the cabin in a frenzy of drink, axe in hand, smashing glassware, hacking into the wood-work, singing the while at the top of his voice: “As through the drop I go, drop I go, As through the drop I go, drop I go, As through the drop I go, Down to hell that yawns below, Twenty stiffs all in a row Damn your eyes” “That's the kind of man I have to deal with,” muttered Wilbur. “It's encouraging, and there's no one to talk to. Not much help in a Chinaman and a crazy girl in a man's oilskins. It's about the biggest situation you ever faced, Ross Wilbur, and you're all alone. What the devil are you going to do?” He acknowledged with considerable humiliation that he could not get the better of Kitchell, either physically or mentally. Kitchell was a more powerful man than he, and cleverer. The Captain was in his element now, and he was the commander. On shore it would have been vastly different. The city-bred fellow, with a policeman always in call, would have known how to act. “I simply can't stand by and see that hog plundering everything she's got. What's to be done?” And suddenly, while the words were yet in his mouth, the sun was wiped from the sky like writing from a slate, the horizon blackened, vanished, a long white line of froth whipped across the sea and came on hissing. A hollow note boomed out, boomed, swelled, and grew rapidly to a roar. An icy chill stabbed the air. Then the squall swooped and struck, and the sky shut down over the troubled ocean like a pot-lid over a boiling pot. The schooner's fore and main sheets, that had not been made fast, unrove at the first gust and began to slat wildly in the wind. The Chinamen cowered to the decks, grasping at cleats, stays, and masts. They were helpless--paralyzed with fear. Charlie clung to a stay, one arm over his head, as though dodging a blow. Wilbur gripped the rail with his hands where he stood, his teeth set, his eyes wide, waiting for the foundering of the schooner, his only thought being that the end could not be far. He had heard of the suddenness of tropical squalls, but this had come with the abruptness of a scene-shift at a play. The schooner veered broad-on to the waves. It was the beginning of the end--another roll to the leeward like the last and the Pacific would come aboard. “And you call yourselves sailor men! Are you going to drown like rats on a plank?” A voice that Wilbur did not know went ringing through that horrid shouting of wind and sea like the call of a bugle. He turned to see Moran, the girl of the “Lady Letty,” standing erect upon the quarterdeck, holding down the schooner's wheel. The confusion of that dreadful moment, that had paralyzed the crew's senses, had brought back hers. She was herself again, savage, splendid, dominant, superb, in her wrath at their weakness, their cowardice. Her heavy brows were knotted over her flaming eyes, her hat was gone, and her thick bands of yellow hair whipped across her face and streamed out in the wind like streamers of the northern lights. As she shouted, gesturing furiously to the men, the loose sleeve of the oilskin coat fell back, and showed her forearm, strong, round, and white as scud, the hand and wrist so tanned as to look almost like a glove. And all the while she shouted aloud, furious with indignation, raging against the supineness of the “Bertha's” crew. “Stand by, men! stand by! Look alive, now! Make fast the stays'l halyards to the dory's warp! Now, then, unreeve y'r halyards! all clear there! pass the end for'd outside the rigging! outside! you fools! Make fast to the bits for'ard--let go y'r line--that'll do. Soh--soh. There, she's coming up.” The dory had been towing astern, and the seas combing over her had swamped her. Moran had been inspired to use the swamped boat as a sea-anchor, fastening her to the schooner's bow instead of to the stern. The “Bertha's” bow, answering to the drag, veered around. The “Bertha” stood head to the seas, riding out the squall. It was a masterpiece of seamanship, conceived and executed in the very thick of peril, and it saved the schooner. But there was little time to think of themselves. On board the bark the sails were still set. The squall struck the “Lady Letty” squarely aback. She heeled over upon the instant; then as the top hamper carried away with a crash, eased back a moment upon an even keel. But her cargo had shifted. The bark was doomed. Through the flying spray and scud and rain Wilbur had a momentary glimpse of Kitchell, hacking at the lanyards with his axe. Then the “Lady Letty” capsized, going over till her masts were flat with the water, and in another second rolled bottom up. For a moment her keel and red iron bottom were visible through the mist of driving spoon-drift. Suddenly they sank from sight. She was gone. And then, like the rolling up of a scroll, the squall passed, the sun returned, the sky burned back to blue, the ruggedness was smoothed from the ocean, and the warmth of the tropics closed around the “Bertha Millner,” once more rolling easily on the swell of the ocean. Of the “Lady Letty” and the drunken beach-combing Captain not a trace remained. Kitchell had gone down with his prize. The “Bertha Millner's” Chinese crew huddled forward, talking wildly, pointing and looking in a bewildered fashion over the sides. Wilbur and Moran were left alone on the open Pacific.	{ "id": "321" }
5	A Girl Captain	When Wilbur came on deck the morning after the sinking of the bark he was surprised to find the schooner under way again. Wilbur and Charlie had berthed forward during that night--Charlie with the hands, Wilbur in the Captain's hammock. The reason for this change of quarters had been found in a peremptory order from Moran during the dog-watch the preceding evening. She had looked squarely at Wilbur from under her scowl, and had said briefly and in a fine contralto voice, that he had for the first time noted: “I berth aft, in the cabin; you and the Chinaman forward. Understand?” Moran had only forestalled Wilbur's intention; while after her almost miraculous piece of seamanship in the rescue of the schooner, Charlie and the Chinese crew accorded her a respect that was almost superstitious. Wilbur met her again at breakfast. She was still wearing men's clothing--part of Kitchell's outfit--and was booted to the knee; but now she wore no hat, and her enormous mane of rye-colored hair was braided into long strands near to the thickness of a man's arm. The redness of her face gave a startling effect to her pale blue eyes and sandy, heavy eyebrows, that easily lowered to a frown. She ate with her knife, and after pushing away her plate Wilbur observed that she drank half a tumbler of whiskey and water. The conversation between the two was tame enough. There was no common ground upon which they could meet. To her father's death--no doubt an old matter even before her rescue--she made no allusion. Her attitude toward Wilbur was one of defiance and suspicion. Only once did she relax: “How did you come to be aboard here with these rat-eaters--you're no sailor?” she said abruptly. “Huh!” laughed Wilbur, mirthlessly; “huh! I was shanghaied.” Moran smote the table with a red fist, and shouted with sonorous, bell-toned laughter. “Shanghaied? --you? Now, that is really good. And what are you going to do now?” “What are you going to do?” “Signal the first home-bound vessel and be taken into Frisco. I've my insurance to collect (Wilbur had given her the 'Letty's' papers) and the disaster to report.” “Well, I'm not keen on shark-hunting myself,” said Wilbur. But Moran showed no interest in his plans. However, they soon found that they were not to be permitted to signal. At noon the same day the schooner sighted a steamship's smoke on the horizon, and began to raise her rapidly. Moran immediately bound on the ensign, union down, and broke it out at the peak. Charlie, who was at the wheel, spoke a sentence in Chinese, and one of the hands drew his knife across the halyards and brought the distress signal to the deck. Moran turned upon Charlie with an oath, her brows knitted. “No! No!” sang Charlie, closing his eyes and wagging his head. “No! Too muchee los' time; no can stop. You come downside cabin; you an' one-piece boss number two (this was Wilbur) have um chin-chin.” The odd conclave assembled about Kitchell's table--the club-man, the half-masculine girl in men's clothes, and the Chinaman. The conference was an angry one, Wilbur and Moran insisting that they be put aboard the steamship, Charlie refusing with calm obstinacy. “I have um chin-chin with China boys las' nigh'. China boy heap flaid, no can stop um steamship. Heap flaid too much talkee-talkee. No stop; go fish now; go fish chop-chop. Los' heap time; go fish. I no savvy sail um boat, China boy no savvy sail um boat. I tink um you savvy (and he pointed to Moran). I tink um you savvy plenty heap much disa bay. Boss number two, him no savvy sail um boat, but him savvy plenty many all same.' “And we're to stop on board your dough-dish and navigate her for you?” shouted Moran, her face blazing. Charlie nodded blandly: “I tink um yass.” “And when we get back to port,” exclaimed Wilbur, “you think, perhaps I--we won't make it interesting for you?” Charlie smiled. “I tink um Six Company heap rich.” “Well, get along,” ordered Moran, as though the schooner was her property, “and we'll talk it over.” “China boy like you heap pretty big,” said Charlie to Moran, as he went out. “You savvy sail um boat all light; wanta you fo' captain. But,” he added, suddenly dropping his bland passivity as though he wore a mask, and for an instant allowing the wicked malevolent Cantonese to come to the surface, “China boy no likee funnee business, savvy?” Then with a smile of a Talleyrand he disappeared. Moran and Wilbur were helpless for the present. They were but two against seven Chinamen. They must stay on board, if the coolies wished it; and if they were to stay it was a matter of their own personal safety that the “Bertha Millner” should be properly navigated. “I'll captain her,” concluded Moran, sullenly, at the end of their talk. “You must act as mate, Mr. Wilbur. And don't get any mistaken idea into your head that, because I'm a young girl and alone, you are going to run things your way. I don't like funny business any better than Charlie.” “Look here,” said Wilbur, complaining, “don't think I'm altogether a villain. I think you're a ripping fine girl. You're different from any kind of girl I ever met, of course, but you, by jingo, you're--you're splendid. There in the squall last evening, when you stood at the wheel, with your hair--” “Oh, drop that!” said the girl, contemptuously, and went up on deck. Wilbur followed, scratching an ear. Charlie was called aft and their decision announced. Moran would navigate the “Bertha Millner,” Wilbur and she taking the watches. Charlie promised that he would answer for the obedience of the men. Their first concern now was to shape their course for Magdalena Bay. Moran and Wilbur looked over Kitchell's charts and log-book, but the girl flung them aside disdainfully. “He's been sailing by the dead reckoning, and his navigation is drivel. Why, a cabin-boy would know better; and, to end with, the chronometer is run down. I'll have to get Green'ich time by taking the altitude of a star to-night, and figure out our longitude. Did you bring off our sextant?” Wilbur shook his head. “Only the papers,” he said. “There's only an old ebony quadrant here,” said Moran, “but it will have to do.” That night, lying flat on her back on the deck with a quadrant to her eye, she “got a star and brought it down to the horizon,” and sat up under the reeking lamp in the cabin nearly the whole night ciphering and ciphering till she had filled up the four sides of the log-slate with her calculations. However, by daylight she had obtained the correct Greenwich time and worked the schooner's longitude. Two days passed, then a third. Moran set the schooner's course. She kept almost entirely to herself, and when not at the wheel or taking the sun or writing up the log, gloomed over the after-rail into the schooner's wake. Wilbur knew not what to think of her. Never in his life had he met with any girl like this. So accustomed had she been to the rough, give-and-take, direct associations of a seafaring life that she misinterpreted well-meant politeness--the only respect he knew how to pay her--to mean insidious advances. She was suspicious of him--distrusted him utterly, and openly ridiculed his abortive seamanship. Pretty she was not, but she soon began to have a certain amount of attraction for Wilbur. He liked her splendid ropes of hair, her heavy contralto voice, her fine animal strength of bone and muscle (admittedly greater than his own); he admired her indomitable courage and self-reliance, while her positive genius in the matters of seamanship and navigation filled him with speechless wonder. The girls he had been used to were clever only in their knowledge of the amenities of an afternoon call or the formalities of a paper german. A girl of two-and-twenty who could calculate longitude from the altitude of a star was outside his experience. The more he saw of her the more he knew himself to have been right in his first estimate. She drank whiskey after her meals, and when angry, which was often, swore like a buccaneer. As yet she was almost, as one might say, without sex--savage, unconquered, untamed, glorying in her own independence, her sullen isolation. Her neck was thick, strong, and very white, her hands roughened and calloused. In her men's clothes she looked tall, vigorous, and unrestrained, and on more than one occasion, as Wilbur passed close to her, he was made aware that her hair, her neck, her entire personality exhaled a fine, sweet, natural redolence that savored of the ocean and great winds. One day, as he saw her handling a huge water-barrel by the chines only, with a strength he knew to be greater than his own, her brows contracted with the effort, her hair curling about her thick neck, her large, round arms bare to the elbow, a sudden thrill of enthusiasm smote through him, and between his teeth he exclaimed to himself: “By Jove, you're a woman!” The “Bertha Millner” continued to the southward, gliding quietly over the oil-smoothness of the ocean under airs so light as hardly to ruffle the surface. Sometimes at high noon the shimmer of the ocean floor blended into the shimmer of the sky at the horizon, and then it was no longer water and blue heavens; the little craft seemed to be poised in a vast crystalline sphere, where there was neither height nor depth--poised motionless in warm, coruscating, opalescent space, alone with the sun. At length one morning the schooner, which for the preceding twenty-four hours had been heading eastward, raised the land, and by the middle of the afternoon had come up to within a mile of a low, sandy shore, quivering with heat, and had tied up to the kelp in Magdalena Bay. Charlie now took over entire charge of operations. For two days previous the Chinese hands had been getting out the deck-tubs, tackles, gaffs, spades, and the other shark-fishing gear that had been stowed forward. The sails were lowered and gasketed, the decks cleared of all impedimenta, hogsheads and huge vats stood ready in the waist, and the lazy indolence of the previous week was replaced by an extraordinary activity. The day after their arrival in the bay was occupied by all hands in catching bait. This bait was a kind of rock-fish, of a beautiful red gold color, and about the size of an ordinary cod. They bit readily enough, but out of every ten hooked three were taken off the lines by the sharks before they could be brought aboard. Another difficulty lay in the fact that, either because of the excessive heat in the air or the percentage of alkali in the water, they spoiled almost immediately if left in the air. Turtle were everywhere--floating gray-green disks just under the surface. Sea-birds in clouds clamored all day long about the shore and sand-pits. At long intervals flying-fish skittered over the water like skipping-stones. Shoals of porpoises came in from outside, leaping clumsily along the edges of the kelp. Bewildered land-birds perched on the schooner's rigging, and in the early morning the whistling of quail could be heard on shore near where a little fresh-water stream ran down to meet the ocean. It was Wilbur who caught the first shark on the second morning of the “Bertha's” advent in Magdalena Bay. A store of bait had been accumulated, split and halved into chunks for the shark-hooks, and Wilbur, baiting one of the huge lines that had been brought up on deck the evening before, flung it overboard, and watched the glimmer of the white fish-meat turning to a silvery green as it sank down among the kelp. Almost instantly a long moving shadow, just darker than the blue-green mass of the water, identified itself at a little distance. Enormous flukes proceeded from either side, an erect dorsal fin, like an enormous cock's crest, rose from the back, while immediately over the head swam the two pilot-fish, following so closely the movement of the shark as to give the impression of actually adhering to his body. Twice and three times the great man-eater twelve feet from snout to tail-tip, circled slowly about the bait, the flukes moving fan-like through the water. Once he came up, touched the bait with his nose, and backed easily away. He disappeared, returned, and poised himself motionless in the schooner's shadow, feeling the water with his flukes. Moran was looking over Wilbur's shoulder. “He's as good as caught,” she muttered; “once let them get sight of meat, and--Steady now!” The shark moved forward. Suddenly, with a long, easy roll, he turned completely upon his back. His white belly flashed like silver in the water--the bait disappeared. “You've got him!” shouted Moran. The rope slid through Wilbur's palms, burning the skin as the huge sea-wolf sounded. Moran laid hold. The heavy, sullen wrenching from below twitched and swayed their bodies and threw them against each other. Her bare, cool arm was pressed close over his knuckles. “Heave!” she cried, laughing with the excitement of the moment. “Heave all!” --she began the chant of sailors hauling at the ropes. Together, and bracing their feet against the schooner's rail, they fought out the fight with the great fish. In a swirl of lather the head and shoulders came above the surface, the flukes churning the water till it boiled like the wake of a screw steamship. But as soon as these great fins were clear of the surface the shark fell quiet and helpless. Charlie came up with the cutting-in spade, and as the fish hung still over the side, cut him open from neck to belly with a single movement. Another Chinaman stood by with a long-handled gaff, hooked out the purple-black liver, brought it over the side, and dropped it into one of the deck-tubs. The shark thrashed and writhed, his flukes quivering and his gills distended. Wilbur could not restrain an exclamation. “Brutal business!” he muttered. “Hoh!” exclaimed Moran, scornfully, “cutting-in is too good for him. Sailor-folk are no friends of such carrion as that.” Other lines were baited and dropped overboard, and the hands settled themselves to the real business of the expedition. There was no skill in the matter. The sharks bit ravenously, and soon swarmed about the schooner in hundreds. Hardly a half minute passed that one of the four Chinamen that were fishing did not signal a catch, and Charlie and Jim were kept busy with spade and gaff. By noon the deck-tubs were full. The lines were hauled in, and the hands set the tubs in the sun to try out the oil. Under the tropical heat the shark livers almost visibly melted away, and by four o'clock in the afternoon the tubs were full of a thick, yellow oil, the reek of which instantly recalled to Wilbur's mind the rancid smell of the schooner on the day when he had first come aboard of her. The deck-tubs were emptied into the hogsheads and vats that stood in the waist of the “Bertha,” the tubs scoured, and the lines and bent shark-hooks overhauled. Charlie disappeared in the galley, supper was cooked, and eaten upon deck under the conflagration of the sunset; the lights were set, the Chinamen foregathered in the fo'c'stle head, smoking opium, and by eight o'clock the routine of the day was at an end. So the time passed. In a short time Wilbur could not have said whether the day was Wednesday or Sunday. He soon tired of the unsportsmanlike work of killing the sluggish brutes, and turned shoreward to relieve the monotony of the succeeding days. He and Moran were left a good deal to their own devices. Charlie was the master of the men now. “Mate,” said Moran to Wilbur one day, after a dinner of turtle steaks and fish, eaten in the open air on the quarterdeck; “mate, this is slow work, and the schooner smells terribly foul. We'll have the dory out and go ashore. We can tumble a cask into her and get some water. The butt's three-quarters empty. Let's see how it feels to be in Mexico.” “Mexico?” said Wilbur. “That's so--Lower California is Mexico. I'd forgotten that!” They went ashore and spent the afternoon in filling the water-cask from the fresh-water stream and in gathering abalones, which Moran declared were delicious eating, from the rocks left bare by the tide. But nothing could have exceeded the loneliness of that shore and backland, palpitating under the flogging of a tropical sun. Low hills of sand, covered with brush, stretched back from the shore. On the eastern horizon, leagues distant, blue masses of mountain striated with mirages swam in the scorching air. The sand was like fire to the touch. Far out in the bay the schooner hung motionless under bare sticks, resting apparently upon her inverted shadow only. And that was all--the flat, heat-ridden land, the sheen of the open Pacific, and the lonely schooner. “Quiet enough,” said Wilbur, in a low voice, wondering if there was such a place as San Francisco, with its paved streets and cable cars, and if people who had been his friends there had ever had any real existence. “Do you like it?” asked Moran quickly, facing him, her thumbs in her belt. “It's good fun--how about you?” “It's no different than the only life I've known. I suppose you think it s a queer kind of life for a girl. I've lived by doing things, not by thinking things, or reading about what other people have done or thought; and I guess it's what you do that counts, rather than what you think or read about. Where's that pinch-bar? We'll get a couple more abalones for supper, and then put off.” That was the only talk of moment they had during the afternoon. All the rest of their conversation had been of those things that immediately occupied their attention. They regained the schooner toward five o'clock, to find the Chinamen perplexed and mystified. No explanation was forthcoming, and Charlie gave them supper in preoccupied silence. As they were eating the abalones, which Moran had fried in batter, Charlie said: “Shark all gone! No more catch um--him all gone.” “Gone--why?” “No savvy,” said Charlie. “No likee, no likee. China boy tink um heap funny, too much heap funny.” It was true. During all the next day not a shark was in sight, and though the crew fished assiduously till dark, they were rewarded by not so much as a bite. No one could offer any explanation. “'Tis strange,” said Moran. “Never heard of shark leaving this feed before. And you can see with half an eye that the hands don't like the looks of it. Superstitious beggars! they need to be clumped in the head.” That same night Wilbur woke in his hammock on the fo'c'stle head about half-past two. The moon was down, the sky one powder of stars. There was not a breath of wind. It was so still that he could hear some large fish playing and breaking off toward the shore. Then, without the least warning, he felt the schooner begin to lift under him. He rolled out of his hammock and stood on the deck. There could be no doubt of it--the whole forepart was rising beneath him. He could see the bowsprit moving upward from star to star. Still the schooner lifted; objects on deck began to slide aft; the oil in the deck-tubs washed over; then, as there came a wild scrambling of the Chinese crew up the fo'c'stle hatch, she settled again gradually at first, then, with an abrupt lurch that almost threw him from his feet, regained her level. Moran met him in the waist. Charlie came running aft. “What was that? Are we grounding? Has she struck?” “No, no; we're still fast to the kelp. Was it a tidal wave?” “Nonsense. It wouldn't have handled us that way.” “Well, what was it? Listen! For God's sake keep quiet there forward!” Wilbur looked over the side into the water. The ripples were still chasing themselves away from the schooner. There was nothing else. The stillness shut down again. There was not a sound.	{ "id": "321" }
6	A SEA MYSTERY	In spite of his best efforts at self-control, Wilbur felt a slow, cold clutch at his heart. That sickening, uncanny lifting of the schooner out of the glassy water, at a time when there was not enough wind to so much as wrinkle the surface, sent a creep of something very like horror through all his flesh. Again he peered over the side, down into the kelp-thickened sea. Nothing--not a breath of air was stirring. The gray light that flooded down from the stars showed not a break upon the surface of Magdalena Bay. On shore, nothing moved. “Quiet there, forward,” called Moran to the shrill-voiced coolies. The succeeding stillness was profound. All on board listened intently. The water dripped like the ticking of a clock from the “Bertha Millner's” stern, which with the rising of the bow had sunk almost to the rail. There was no other sound. “Strange,” muttered Moran, her brows contracting. Charlie broke the silence with a wail: “No likee, no likee!” he cried at top voice. The man had gone suddenly green; Wilbur could see the shine of his eyes distended like those of a harassed cat. As he, Moran, and Wilbur stood in the schooner's waist, staring at each other, the smell of punk came to their nostrils. Forward, the coolies were already burning joss-sticks on the fo'castle head, kowtowing their foreheads to the deck. Moran went forward and kicked them to their feet and hurled their joss-sticks into the sea. “Feng shui! Feng shui!” they exclaimed with bated breaths. “The Feng shui no likee we.” Low in the east the horizon began to blacken against the sky. It was early morning. A watch was set, the Chinamen sent below, and until daybreak, when Charlie began to make a clattering of tins in the galley as he set about preparing breakfast, Wilbur paced the rounds of the schooner, looking, listening, and waiting again for that slow, horrifying lift. But the rest of the night was without incident. After breakfast, the strangely assorted trio--Charlie, Moran, and Wilbur--held another conference in the cabin. It was decided to move the schooner to the other side of the bay. “Feng shui in disa place, no likee we,” announced Charlie. “Feng shui, who are they?” Charlie promptly became incoherent on this subject, and Moran and Wilbur could only guess that the Feng shui were the tutelary deities that presided over that portion of Magdalena Bay. At any rate, there were evidently no more shark to be caught in that fishing-ground; so sail was made, and by noon the “Bertha Millner” tied up to the kelp on the opposite side of the inlet, about half a mile from the shore. The shark were plentiful here and the fishing went forward again as before. Certain of these shark were hauled aboard, stunned by a blow on the nose, and their fins cut off. The Chinamen packed these fins away in separate kegs. Eventually they would be sent to China. Two or three days passed. The hands kept steadily at their work. Nothing more occurred to disturb the monotony of the scorching days and soundless nights; the schooner sat as easily on the unbroken water as though built to the bottom. Soon the night watch was discontinued. During these days the three officers lived high. Turtle were plentiful, and what with their steaks and soups, the fried abalones, the sea-fish, the really delicious shark-fins, and the quail that Charlie and Wilbur trapped along the shore, the trio had nothing to wish for in the way of table luxuries. The shore was absolutely deserted, as well as the back country--an unbroken wilderness of sand and sage. Half a dozen times, Wilbur, wearying of his inaction aboard the schooner, made the entire circuit of the bay from point to point. Standing on one of the latter projections and looking out to the west, the Pacific appeared as empty of life as the land. Never a keel cut those waters, never a sail broke the edge of the horizon, never a feather of smoke spotted the sky where it whitened to meet the sea. Everything was empty--vast, unspeakably desolate--palpitating with heat. Another week passed. Charlie began to complain that the shark were growing scarce again. “I think bime-by him go away, once a mo'.” That same night, Wilbur, lying in his hammock, was awakened by a touch on his arm. He woke to see Moran beside him on the deck. “Did you hear anything?” she said in a low voice, looking at him under her scowl. “No! no!” he exclaimed, getting up, reaching for his wicker sandals. “Did you?” “I thought so--something. Did you feel anything?” “I've been asleep, I haven't noticed anything. Is it beginning again?” “The schooner lifted again, just now, very gently. I happened to be awake or I wouldn't have noticed it.” They were talking in low voices, as is the custom of people speaking in the dark. “There, what's that?” exclaimed Wilbur under his breath. A gentle vibration, barely perceptible, thrilled through the schooner. Under his hand, that was clasped upon the rail, Wilbur could feel a faint trembling in her frame. It stopped, began again, and died slowly away. “Well, what the devil IS it?” he muttered impatiently, trying to master the returning creep of dread. Moran shook her head, biting her lip. “It's beyond me,” she said, frowning. “Can you see anything?” The sky, sea, and land were unbroken reaches of solitude. There was no breath of wind. “Listen,” said Moran. Far off to landward came the faint, sleepy clucking of a quail, and the stridulating of unnumbered crickets; a long ripple licked the slope of the beach and slid back into the ocean. Wilbur shook his head. “Don't hear anything,” he whispered. “Sh--there--she's trembling again.” Once more a prolonged but faint quivering ran through the “Bertha Millner” from stem to stern, and from keel to masthead. There was a barely audible creaking of joints and panels. The oil in the deck-tubs trembled. The vibration was so fine and rapid that it tickled the soles of Wilbur's feet as he stood on the deck. “I'd give two fingers to know what it all means,” murmured Moran in a low voice. “I've been to sea for--” Then suddenly she cried aloud: “Steady all, she's lifting again!” The schooner heaved slowly under them, this time by the stern. Up she went, up and up, while Wilbur gripped at a stay to keep his place, and tried to choke down his heart, that seemed to beat against his palate. “God!” ejaculated Moran, her eyes blazing. “This thing is--” The “Bertha” came suddenly down to an easy keel, rocking in that glassy sea as if in a tide rip. The deck was awash with oil. Far out in the bay the ripples widening from the schooner blurred the reflections of the stars. The Chinamen swarmed up the hatch-way, voluble and shrill. Again the “Bertha Millner” lifted and sank, the tubs sliding on the deck, the masts quivering like reeds, the timbers groaning aloud with the strain. In the stern something cracked and smashed. Then the trouble died away, the ripples faded into the ocean, and the schooner settled to her keel, quite motionless. “Look,” said Moran, her face toward the “Bertha's” stern. “The rudder is out of the gudgeons.” It was true--the “Bertha Millner's” helm was unshipped. There was no more sleep for any one on board that night. Wilbur tramped the quarterdeck, sick with a feeling he dared not put a name to. Moran sat by the wrecked rudder-head, a useless pistol in her hand, swearing under her breath from time to time. Charlie appeared on the quarterdeck at intervals, looked at Wilbur and Moran with wide-open eyes, and then took himself away. On the forward deck the coolies pasted strips of red paper inscribed with mottoes upon the mast, and filled the air with the reek of their joss-sticks. “If one could only SEE what it was,” growled Moran between her clinched teeth. “But this--this damned heaving and trembling, it--it's queer.” “That's it, that's it,” said Wilbur quickly, facing her. “What are we going to do, Moran?” “STICK IT OUT!” she exclaimed, striking her knee with her fist. “We can't leave the schooner--I WON'T leave her. I'll stay by this dough-dish as long as two planks in her hold together. Were you thinking of cutting away?” She fixed him with her frown. Wilbur looked at her, sitting erect by the disabled rudder, her head bare, her braids of yellow hair hanging over her breast, sitting there in man's clothes and man's boots, the pistol at her side. He shook his head. “I'm not leaving the 'Bertha' till you do,” he answered; adding: “I'll stand by you, mate, until we--” “Feel that?” said Moran, holding up a hand. A fine, quivering tremble was thrilling through every beam of the schooner, vibrating each rope like a harp-string. It passed away; but before either Wilbur or Moran could comment upon it recommenced, this time much more perceptibly. Charlie dashed aft, his queue flying. “W'at makum heap shake?” he shouted; “w'at for him shake? No savvy, no likee, pretty much heap flaid; aie-yah, aie-yah!” Slowly the schooner heaved up as though upon the crest of some huge wave, slowly it settled, and again gradually lifted till Wilbur had to catch at the rail to steady his footing. The quivering sensation increased so that their very teeth chattered with it. Below in the cabin they could hear small objects falling from the shelves and table. Then with a sudden drop the “Bertha” fell back to her keel again, the spilled oil spouting from her scuppers, the masts rocking, the water churning and splashing from her sides. And that was all. There was no sound--nothing was in sight. There was only the frightened trembling of the little schooner and that long, slow heave and lift. Morning came, and breakfast was had in silence and grim perplexity. It was too late to think of getting away, now that the rudder was disabled. The “Bertha Millner” must bide where she was. “And a little more of this dancing,” exclaimed Moran, “and we'll have the planks springing off the stern-post.” Charlie nodded solemnly. He said nothing--his gravity had returned. Now in the glare of the tropical day, with the “Bertha Millner” sitting the sea as placidly as a brooding gull, he was Talleyrand again. “I tinkum yas,” he said vaguely. “Well, I think we had better try and fix the rudder and put back to Frisco,” said Moran. “You're making no money this way. There are no shark to be caught. SOMETHING'S wrong. They're gone away somewhere. The crew are eating their heads off and not earning enough money to pay for their keep. What do you think?” “I tinkum yas.” “Then we'll go home. Is that it?” “I tinkum yas--to-molla.” “To-morrow?” “Yas.” “That's settled then,” persisted Moran, surprised at his ready acquiescence; “we start home to-morrow?” Charlie nodded. “To-molla,” he said. The rudder was not so badly damaged as they had at first supposed; the break was easily mended, but it was found necessary for one of the men to go over the side. “Get over the side here, Jim,” commanded Moran. “Charlie, tell him what's wanted; we can't work the pintle in from the deck.” But Charlie shook his head. “Him no likee go; him plenty much flaid.” Moran ripped out an oath. “What do I care if he's afraid! I want him to shove the pintle into the lower gudgeon. My God,” she exclaimed, with immense contempt, “what carrion! I'd sooner work a boat with she-monkeys. Mr. Wilbur, I shall have to ask you to go over. I thought I was captain here, but it all depends on whether these rats are afraid or not.” “Plenty many shark,” expostulated Charlie. “Him flaid shark come back, catchum chop-chop.” “Stand by here with a couple of cutting-in spades,” cried Moran, “and fend off if you see any shark; now, then, are you ready, mate?” Wilbur took his determination in both hands, threw off his coat and sandals, and went over the stern rail. “Put your ear to the water,” called Moran from above; “sometimes you can hear their flukes.” It took but a minute to adjust the pintle, and Wilbur regained the deck again, dripping and a little pale. He knew not what horrid form of death might have been lurking for him down below there underneath the kelp. As he started forward for dry clothes he was surprised to observe that Moran was smiling at him, holding out her hand. “That was well done,” she said, “and thank you. I've seen older sailor-men than you who wouldn't have taken the risk.” Never before had she appeared more splendid in his eyes than at this moment. After changing his clothes in the fo'castle, he sat for a long time, his chin in his hands, very thoughtful. Then at length, as though voicing the conclusion of his reflections, said aloud, as he rose to his feet: “But, of course, THAT is out of the question.” He remembered that they were going home on the next day. Within a fortnight he would be in San Francisco again--a taxpayer, a police-protected citizen once more. It had been good fun, after all, this three weeks' life on the “Bertha Millner,” a strange episode cut out from the normal circle of his conventional life. He ran over the incidents of the cruise--Kitchell, the turtle hunt, the finding of the derelict, the dead captain, the squall, and the awful sight of the sinking bark, Moran at the wheel, the grewsome business of the shark-fishing, and last of all that inexplicable lifting and quivering of the schooner. He told himself that now he would probably never know the explanation of that mystery. The day passed in preparations to put to sea again. The deck-tubs and hogsheads were stowed below and the tackle cleared away. By evening all was ready; they would be under way by daybreak the next morning. There was a possibility of their being forced to tow the schooner out by means of the dory, so light were the airs inside. Once beyond the heads, however, they were sure of a breeze. About ten o'clock that night, the same uncanny trembling ran through the schooner again, and about half an hour later she lifted gently once or twice. But after that she was undisturbed. Later on in the night--or rather early in the morning--Wilbur woke suddenly in his hammock without knowing why, and got up and stood listening. The “Bertha Millner” was absolutely quiet. The night was hot and still; the new moon, canted over like a sinking galleon, was low over the horizon. Wilbur listened intently, for now at last he heard something. Between the schooner and the shore a gentle sound of splashing came to his ears, and an occasional crack as of oars in their locks. Was it possible that a boat was there between the schooner and the land? What boat, and manned by whom? The creaking of oarlocks and the dip of paddles was unmistakable. Suddenly Wilbur raised his voice in a great shout: “Boat ahoy!” There was no answer; the noise of oars grew fainter. Moran came running out of her cabin, swinging into her coat as she ran. “What is it--what is it?” “A boat, I think, right off the schooner here. Hark--there--did you hear the oars?” “You're right; call the hands, get the dory over, we'll follow that boat right up. Hello, forward there, Charlie, all hands, tumble out!” Then Wilbur and Moran caught themselves looking into each other's eyes. At once something--perhaps the latent silence of the schooner--told them there was to be no answer. The two ran for-ward: Moran swung herself into the fo'castle hatch, and without using the ladder dropped to the deck below. In an instant her voice came up the hatch: “The bunks are empty--they're gone--abandoned us.” She came up the ladder again. “Look,” said Wilbur, as she regained the deck. “The dory's gone; they've taken it. It was our only boat; we can't get ashore.” “Cowardly, superstitious rats, I should have expected this. They would be chopped in bits before they would stay longer on board this boat--they and their-Feng shui.” When morning came the deserters could be made out camped on the shore, near to the beached dory. What their intentions were could not be conjectured. Ridden with all manner of nameless Oriental superstitions, it was evident that the Chinamen preferred any hazard of fortune to remaining longer upon the schooner. “Well, can we get along without them?” said Wilbur. “Can we two work the schooner back to port ourselves?” “We'll try it on, anyhow, mate,” said Moran; “we might get her into San Diego, anyhow.” The Chinamen had left plenty of provisions on board, and Moran cooked breakfast. Fortunately, by eight o'clock a very light westerly breeze came up. Moran and Wilbur cast off the gaskets and set the fore and main sails. Wilbur was busy at the forward bitts preparing to cast loose from the kelp, and Moran had taken up her position at the wheel when suddenly she exclaimed: “Sail ho! --and in God's name what kind of a sail do you call it?” In fact a strange-looking craft had just made her appearance at the entrance of Magdalena Bay.	{ "id": "321" }
7	BEACH-COMBERS	Wilbur returned aft and joined Moran on the quarterdeck. She was already studying the stranger through the glass. “That's a new build of boat to me,” she muttered, giving Wilbur the glass. Wilbur looked long and carefully. The newcomer was of the size and much the same shape as a caravel of the fifteenth century--high as to bow and stern, and to all appearances as seaworthy as a soup-tureen. Never but in the old prints had Wilbur seen such an extraordinary boat. She carried a single mast, which listed forward; her lugsail was stretched upon dozens of bamboo yards; she drew hardly any water. Two enormous red eyes were painted upon either side of her high, blunt bow, while just abaft the waist projected an enormous oar, or sweep, full forty feet in length--longer, in fact, than the vessel herself. It acted partly as a propeller, partly as a rudder. “They're heading for us,” commented Wilbur as Moran took the glass again. “Right,” she answered; adding upon the moment: “Huh! more Chinamen; the thing is alive with coolies; she's a junk.” “Oh!” exclaimed Wilbur, recollecting some talk of Charlie's he had overheard. “I know.” “You know?” “Yes; these are real beach-combers. I've heard of them along this coast--heard our Chinamen speak of them. They beach that junk every night and camp on shore. They're scavengers, as you might say--pick up what they can find or plunder along shore--abalones, shark-fins, pickings of wrecks, old brass and copper, seals perhaps, turtle and shell. Between whiles they fish for shrimp, and I've heard Kitchell tell how they make pearls by dropping bird-shot into oysters. They are Kai-gingh to a man, and, according to Kitchell, the wickedest breed of cats that ever cut teeth.” The junk bore slowly down upon the schooner. In a few moments she had hove to alongside. But for the enormous red eyes upon her bow she was innocent of paint. She was grimed and shellacked with dirt and grease, and smelled abominably. Her crew were Chinamen; but such Chinamen! The coolies of the “Bertha Millner” were pampered and effete in comparison. The beach-combers, thirteen in number, were a smaller class of men, their faces almost black with tan and dirt. Though they still wore the queue, their heads were not shaven, and mats and mops of stiff black hair fell over their eyes from under their broad, basket-shaped hats. They were barefoot. None of them wore more than two garments--the jeans and the blouse. They were the lowest type of men Wilbur had ever seen. The faces were those of a higher order of anthropoid apes: the lower portion--jaws, lips, and teeth--salient; the nostrils opening at almost right angles, the eyes tiny and bright, the forehead seamed and wrinkled--unnaturally old. Their general expression was of simian cunning and a ferocity that was utterly devoid of courage. “Aye!” exclaimed Moran between her teeth, “if the devil were a shepherd, here are his sheep. You don't come aboard this schooner, my friends! I want to live as long as I can, and die when I can't help it. Boat ahoy!” she called. An answer in Cantonese sing-song came back from the junk, and the speaker gestured toward the outside ocean. Then a long parleying began. For upward of half an hour Moran and Wilbur listened to a proposition in broken pigeon English made by the beach-combers again and again and yet again, and were in no way enlightened. It was impossible to understand. Then at last they made out that there was question of a whale. Next it appeared the whale was dead; and finally, after a prolonged pantomime of gesturing and pointing, Moran guessed that the beach-combers wanted the use of the “Bertha Millner” to trice up the dead leviathan while the oil and whalebone were extracted. “That must be it,” she said to Wilbur. “That's what they mean by pointing to our masts and tackle. You see, they couldn't manage with that stick of theirs, and they say they'll give us a third of the loot. We'll do it, mate, and I'll tell you why. The wind has fallen, and they can tow us out. If it's a sperm-whale they've found, there ought to be thirty or forty barrels of oil in him, let alone the blubber and bone. Oil is at $50 now, and spermaceti will always bring $100. We'll take it on, mate, but we'll keep our eyes on the rats all the time. I don't want them aboard at all. Look at their belts. Not three out of the dozen who aren't carrying those filthy little hatchets. Faugh!” she exclaimed, with a shudder of disgust. “Such vipers!” What followed proved that Moran had guessed correctly. A rope was passed to the “Bertha Millner,” the junk put out its sweeps, and to a wailing, eldrich chanting the schooner was towed out of the bay. “I wonder what Charlie and our China boys will think of this?” said Wilbur, looking shoreward, where the deserters could be seen gathered together in a silent, observing group. “We're well shut of them,” growled Moran, her thumbs in her belt. “Only, now we'll never know what was the matter with the schooner these last few nights. Hah!” she exclaimed under her breath, her scowl thickening, “sometimes I don't wonder the beasts cut.” The dead whale was lying four miles out of the entrance of Magdalena Bay, and as the junk and the schooner drew near seemed like a huge black boat floating bottom up. Over it and upon it swarmed and clambered thousands of sea-birds, while all around and below the water was thick with gorging sharks. A dreadful, strangling decay fouled all the air. The whale was a sperm-whale, and fully twice the length of the “Bertha Millner.” The work of tricing him up occupied the beach-combers throughout the entire day. It was out of the question to keep them off the schooner, and Wilbur and Moran were too wise to try. They swarmed the forward deck and rigging like a plague of unclean monkeys, climbing with an agility and nimbleness that made Wilbur sick to his stomach. They were unlike any Chinamen he had ever seen--hideous to a degree that he had imagined impossible in a human being. On two occasions a fight developed, and in an instant the little hatchets were flashing like the flash of a snake's fangs. Toward the end of the day one of them returned to the junk, screaming like a stuck pig, a bit of his chin bitten off. Moran and Wilbur kept to the quarter-deck, always within reach of the huge cutting-in spades, but the Chinese beach-combers were too elated over their prize to pay them much attention. And indeed the dead monster proved a veritable treasure-trove. By the end of the day he had been triced up to the foremast, and all hands straining at the windlass had raised the mighty head out of the water. The Chinamen descended upon the smooth, black body, their bare feet sliding and slipping at every step. They held on by jabbing their knives into the hide as glacier-climbers do their ice-picks. The head yielded barrel after barrel of oil and a fair quantity of bone. The blubber was taken aboard the junk, minced up with hatchets, and run into casks. Last of all, a Chinaman cut a hole through the “case,” and, actually descending into the inside of the head, stripped away the spermaceti (clear as crystal), and packed it into buckets, which were hauled up on the junk's deck. The work occupied some two or three days. During this time the “Bertha Millner” was keeled over to nearly twenty degrees by the weight of the dead monster. However, neither Wilbur nor Moran made protest. The Chinamen would do as they pleased; that was said and signed. And they did not release the schooner until the whale had been emptied of oil and blubber, spermaceti and bone. At length, on the afternoon of the third day, the captain of the junk, whose name was Hoang, presented himself upon the quarter-deck. He was naked to the waist, and his bare brown torso was gleaming with oil and sweat. His queue was coiled like a snake around his neck, his hatchet thrust into his belt. “Well?” said Moran, coming up. Wilbur caught his breath as the two stood there facing each other, so sharp was the contrast. The man, the Mongolian, small, weazened, leather-colored, secretive--a strange, complex creature, steeped in all the obscure mystery of the East, nervous, ill at ease; and the girl, the Anglo-Saxon, daughter of the Northmen, huge, blond, big-boned, frank, outspoken, simple of composition, open as the day, bareheaded, her great ropes of sandy hair falling over her breast and almost to the top of her knee-boots. As he looked at the two, Wilbur asked himself where else but in California could such abrupt contrasts occur. “All light,” announced Hoang; “catchum all oil, catchum all bone, catchum all same plenty many. You help catchum, now you catchum pay. Sabe?” The three principals came to a settlement with unprecedented directness. Like all Chinamen, Hoang was true to his promises, and he had already set apart three and a half barrels of spermaceti, ten barrels of oil, and some twenty pounds of bone as the schooner's share in the transaction. There was no discussion over the matter. He called their attention to the discharge of his obligations, and hurried away to summon his men aboard and get the junk under way again. The beach-combers returned to their junk, and Wilbur and Moran set about cutting the carcass of the whale adrift. They found it would be easier to cut away the hide from around the hooks and loops of the tackle than to unfasten the tackle itself. “The knots are jammed hard as steel,” declared Moran. “Hand up that cutting-in spade; stand by with the other and cut loose at the same time as I do, so we can ease off the strain on these lines at the same time. Ready there, cut!” Moran set free the hook in the loop of black skin in a couple of strokes, but Wilbur was more clumsy; the skin resisted. He struck at it sharply with the heavy spade; the blade hit the iron hook, glanced off, and opened a large slit in the carcass below the head. A gush of entrails started from the slit, and Moran swore under her breath. “Ease away, quick there! You'll have the mast out of her next--steady! Hold your spade--what's that?” Wilbur had nerved himself against the dreadful stench he expected would issue from the putrid monster, but he was surprised to note a pungent, sweet, and spicy odor that all at once made thick the air about him. It was an aromatic smell, stronger than that of the salt ocean, stronger even than the reek of oil and blubber from the schooner's waist--sweet as incense, penetrating as attar, delicious as a summer breeze. “It smells pretty good, whatever it is,” he answered. Moran came up to where he stood, and looked at the slit he had made in the whale's carcass. Out of it was bulging some kind of dull white matter marbled with gray. It was a hard lump of irregular shape and about as big as a hogshead. Moran glanced over to the junk, some forty feet distant. The beach-combers were hoisting the lug-sail. Hoang was at the steering oar. “Get that stuff aboard,” she commanded quietly. “That!” exclaimed Wilbur, pointing to the lump. Moran's blue eyes were beginning to gleam. “Yes, and do it before the Chinamen see you.” “But--but I don't understand.” Moran stepped to the quarterdeck, unslung the hammock in which Wilbur slept, and tossed it to him. “Reeve it up in that; I'll pass you a line, and we'll haul it aboard. Godsend, those vermin yonder have got smells enough of their own without noticing this. Hurry, mate, I'll talk afterward.” Wilbur went over the side, and standing as best he could upon the slippery carcass, dug out the lump and bound it up in the hammock. “Hoh!” exclaimed Moran, with sudden exultation. “There's a lot of it. That's the biggest lump yet, I'll be bound. Is that all there is, mate? --look carefully.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “Yes, yes; that's all. Careful now when you haul up--Hoang has got his eye on you, and so have the rest of them. What do you call it, anyhow? Why are you so particular about it? Is it worth anything?” “I don't know--perhaps. We'll have a look at it, anyway.” Moran hauled the stuff aboard, and Wilbur followed. “Whew!” he exclaimed with half-closed eyes. “It's like the story of Samson and the dead lion--the sweet coming forth from the strong.” The schooner seemed to swim in a bath of perfumed air; the membrane of the nostrils fairly prinkled with the sensation. Moran unleashed the hammock, and going down upon one knee examined the lump attentively. “It didn't seem possible,” Wilbur heard her saying to herself; “but there can't be any mistake. It's the stuff, right enough. I've heard of such things, but this--but this--” She rose to her feet, tossing back her hair. “Well,” said Wilbur, “what do you call it?” “The thing to do now,” returned Moran, “is to get clear of here as quietly and as quickly as we can, and take this stuff with us. I can't stop to explain now, but it's big--it's big. Mate, it's big as the Bank of England.” “Those beach-combers are right on to the game, I'm afraid,” said Wilbur. “Look, they're watching us. This stuff would smell across the ocean.” “Rot the beach-combers! There's a bit of wind, thank God, and we can do four knots to their one, just let us get clear once.” Moran dragged the hammock back into the cabin, and, returning upon deck, helped Wilbur to cut away the last tricing tackle. The schooner righted slowly to an even keel. Meanwhile the junk had set its one lug-sail and its crew had run out the sweeps. Hoang took the steering sweep and worked the junk to a position right across the “Bertha's” bows, some fifty feet ahead. “They're watching us, right enough,” said Wilbur. “Up your mains'l,” ordered Moran. The pair set the fore and main sails with great difficulty. Moran took the wheel and Wilbur went forward to cast off the line by which the schooner had been tied up to one of the whale's flukes. “Cut it!” cried the girl. “Don't stop to cast off.” There was a hail from the beach-combers; the port sweeps dipped and the junk bore up nearer. “Hurry!” shouted Moran, “don't mind them. Are we clear for'ard--what's the trouble? Something's holding her.” The schooner listed slowly to starboard and settled by the head. “All clear!” cried Wilbur. “There's something wrong!” exclaimed Moran; “she's settling for'ard.” Hoang hailed the schooner a second time. “We're still settling,” called Wilbur from the bows, “what's the matter?” “Matter that she's taking water,” answered Moran wrathfully. “She's started something below, what with all that lifting and dancing and tricing up.” Wilbur ran back to the quarterdeck. “This is a bad fix,” he said to Moran. “Those chaps are coming aboard again. They're on to something, and, of course, at just this moment she begins to leak.” “They are after that ambergris,” said Moran between her teeth. “Smelled it, of course--the swine!” “Ambergris?” “The stuff we found in the whale. That's ambergris.” “Well?” “Well!” shouted Moran, exasperated. “Do you know that we have found a lump that will weigh close to 250 pounds, and do you know that ambergris is selling in San Francisco at $40 an ounce? Do you know that we have picked up nearly $150,000 right out here in the ocean and are in a fair way to lose it all?” “Can't we run for it?” “Run for it in a boat that's taking water like a sack! Our dory's gone. Suppose we get clear of the junk, and the 'Bertha' sank? Then what? If we only had our crew aboard; if we were only ten to their dozen--if we were only six--by Jupiter! I'd fight them for it.” The two enormous red eyes of the junk loomed alongside and stared over into the “Bertha's” waist. Hoang and seven of the coolies swarmed aboard. “What now?” shouted Moran, coming forward to meet them, her scowl knotting her flashing eyes together. “Is this ship yours or mine? We've done your dirty work for you. I want you clear of my deck.” Wilbur stood at her side, uncertain what to do, but ready for anything she should attempt. “I tink you catchum someting, smellum pretty big,” said Hoang, his ferret glance twinkling about the schooner. “I catchum nothing--nothing but plenty bad stink,” said Moran. “No, you don't!” she exclaimed, putting herself in Hoang's way as he made for the cabin. The other beach-combers came crowding up; Wilbur even thought he saw one of them loosening his hatchet in his belt. “This ship's mine,” cried Moran, backing to the cabin door. Wilbur followed her, and the Chinamen closed down upon the pair. “It's not much use, Moran,” he muttered. “They'll rush us in a minute.” “But the ambergris is mine--is mine,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the confronting coolies. “We findum w'ale,” said Hoang; “you no find w'ale; him b'long to we--eve'yt'ing in um w'ale b'long to we, savvy?” “No, you promised us a third of everything you found.” Even in the confusion of the moment it occurred to Wilbur that it was quite possible that at least two-thirds of the ambergris did belong to the beach-combers by right of discovery. After all, it was the beach-combers who had found the whale. He could never remember afterward whether or no he said as much to Moran at the time. If he did, she had been deaf to it. A fury of wrath and desperation suddenly blazed in her blue eyes. Standing at her side, Wilbur could hear her teeth grinding upon each other. She was blind to all danger, animated only by a sense of injustice and imposition. Hoang uttered a sentence in Cantonese. One of the coolies jumped forward, and Moran's fist met him in the face and brought him to his knees. Then came the rush Wilbur had foreseen. He had just time to catch a sight of Moran at grapples with Hoang when a little hatchet glinted over his head. He struck out savagely into the thick of the group--and then opened his eyes to find Moran washing the blood from his hair as he lay on the deck with his head in the hollow of her arm. Everything was quiet. The beach-combers were gone. “Hello, what--what--what is it?” he asked, springing to his feet, his head swimming and smarting. “We had a row, didn't we? Did they hurt you? Oh, I remember; I got a cut over the head--one of their hatchet men. Did they hurt you?” “They got the loot,” she growled. “Filthy vermin! And just to make everything pleasant, the schooner's sinking.”	{ "id": "321" }
8	A RUN FOR LAND	“SINKING!” exclaimed Wilbur. Moran was already on her feet. “We'll have to beach her,” she cried, “and we're six miles out. Up y'r jib, mate!” The two set the jib, flying-jib, and staysails. The fore and main sails were already drawing, and under all the spread of her canvas the “Bertha” raced back toward the shore. But by the time she was within the head of the bay her stern had settled to such an extent that the forefoot was clear of the water, the bowsprit pointing high into the heavens. Moran was at the wheel, her scowl thicker than ever, her eyes measuring the stretch of water that lay between the schooner and the shore. “She'll never make it in God's world,” she muttered as she listened to the wash of the water in the cabin under her feet. In the hold, empty barrels were afloat, knocking hollowly against each other. “We're in a bad way, mate.” “If it comes to that,” returned Wilbur, surprised to see her thus easily downcast, who was usually so indomitable--“if it comes to that, we can swim for it--a couple of planks--” “Swim?” she echoed; “I'm not thinking of that; of course we could swim.” “What then?” “The sharks!” Wilbur's teeth clicked sharply together. He could think of nothing to say. As the water gained between decks the schooner's speed dwindled, and at the same time as she approached the shore the wind, shut off by the land, fell away. By this time the ocean was not four inches below the stern-rail. Two miles away was the nearest sand-spit. Wilbur broke out a distress signal on the foremast, in the hope that Charlie and the deserters might send off the dory to their assistance. But the deserters were nowhere in sight. “What became of the junk?” he demanded suddenly of Moran. She motioned to the westward with her head. “Still lying out-side.” Twenty minutes passed. Once only Moran spoke. “When she begins to go,” she said, “she'll go with a rush. Jump pretty wide, or you'll get caught in the suction.” The two had given up all hope. Moran held grimly to the wheel as a mere matter of form. Wilbur stood at her side, his clinched fists thrust into his pockets. The eyes of both were fixed on the yellow line of the distant beach. By and by Moran turned to him with an odd smile. “We're a strange pair to die together,” she said. Wilbur met her eyes an instant, but finding no reply, put his chin in the air as though he would have told her she might well say that. “A strange pair to die together,” Moran repeated; “but we can do that better than we could have”--she looked away from him--“could have LIVED together,” she finished, and smiled again. “And yet,” said Wilbur, “these last few weeks here on board the schooner, we have been through a good deal--together. I don't know,” he went on clumsily, “I don't know when I've been--when I've had--I've been happier than these last weeks. It is queer, isn't it? I know, of course, what you'll say. I've said it to myself often of late. I belong to the city and to my life there, and you--you belong to the ocean. I never knew a girl like you--never knew a girl COULD be like you. You don't know how extraordinary it all seems to me. You swear like a man, and you dress like a man, and I don't suppose you've ever been associated with other women; and you're strong--I know you are as strong as I am. You have no idea how different you are to the kind of girl I've known. Imagine my kind of girl standing up before Hoang and those cutthroat beach-combers with their knives and hatchets. Maybe it's because you are so unlike my kind of girl that--that things are as they are with me. I don't know. It's a queer situation. A month or so ago I was at a tea in San Francisco, and now I'm aboard a shark-fishing schooner sinking in Magdalena Bay; and I'm with a girl that--that--that I--well, I'm with you, and, well, you know how it is--I might as well say it--I love you more than I imagined I ever could love a girl.” Moran's frown came back to her forehead. “I don't like that kind of talk,” she said; “I am not used to it, and I don't know how to take it. Believe me,” she said with a half laugh, “it's all wasted. I never could love a man. I'm not made for men.” “No,” said Wilbur, “nor for other women either.” “Nor for other women either.” Wilbur fell silent. In that instant he had a distinct vision of Moran's life and character, shunning men and shunned of women, a strange, lonely creature, solitary as the ocean whereon she lived, beautiful after her fashion; as yet without sex, proud, untamed, splendid in her savage, primal independence--a thing untouched and unsullied by civilization. She seemed to him some Bradamante, some mythical Brunhilde, some Valkyrie of the legends, born out of season, lost and unfamiliar in this end-of-the-century time. Her purity was the purity of primeval glaciers. He could easily see how to such a girl the love of a man would appear only in the light of a humiliation--a degradation. And yet she COULD love, else how had HE been able to love her? Wilbur found himself--even at that moment--wondering how the thing could be done--wondering to just what note the untouched cords would vibrate. Just how she should be awakened one morning to find that she--Moran, sea-rover, virgin unconquered, without law, without land, without sex--was, after all, a woman. “By God, mate!” she exclaimed of a sudden. “The barrels are keeping us up--the empty barrels in the hold. Hoh! we'll make land yet.” It was true. The empty hogsheads, destined for the storage of oil, had been forced up by the influx of the water to the roof of the hold, and were acting as so many buoys--the schooner could sink no lower. An hour later, the quarterdeck all awash, her bow thrown high into the air, listing horribly to starboard, the “Bertha Millner” took ground on the shore of Magdalena Bay at about the turn of the tide. Moran swung herself over the side, hip deep in the water, and, wading ashore with a line, made fast to the huge skull of a whale half buried in the sand at that point. Wilbur followed. The schooner had grounded upon the southern horn of the bay and lay easily on a spit of sand. They could not examine the nature of the leak until low water the next morning. “Well, here we are,” said Moran, her thumbs in her belt. “What next? We may be here for two days, we MAY be here for two years. It all depends upon how bad a hole she has. Have we 'put in for repairs,' or have we been cast away? Can't tell till to-morrow morning. Meanwhile, I'm hungry.” Half of the stores of the schooner were water-soaked, but upon examination Wilbur found that enough remained intact to put them beyond all fear for the present. “There's plenty of water up the creek,” he said, “and we can snare all the quail we want; and then there's the fish and abalone. Even if the stores were gone we could make out very well.” The schooner's cabin was full of water and Wilbur's hammock was gone, so the pair decided to camp on shore. In that torrid weather to sleep in the open air was a luxury. In great good spirits the two sat down to their first meal on land. Moran cooked a supper that, barring the absence of coffee, was delicious. The whiskey was had from aboard, and they pledged each other, standing up, in something over two stiff fingers. “Moran,” said Wilbur, “you ought to have been born a man.” “At all events, mate,” she said--“at all events, I'm not a girl.” “NO!” exclaimed Wilbur, as he filled his pipe. “NO, you're just Moran, Moran of the 'Lady Letty.'” “And I'll stay that, too,” she said decisively. Never had an evening been more beautiful in Wilbur's eyes. There was not a breath of air. The stillness was so profound that the faint murmur of the blood behind the ear-drums became an oppression. The ocean tiptoed toward the land with tiny rustling steps. The west was one gigantic stained window, the ocean floor a solid shimmer of opalescence. Behind them, sullen purples marked the horizon, hooded with mountain crests, and after a long while the moon shrugged a gleaming shoulder into view. Wilbur, dressed in Chinese jeans and blouse, with Chinese wicker sandals on his bare feet, sat with his back against the whale's skull, smoking quietly. For a long time there was no conversation; then at last: “No,” said Moran in a low voice. “This is the life I'm made for. In six years I've not spent three consecutive weeks on land. Now that Eilert” (she always spoke of her father by his first name), “now that Eilert is dead, I've not a tie, not a relative, not even a friend, and I don't wish it.” “But the loneliness of the life, the solitude,” said Wilbur, “that's what I don't understand. Did it ever occur to you that the best happiness is the happiness that one shares?” Moran clasped a knee in both hands and looked out to sea. She never wore a hat, and the red light of the afterglow was turning her rye-hued hair to saffron. “Hoh!” she exclaimed, her heavy voice pitched even lower than usual. “Who could understand or share any of my pleasures, or be happy when I'm happy? And, besides, I'm happiest when I'm alone--I don't want any one.” “But,” hesitated Wilbur, “one is not always alone. After all, you're a girl, and men, sailormen especially, are beasts when it's a question of a woman--an unprotected woman.” “I'm stronger than most men,” said Moran simply. “If you, for instance, had been like some men, I should have fought you. It wouldn't have been the first time,” she added, smoothing one huge braid between her palms. Wilbur looked at her with intent curiosity--noted again, as if for the first time, the rough, blue overalls thrust into the shoes; the coarse flannel shirt open at the throat; the belt with its sheath-knife; her arms big and white and tattooed in sailor fashion; her thick, muscular neck; her red face, with its pale blue eyes and almost massive jaw; and her hair, her heavy, yellow, fragrant hair, that lay over her shoulder and breast, coiling and looping in her lap. “No,” he said, with a long breath, “I don't make it out. I knew you were out of my experience, but I begin to think now that you are out of even my imagination. You are right, you SHOULD keep to yourself. You should be alone--your mate isn't made yet. You are splendid just as you are,” while under his breath he added, his teeth clinching, “and God! but I love you.” It was growing late, the stars were all out, the moon riding high. Moran yawned: “Mate, I think I'll turn in. We'll have to be at that schooner early in the morning, and I make no doubt she'll give us plenty to do.” Wilbur hesitated to reply, waiting to take his cue from what next she should say. “It's hot enough to sleep where we are,” she added, “without going aboard the 'Bertha,' though we might have a couple of blankets off to lie on. This sand's as hard as a plank.” Without answering, Wilbur showed her a couple of blanket-rolls he had brought off while he was unloading part of the stores that afternoon. They took one apiece and spread them on the sand by the bleached whale's skull. Moran pulled off her boots and stretched herself upon her blanket with absolute unconcern, her hands clasped under her head. Wilbur rolled up his coat for a pillow and settled himself for the night with an assumed self-possession. There was a long silence. Moran yawned again. “I pulled the heel off my boot this morning,” she said lazily, “and I've been limping all day.” “I noticed it,” answered Wilbur. “Kitchell had a new pair aboard somewhere, if they're not spoiled by the water now.” “Yes?” she said indifferently; “we'll look them up in the morning.” Again there was silence. “I wonder,” she began again, staring up into the dark, “if Charlie took that frying-pan off with him when he went?” “I don't know. He probably did.” “It was the only thing we had to cook abalones in. Make me think to look into the galley to-morrow....This ground's as hard as nails, for all your blankets....Well, good-night, mate; I'm going to sleep.” “Good-night, Moran.” Three hours later Wilbur, who had not closed his eyes, sat up and looked at Moran, sleeping quietly, her head in a pale glory of hair; looked at her, and then around him at the silent, deserted land. “I don't know,” he said to himself. “Am I a right-minded man and a thoroughbred, or a mush-head, or merely a prudent, sensible sort of chap that values his skin and bones? I'd be glad to put a name to myself.” Then, more earnestly he added: “Do I love her too much, or not enough, or love her the wrong way, or how?” He leaned toward her, so close that he could catch the savor of her breath and the smell of her neck, warm with sleep. The sleeve of the coarse blue shirt was drawn up, and it seemed to him as if her bare arm, flung out at full length, had some sweet aroma of its own. Wilbur drew softly back. “No,” he said to himself decisively; “no, I guess I am a thoroughbred after all.” It was only then that he went to sleep. When he awoke the sea was pink with the sunrise, and one of the bay heads was all distorted and stratified by a mirage. It was hot already. Moran was sitting a few paces from him, braiding her hair. “Hello, Moran!” he said, rousing up; “how long have you been up?” “Since before sunrise,” she said; “I've had a bath in the cove where the creek runs down. I saw a jack-rabbit.” “Seen anything of Charlie and the others?” “They've camped on the other side of the bay. But look yonder,” she added. The junk had come in overnight, and was about a mile and a half from shore. “The deuce!” exclaimed Wilbur. “What are they after?” “Fresh water, I guess,” said Moran, knotting the end of a braid. “We'd better have breakfast in a hurry, and turn to on the 'Bertha.' The tide is going out fast.” While they breakfasted they kept an eye on the schooner, watching her sides and flanks as the water fell slowly away. “Don't see anything very bad yet,” said Wilbur. “It's somewhere in her stern,” remarked Moran. In an hour's time the “Bertha Millner” was high and dry, and they could examine her at their leisure. It was Moran who found the leak. “Pshaw!” she exclaimed, with a half-laugh, “we can stick that up in half an hour.” A single plank had started away from the stern-post; that was all. Otherwise the schooner was as sound as the day she left San Francisco. Moran and Wilbur had the damage repaired by noon, nailing the plank into its place and caulking the seams with lamp-wick. Nor could their most careful search discover any further injury. “We're ready to go,” said Moran, “so soon as she'll float. We can dig away around the bows here, make fast a line to that rock out yonder, and warp her off at next high tide. Hello! who's this?” It was Charlie. While the two had been at work, he had come around the shore unobserved, and now stood at some little distance, smiling at them calmly. “Well, what do you want?” cried Moran angrily. “If you had your rights, my friend, you'd be keelhauled.” “I tink um velly hot day.” “You didn't come here to say that. What do you want?” “I come hab talkee-talk.” “We don't want to have any talkee-talk with such vermin as you. Get out!” Charlie sat down on the beach and wiped his forehead. “I come buy one-piecee bacon. China boy no hab got.” “We aren't selling bacon to deserters,” cried Moran; “and I'll tell you this, you filthy little monkey: Mr. Wilbur and I are going home--back to 'Frisco--this afternoon; and we're going to leave you and the rest of your vipers to rot on this beach, or to be murdered by beach-combers,” and she pointed out toward the junk. Charlie did not even follow the direction of her gesture, and from this very indifference Wilbur guessed that it was precisely because of the beach-combers that the Machiavellian Chinaman had wished to treat with his old officers. “No hab got bacon?” he queried, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. “Plenty; but not for you.” Charlie took a buckskin bag from his blouse and counted out a handful of silver and gold. “I buy um nisi two-piecee tobacco.” “Look here,” said Wilbur deliberately; “don't you try to flim-flam us, Charlie. We know you too well. You don't want bacon and you don't want tobacco.” “China boy heap plenty much sick. Two boy velly sick. I tink um die pretty soon to-molla. You catch um slop-chest; you gib me five, seven liver pill. Sabe?” “I'll tell you what you want,” cried Moran, aiming a forefinger at him, pistol fashion; “you've got a blue funk because those Kai-gingh beach-combers have come into the bay, and you're more frightened of them than you are of the schooner; and now you want us to take you home.” “How muchee?” “A thousand dollars.” Wilbur looked at her in surprise. He had expected a refusal. “You no hab got liver pill?” inquired Charlie blandly. Moran turned her back on him. She and Wilbur conferred in a low voice. “We'd better take them back, if we decently can,” said Moran. “The schooner is known, of course, in 'Frisco. She went out with Kitchell and a crew of coolies, and she comes back with you and I aboard, and if we tell the truth about it, it will sound like a lie, and we'll have no end of trouble. Then again, can just you and I work the 'Bertha' into port? In these kind of airs it's plain work, but suppose we have dirty weather? I'm not so sure.” “I gib you ten dollah fo' ten liver pill,” said Charlie. “Will you give us a thousand dollars to set you down in San Francisco?” Charlie rose. “I go back. I tell um China boy what you say 'bout liver pill. Bime-by I come back.” “That means he'll take our offer back to his friends,” said Wilbur, in a low voice. “You best hurry chop-chop,” he called after Charlie; “we go home pretty soon!” “He knows very well we can't get away before high tide to-morrow,” said Moran. “He'll take his time.” Later on in the afternoon Moran and Wilbur saw a small boat put off from the junk and make a landing by the creek. The beach-combers were taking on water. The boat made three trips before evening, but the beach-combers made no show of molesting the undefended schooner, or in any way interfering with Charlie's camp on the other side of the bay. “No!” exclaimed Moran between her teeth, as she and Wilbur were cooking supper; “no, they don't need to; they've got about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars of loot on board--OUR loot, too! Good God! it goes against the grain!” The moon rose considerably earlier that night, and by twelve o'clock the bay was flooded with its electrical whiteness. Wilbur and Moran could plainly make out the junk tied up to the kelp off-shore. But toward one o'clock Wilbur was awakened by Moran shaking his arm. “There's something wrong out there,” she whispered; “something wrong with the junk. Hear 'em squealing? Look! look! look!” she cried of a sudden; “it's their turn now!” Wilbur could see the crank junk, with its staring red eyes, high stern and prow, as distinctly as though at noonday. As he watched, it seemed as if a great wave caught her suddenly underfoot. She heaved up bodily out of the water, dropped again with a splash, rose again, and again fell back into her own ripples, that, widening from her sides, broke crisply on the sand at Wilbur's feet. Then the commotion ceased abruptly. The bay was quiet again. An hour passed, then two. The moon began to set. Moran and Wilbur, wearied of watching, had turned in again, when they were startled to wakefulness by the creak of oarlocks and the sound of a boat grounding in the sand. The coolies--the deserters from the “Bertha Millner”--were there. Charlie came forward. “Ge' lup! Ge' lup!” he said. “Junk all smash! Kai-gingh come ashore. I tink him want catch um schooner.”	{ "id": "321" }
9	THE CAPTURE OF HOANG	“What smashed the junk? What wrecked her?” demanded Moran. The deserting Chinamen huddled around Charlie, drawing close, as if finding comfort in the feel of each other's elbows. “No can tell,” answered Charlie. “Him shake, then lif' up all the same as we. Bime-by too much lif' up; him smash all to--Four-piecee Chinamen dlown.” “Drown! Did any of them drown?” exclaimed Moran. “Four-piecee dlown,” reiterated Charlie calmly. “One, thlee, five, nine, come asho'. Him other no come.” “Where are the ones that came ashore?” asked Wilbur. Charlie waved a hand back into the night. “Him make um camp topside ole house.” “That old whaling-camp,” prompted Moran. Then to Wilbur: “You remember--about a hundred yards north the creek?” Wilbur, Moran and Charlie had drawn off a little from the “Bertha Millner's” crew. The latter squatted in a line along the shore--silent, reserved, looking vaguely seaward through the night. Moran spoke again, her scowl thickening: “What makes you think the beach-combers want our schooner?” “Him catch um schooner sure! Him want um boat to go home. No can get.” “Let's put off to-night--right away,” said Wilbur. “Low tide,” answered Moran; “and besides--Charlie, did you see them close? Were you near them?” “No go muchee close.” “Did they have something with them, reeved up in a hammock--something that smelled sweet?” “Like a joss-stick, for instance?” “No savvy; no can tell. Him try catch um schooner sure. Him velly bad China boy. See Yup China boy, velly bad. I b'long Sam Yup. Savvy?' ! “Ah! the Tongs?” “Yas. I Sam Yup. Him,” and he pointed to the “Bertha's” crew, “Sam Yup. All we Sam Yup; nisi him,” and he waved a hand toward the beach-combers' camp; “him See Yup. Savvy?” “It's a Tong row,” said Wilbur. “They're blood enemies, the See Yups and Sam Yups.” Moran fell thoughtful, digging her boot-heel into the sand, her thumbs hooked into her belt, her forehead gathered into a heavy frown. There was a silence. “One thing,” she said, at last; “we can't give up the schooner. They would take our stores as well, and then where are we? Marooned, by Jove! How far do you suppose we are from the nearest town? Three hundred miles wouldn't be a bad guess, and they've got the loot--our ambergris--I'll swear to that. They didn't leave that aboard when the junk sank.” “Look here, Charlie,” she said, turning to the Chinaman. “If the beach-combers take the schooner--the 'Bertha Millner'--from us we'll be left to starve on this beach.” “I tink um yass.” “How are we going to get home? Are you going to let them do it? Are you going to let them have our schooner?” “I tink no can have.” “Look here,” she went on, with sudden energy. “There are only nine of them now, to our eight. We're about even. We can fight those swine. I know we can. If we jumped their camp and rushed them hard, believe me, we could run them into the sea. Mate,” she cried, suddenly facing Wilbur, “are you game? Have you got blood in you? Those beach-comberes are going to attack us to-morrow, before high tide--that's flat. There's going to be a fight anyway. We can't let them have the schooner. It's starvation for us if we do. “They mean to make a dash for the 'Bertha,' and we've got to fight them off. If there's any attacking to be done I propose to do it! I propose we jump their camp before it gets light--now--to-night--right away--run in on them there, take them by surprise, do for one or two of them if we have to, and get that ambergris. Then cut back to the schooner, up our sails, and wait for the tide to float us off. We can do it--I know we can. Mate, will you back me up?” “Back you up? You bet I'll back you up, Moran. But--” Wilbur hesitated. “We could fight them so much more to advantage from the deck of the schooner. Why not wait for them aboard? We could have our sails up, anyhow, and we could keep the beach-combers off till the tide rose high enough to drive them back. Why not do that?” “I tink bes' wait topside boat,” assented Charlie. “Yes; why not, Moran?” “Because,” shouted the girl, “they've got our loot. I don't propose to be plundered of $150,000 if I can help it.” “Wassa dat?” demanded Charlie. “Hunder fiftee tlousand you hab got?” “I did have it--we had it, the mate and I. We triced a sperm whale for the beach-combers, and when they thought they had everything out of him we found a lump of ambergris in him that will weigh close to two hundred pounds. Now look here, Charlie. The beach-combers have got the stuff. It's mine--I'm going to have it back. Here's the lay. Your men can fight--you can fight yourself. We'll make it a business proposition. Help me to get that ambergris, and if we get it I'll give each one of the men $1,000, and I'll give you $1,500. You can take that up and be independent rich the rest of your life. You can chuck it and rot on this beach, for it's fight or lose the schooner; you know that as well as I do. If you've got to fight anyhow, why not fight where it's going to pay the most?” Charlie hesitated, pursing his lips. “How about this, Moran?” Wilbur broke forth now, unheard by Charlie. “I've just been thinking; have we got a right to this ambergris, after all? The beach-combers found the whale. It was theirs. How have we the right to take the ambergris away from them any more than the sperm and the oil and the bone? It's theirs, if you come to that. I don't know as we've the right to it.” “Darn you!” shouted Moran in a blaze of fury, “right to it, right to it! If I haven't, who has? Who found it? Those dirty monkeys might have stood some show to a claim if they'd held to the one-third bargain, and offered to divvy with us when they got me where I couldn't help myself. I don't say I'd give in now if they had--give in to let 'em walk off with a hundred thousand dollars that I've got as good a claim to as they have! But they've saved me the trouble of arguing the question. They've taken it all, all! And there's no bargain in the game at all now. Now the stuff belongs to the strongest of us, and I'm glad of it. They thought they were the strongest and now they're going to find out. We're dumped down here on this God-forsaken sand, and there's no law and no policemen. The strongest of us are going to live and the weakest are going to die. I'm going to live and I'm going to have my loot, too, and I'm not going to split fine hairs with these robbers at this time of day. I'm going to have it all, and that's the law you're under in this case, my righteous friend!” She turned her back upon him, spinning around upon her heel, and Wilbur felt ashamed of himself and proud of her. “I go talkee-talk to China boy,” said Charlie, coming up. For about five minutes the Chinamen conferred together, squatting in a circle on the beach. Moran paced up and down by the stranded dory. Wilbur leaned against the bleached whale-skull, his hands in his pockets. Once he looked at his watch. It was nearly one o'clock. “All light,” said Charlie, coming up from the group at last; “him fight plenty.” “Now,” exclaimed Moran, “we've no time to waste. What arms have we got?” “We've got the cutting-in spades,” said Wilbur; “there's five of them. They're nearly ten feet long, and the blades are as sharp as razors; you couldn't want better pikes.” “That's an idea,” returned Moran, evidently willing to forget her outburst of a moment before, perhaps already sorry for it. The party took stock of their weapons, and five huge cutting-in spades, a heavy knife from the galley, and a revolver of doubtful effectiveness were divided among them. The crew took the spades, Charlie the knife, and Wilbur the revolver. Moran had her own knife, a haftless dirk, such as is affected by all Norwegians, whether landsmen or sailors. They were examining this armament and Moran was suggesting a plan of attack, when Hoang, the leader of the beach-combers, and one other Chinaman appeared some little distance below them on the beach. The moon was low and there was no great light, but the two beach-combers caught the flash of the points of the spades. They halted and glanced narrowly and suspiciously at the group. “Beasts!” muttered Moran. “They are up to the game--there's no surprising them now. Talk to him, Charlie; see what he wants.” Moran, Wilbur, and Charlie came part of the way toward Hoang and his fellow, and paused some fifteen feet distant, and a long colloquy ensued. It soon became evident, however, that in reality Hoang wanted nothing of them, though with great earnestness he asserted his willingness to charter the “Bertha Millner” back to San Francisco. “That's not his game at all,” said Moran to Wilbur, in a low tone, her eyes never leaving those of the beach-comber. “He's pretty sure he could seize the 'Bertha' and never pay us a stiver. They've come down to spy on us, and they're doing it, too. There's no good trying to rush that camp now. They'll go back and tell the crew that we know their lay.” It was still very dark. Near the hulk of the beached “Bertha Millner” were grouped her crew, each armed with a long and lance-like cutting-in spade, watching and listening to the conference of the chiefs. The moon, almost down, had flushed blood-red, violently streaking the gray, smooth surface of the bay with her reflection. The tide was far out, rippling quietly along the reaches of wet sand. In the pauses of the conference the vast, muffling silence shut down with the abruptness of a valve suddenly closed. How it happened, just who made the first move, in precisely what manner the action had been planned, or what led up to it, Wilbur could not afterward satisfactorily explain. There was a rush forward--he remembered that much--a dull thudding of feet over the resounding beach surface, a moment's writhing struggle with a half-naked brown figure that used knife and nail and tooth, and then the muffling silence again, broken only by the sound of their own panting. In that whirl of swift action Wilbur could reconstruct but two brief pictures: the Chinaman, Hoang's companion, flying like one possessed along the shore; Hoang himself flung headlong into the arms of the “Bertha's” coolies, and Moran, her eyes blazing, her thick braids flying, brandishing her fist as she shouted at the top of her deep voice, “We've got you, anyhow!” They had taken Hoang prisoner, whether by treachery or not, Wilbur did not exactly know; and, even if unfair means had been used, he could not repress a feeling of delight and satisfaction as he told himself that in the very beginning of the fight that was to follow he and his mates had gained the first advantage. As the action of that night's events became more and more accelerated, Wilbur could not but notice the change in Moran. It was very evident that the old Norse fighting blood of her was all astir; brutal, merciless, savage beyond all control. A sort of obsession seized upon her at the near approach of battle, a frenzy of action that was checked by nothing--that was insensible to all restraint. At times it was impossible for him to make her hear him, or when she heard to understand what he was saying. Her vision contracted. It was evident that she could not see distinctly. Wilbur could no longer conceive of her as a woman of the days of civilization. She was lapsing back to the eighth century again--to the Vikings, the sea-wolves, the Berserkers. “Now you're going to talk,” she cried to Hoang, as the bound Chinaman sat upon the beach, leaning his back against the great skull. “Charlie, ask him if they saved the ambergris when the junk went down--if they've got it now?” Charlie put the question in Chinese, but the beach-comber only twinkled his vicious eyes upon them and held his peace. With the full sweep of her arm, her fist clinched till the knuckles whitened, Moran struck him in the face. “Now will you talk?” she cried. Hoang wiped the blood from his face upon his shoulder and set his jaws. He did not answer. “You will talk before I'm done with you, my friend; don't get any wrong notions in your head about that,” Moran continued, her teeth clinched. “Charlie,” she added, “is there a file aboard the schooner?” “I tink um yass, boss hab got file.” “In the tool-chest, isn't it?” Charlie nodded, and Moran ordered it to be fetched. “If we're to fight that crowd,” she said, speaking to herself and in a rapid voice, thick from excitement and passion, “we've got to know where they've hid the loot, and what weapons they've got. If they have a rifle or a shotgun with them, it's going to make a big difference for us. The other fellow escaped and has gone back to warn the rest. It's fight now, and no mistake.” The Chinaman who had been sent aboard the schooner returned, carrying a long, rather coarse-grained file. Moran took it from him. “Now,” she said, standing in front of Hoang, “I'll give you one more chance. Answer me. Did you bring off the ambergris, you beast, when your junk sank? Where is it now? How many men have you? What arms have you got? Have your men got a rifle? --Charlie, put that all to him in your lingo, so as to make sure that he understands. Tell him if he don't talk I'm going to make him very sick.” Charlie put the questions in Chinese, pausing after each one. Hoang held his peace. “I gave you fair warning,” shouted Moran angrily, pointing at him with the file. “Will you answer?” “Him no tell nuttin,” observed Charlie. “Fetch a cord here,” commanded Moran. The cord was brought, and despite Hoang's struggles and writhings the file was thrust end-ways into his mouth and his jaws bound tightly together upon it by means of the cord passed over his head and under his chin. Some four inches of the file portruded from his lips. Moran took this end and drew it out between the beach-comber's teeth, then pushed it back slowly. The hideous rasp of the operation turned Wilbur's blood cold within him. He looked away--out to sea, down the beach--anywhere, so that he might not see what was going forward. But the persistent grind and scrape still assaulted his ears. He turned about sharply. “I--I--I'll go down the beach here a ways,” he said quickly. “I can't stand--I'll keep watch to see if the beach-combers come up.” A few minutes later he heard Charlie hailing him. “Chin-chin heap plenty now,” said he, with a grin, as Wilbur came up. Hoang sat on the sand in the midst of the circle. The file and coil of rope lay on the ground near by. The beach-comber was talking in a high-keyed sing-song, but with a lisp. He told them partly in pigeon English and partly in Cantonese, which Charlie translated, that their men were eight in number, and that they had intended to seize the schooner that night, but that probably his own capture had delayed their plans. They had no rifle. A shotgun had been on board, but had gone down with the sinking of the junk. The ambergris had been cut into two lumps, and would be found in a couple of old flour-sacks in the stern of the boat in which he and his men had come ashore. They were all armed with their little hatchets. He thought two of the men carried knives as well. There was neither pistol nor revolver among them. “It seems to me,” said Wilbur, “that we've got the long end.” “We catch um boss, too!” said Charlie, pointing to Hoang. “And we are better armed,” assented Moran. “We've got the cutting-in spades.” “And the revolver, if it will shoot any further than it will kick.” “They'll give us all the fight we want,” declared Moran. “Oh, him Kai-gingh, him fight all same devil.” “Give the men brandy, Charlie,” commanded Moran. “We'll rush that camp right away.” The demijohn of spirits was brought down from the “Bertha” and passed around, Wilbur and Moran drinking from the tin cup, the coolies from the bottle. Hoang was fettered and locked in the “Bertha's” cabin. “Now, then, are we ready?” cried Moran. “I tink all light,” answered Charlie. The party set off down the beach. The moon had long since gone down, and the dawn was whitening over the eastern horizon. Landward, ragged blankets of morning mist lay close in the hollows here and there. It was profoundly still. The stars were still out. The surface of Magdalena Bay was smooth as a sheet of gray silk. Twenty minutes passed, half an hour, an hour. The party tramped steadily forward, Moran, Wilbur, and Charlie leading, the coolies close behind carrying the cutting-in spades over their shoulders. Slowly and in silence they made the half circuit of the bay. The “Bertha Millner” was far behind them by now, a vague gray mass in the early morning light. “Did you ever fight before?” Moran suddenly demanded of Charlie. “One time I fight plenty much in San Flancisco in Washington stleet. Fight um See Yups.” Another half-hour passed. At times when they halted they began to hear the faint murmur of the creek, just beyond which was the broken and crumbling shanty, relic of an old Portuguese whaling-camp, where the beach-combers were camped. At Charlie's suggestion the party made a circuit, describing a half moon, to landward, so as to come out upon the enemy sheltered by the sand-dunes. Twenty minutes later they crossed the creek about four hundred yards from the shore. Here they spread out into a long line, and, keeping an interval of about fifteen feet between each of them, moved cautiously forward. The unevenness of the sand-breaks hid the shore from view, but Moran, Wilbur, and Charlie knew that by keeping the creek upon their left they would come out directly upon the house. A few moments later Charlie held up his hand, and the men halted. The noise of the creek chattering into the tidewater of the bay was plainly audible just beyond; a ridge of sand, covered thinly with sage-brush, and a faint column of smoke rose into the air over the ridge itself. They were close in. The coolies were halted, and dropping upon their hands and knees, the three leaders crawled to the top of the break. Sheltered by a couple of sage-bushes and lying flat to the ground, Wilbur looked over and down upon the beach. The first object he made out was a crazy, roofless house, built of driftwood, the chinks plastered with 'dobe mud, the door fallen in. Beyond, on the beach, was a flat-bottomed dingy, unpainted and foul with dirt. But all around the house the sand had been scooped and piled to form a low barricade, and behind this barricade Wilbur saw the beach-combers. There were eight of them. They were alert and ready, their hatchets in their hands. The gaze of each of them was fixed directly upon the sand-break which sheltered the “Bertha Millner's” officers and crew. They seemed to Wilbur to look him straight in the eye. They neither moved nor spoke. The silence and absolute lack of motion on the part of these small, half-naked Chinamen, with their ape-like muzzles and twinkling eyes, was ominous. There could be no longer any doubts that the beach-combers had known of their enemies' movements and were perfectly aware of their presence behind the sand-break. Moran rose to her feet, and Wilbur and Charlie followed her example. “There's no use hiding,” she said; “they know we're here.” Charlie called up the crew. The two parties were ranged face to face. Over the eastern rim of the Pacific the blue whiteness of the early dawn was turning to a dull, roseate gold at the core of the sunrise. The headlands of Magdalena Bay stood black against the pale glow; overhead, the greater stars still shone. The monotonous, faint ripple of the creek was the only sound. It was about 3:30 o'clock.	{ "id": "321" }
10	A BATTLE	Wilbur had imagined that the fight would be hardly more than a wild rush down the slope of the beach, a dash over the beach-combers' breastworks of sand, and a brief hand-to-hand scrimmage around the old cabin. In all accounts he had ever read of such affairs, and in all ideas he had entertained on the subject, this had always been the case. The two bodies had shocked together like a college rush, there had been five minutes' play of knife and club and gun, a confused whirl of dust and smoke, and all was over before one had time either to think or be afraid. But nothing of the kind happened that morning. The “Bertha Millner's” crew, in a long line, Moran at one end, Wilbur at the other, and Charlie in the centre, came on toward the beach-combers, step by step. There was little outcry. Each contestant singled out his enemy, and made slowly for him with eyes fixed and weapon ready, regardless of the movements of his mates. “See any rifles among them, Charlie?” shouted Moran, suddenly breaking the silence. “No, I tink no hab got,” answered Charlie. Wilbur took another step forward and cocked his revolver. One of the beach-combers shouted out something in angry vernacular, and Charlie instantly responded. All this time the line had been slowly advancing upon the enemy, and Wilbur began to wonder how long that heartbreaking suspense was to continue. This was not at all what he had imagined. Already he was within twenty feet of his man, could see the evil glint of his slant, small eye, and the shine of his yellow body, naked to the belt. Still foot by foot the forward movement continued. The Chinese on either side had begun exchanging insults; the still, hot air of the tropic dawn was vibrant with the Cantonese monosyllables tossed back and forth like tennis-balls over the low sand rampart. The thing was degenerating into a farce--the “Bertha's” Chinamen would not fight. Back there, under the shelter of the schooner, it was all very well to talk, and they had been very brave when they had all flung themselves upon Hoang. Here, face to face with the enemy, the sun striking off heliograph flashes from their knives and spades, it was a vastly different matter. The thing, to Wilbur's mind, should have been done suddenly if it was to be done at all. The best course now was to return to camp and try some other plan. Charlie shouted a direction to him in pigeon English that he did not understand, but he answered all right, and moved forward another step so as to be in line with the coolie at his left. The liquor that he had drunk before starting began suddenly to affect him, yet he knew that his head was yet clear. He could not bring himself to run away before them all, but he would have given much to have discovered a good reason for postponing the fight--if fight there was to be. He remembered the cocked revolver in his hand, and, suddenly raising it, fired point-blank at his man, not fifteen feet away. The hammer snapped on the nipple, but the cartridge did not explode. Wilbur turned to the Chinaman next him in line, exclaiming excitedly: “Here, say, have you got a knife--something I can fight with? This gun's no good.” There was a shout from Moran: “Look out, here they come!” Two of the beach-combers suddenly sprang over the sand breastworks and ran toward Charlie, their knives held low in front of them, ready to rip. “Shoot! shoot! shoot!” shouted Moran rapidly. Wilbur's revolver was a self-cocker. He raised it again, drawing hard on the trigger as he did so. It roared and leaped in his hand, and a whiff of burned powder came to his nostrils. Then Wilbur was astonished to hear himself shout at the top of his voice: “Come on now, get into them--get into them now, everybody!” The “Bertha's” Chinamen were all running forward, three of them well in advance of the others. In the rear Charlie was at grapples with a beach-comber who fought with a knife in each hand, and Wilbur had a sudden glimpse of another sitting on the sand with his hand to his mouth, the blood spurting between his fingers. Wilbur suddenly realized that he held a knife, and that he was directly abreast the sand rampart. How he got the knife he could not tell, though he afterward distinctly remembered throwing away his revolver, loaded as it was. He had leaped the breastworks, he knew that, and between him and the vast bright blur of the ocean he saw one of the beach-combers backing away and watching him intently, his hatchet in his hand. Wilbur had only time to think that he himself would no doubt be killed within the next few moments, when this latter halted abruptly, took a step forward, and, instead of striking downward, as Wilbur had anticipated, dropped upon his knee and struck with all his might at the calf of Wilbur's leg. It was only the thickness of his boots that saved Wilbur from being hamstrung where he stood. As it was, he felt the blade bite almost to the bone, and heard the blood squelch in the sole of his boot, as he staggered for the moment, almost tripping over the man in front of him. The Chinaman sprang to his feet again, but Wilbur was at him in an instant, feeling instinctively that his chance was to close with his man, and so bring his own superior weight and strength to bear. Again and again he tried to run in and grip the slim yellow body, but the other dodged and backed away, as hard to hold as any fish. All around and back of him now Wilbur heard the hideous sound of stamping and struggling, and the noise of hoarse, quick shouts and the rebound of bodies falling and rolling upon the hard, smooth beach. The thing had not been a farce, after all. This was fighting at last, and there within arm's length were men grappling and gripping and hitting one another, each honestly striving to kill his fellow--Chinamen all, fighting in barbarous Oriental fashion with nails and teeth when the knife or hatchet failed. What did he, clubman and college man, in that hideous trouble that wrought itself out there on that heat-stricken tropic beach under that morning's sun? Suddenly there was a flash of red flame, and a billow of thick, yellow smoke filled all the air. The cabin was afire. The hatchet-man with whom Wilbur was fighting had been backing in this direction. He was close in when the fire began to leap from the one window; now he could go no further. He turned to run sidewise between his enemy and the burning cabin. Wilbur thrust his foot sharply forward; the beach-comber tripped, staggered, and before he had reached the ground Wilbur had driven home the knife. Then suddenly, at the sight of his smitten enemy rolling on the ground at his feet, the primitive man, the half-brute of the stone age, leaped to life in Wilbur's breast--he felt his muscles thrilling with a strength they had not known before. His nerves, stretched tense as harp-strings, were vibrating to a new tune. His blood spun through his veins till his ears roared with the rush of it. Never had he conceived of such savage exultation as that which mastered him at that instant. The knowledge that he could kill filled him with a sense of power that was veritably royal. He felt physically larger. It was the joy of battle, the horrid exhilaration of killing, the animal of the race, the human brute suddenly aroused and dominating every instinct and tradition of centuries of civilization. The fight still was going forward. Wilbur could hear the sounds of it, though from where he stood all sight was shut off by the smoke of the burning house. As he turned about, knife in hand, debating what next he should do, a figure burst down upon him, shadowy and distorted through the haze. It was Moran, but Moran as Wilbur had never seen her before. Her eyes were blazing under her thick frown like fire under a bush. Her arms were bared to the elbow, her heavy ropes of hair flying and coiling from her in all directions, while with a voice hoarse from shouting she sang, or rather chanted, in her long-forgotten Norse tongue, fragments of old sagas, words, and sentences, meaningless even to herself. The fury of battle had exalted her to a sort of frenzy. She was beside herself with excitement. Once more she had lapsed back to the Vikings and sea-rovers of the tenth century--she was Brunhilde again, a shield-maiden, a Valkyrie, a Berserker and the daughter of Berserkers, and like them she fought in a veritable frenzy, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, every sense exalted, every force doubled, insensible to pain, deaf to all reason. Her dirk uplifted, she rushed upon Wilbur, never once pausing in her chant. Wilbur shouted a warning to her as she came on, puzzled beyond words, startled back to a consciousness of himself again by this insensate attack. “Moran! Moran!” he called. “What is it--you're wrong! It-s I. It's Wilbur--your mate, can't you see?” Moran could not see--blind to friend or foe, as she was deaf to reason, she struck at him with all the strength of her arm. But there was no skill in her fighting now. Wilbur dropped his own knife and gripped her right wrist. She closed with him upon the instant, clutching at his throat with her one free hand; and as he felt her strength--doubled and tripled in the fury of her madness--Wilbur knew that, however easily he had overcome his enemy of a moment before, he was now fighting for his very life. At first, Wilbur merely struggled to keep her from him--to prevent her using her dirk. He tried not to hurt her. But what with the spirits he had drunk before the attack, what with the excitement of the attack itself and the sudden unleashing of the brute in him an instant before, the whole affair grew dim and hazy in his mind. He ceased to see things in their proportion. His new-found strength gloried in matching itself with another strength that was its equal. He fought with Moran--not as he would fight with either woman or man, or with anything human, for the matter of that. He fought with her as against some impersonal force that it was incumbent upon him to conquer--that it was imperative he should conquer if he wished to live. When she struck, he struck blow for blow, force for force, his strength against hers, glorying in that strange contest, though he never once forgot that this last enemy was the girl he loved. It was not Moran whom he fought; it was her force, her determination, her will, her splendid independence, that he set himself to conquer. Already she had dropped or flung away the dirk, and their battle had become an issue of sheer physical strength between them. It was a question now as to who should master the other. Twice she had fought Wilbur to his knees, the heel of her hand upon his face, his head thrust back between his shoulders, and twice he had wrenched away, rising to his feet again, panting, bleeding even, but with his teeth set and all his resolution at the sticking-point. Once he saw his chance, and planted his knuckles squarely between her eyes where her frown was knotted hard, hoping to stun her and end the fight once and for all. But the blow did not seem to affect her in the least. By this time he saw that her Berserker rage had worked itself clear as fermenting wine clears itself, and that she knew now with whom she was fighting; and he seemed now to understand the incomprehensible, and to sympathize with her joy in measuring her strength against his; and yet he knew that the combat was deadly serious, and that more than life was at stake. Moran despised a weakling. For an instant, as they fell apart, she stood off, breathing hard and rolling up her sleeve; then, as she started forward again, Wilbur met her half-way, caught her round the neck and under the arm, gripping her left wrist with his right hand behind her; then, exerting every ounce of strength he yet retained, he thrust her down and from him, until at length, using his hip as a pivot, he swung her off her feet, threw her fairly on her back, and held her so, one knee upon her chest, his hands closed vise-like on her wrists. Then suddenly Moran gave up, relaxing in his grasp all in a second, and, to his great surprise, suddenly smiled. “Ho! mate,” she exclaimed; “that was a tough one; but I'm beaten--you're stronger than I thought for.” Wilbur released her and rose to his feet. “Here,” she continued, “give me your hand. I'm as weak as a kitten.” As Wilbur helped her to her feet, she put her hand to her forehead, where his knuckles had left their mark, and frowned at him, but not ill-naturedly. “Next time you do that,” she said, “use a rock or a belaying-pin, or something that won't hurt--not your fist, mate.” She looked at him admiringly. “What a two-fisted, brawny dray-horse it is! I told you I was stronger than most men, didn't I? But I'm the weaker of us two, and that's a fact. You've beaten, mate--I admit it; you've conquered me, and,” she continued, smiling again and shaking him by the shoulder--“and, mate, do you know, I love you for it.”	{ "id": "321" }
11	A CHANGE IN LEADERS	“Well,” exclaimed Wilbur at length, the excitement of the fight returning upon him. “We have plenty to do yet. Come on, Moran.” It was no longer Moran who took the initiative--who was the leader. The brief fight upon the shore had changed all that. It was Wilbur who was now the master, it was Wilbur who was aggressive. He had known what it meant to kill. He was no longer afraid of anything, no longer hesitating. He had felt a sudden quadrupling of all his strength, moral and physical. All that was strong and virile and brutal in him seemed to harden and stiffen in the moment after he had seen the beach-comber collapse limply on the sand under the last strong knife-blow; and a sense of triumph, of boundless self-confidence, leaped within him, so that he shouted aloud in a very excess of exhilaration; and snatching up a heavy cutting-in spade, that had been dropped in the fight near the burning cabin, tossed it high into the air, catching it again as it descended, like any exultant savage. “Come on!” he cried to Moran; “where are the beach-combers gone? I'm going to get one more before the show is over.” The two passed out of the zone of smoke, and reached the other side of the burning cabin just in time to see the last of the struggle. The whole affair had not taken more than a quarter of an hour. In the end the beach-combers had been beaten. Four had fled into the waste of sand and sage that lay back of the shore, and had not been pursued. A fifth had been almost hamstrung by one of the “Bertha's” coolies, and had given himself up. A sixth, squealing and shrieking like a tiger-cat, had been made prisoner; and Wilbur himself had accounted for the seventh. As Wilbur and Moran came around the cabin they saw the “Bertha Millner's” Chinamen in a group, not far from the water's edge, reassembled after the fight--panting and bloody, some of them bare to the belt, their weapons still in their hands. Here and there was a bandaged arm or head; but their number was complete--or no, was it complete? “Ought to be one more,” said Wilbur, anxiously hastening for-ward. As the two came up the coolies parted, and Wilbur saw one of them, his head propped upon a rolled-up blouse, lying ominously still on the trampled sand. “It's Charlie!” exclaimed Moran. “Where's he hurt?” cried Wilbur to the group of coolies. “Jim! --where's Jim? Where's he hurt, Jim?” Jim, the only member of the crew besides Charlie who could understand or speak English, answered: “Kai-gingh him fin' pistol, you' pistol; Charlie him fight plenty; bime-by, when he no see, one-piecee Kai-gingh he come up behin', shoot um Charlie in side--savvy?” “Did he kill him? Is he dead?” “No, I tinkum die plenty soon; him no savvy nuttin' now, him all-same sleep. Plenty soon bime-by him sleep for good, I tink.” There was little blood to be seen when Wilbur gently unwrapped the torn sleeve of a blouse that had been used as a bandage. Just under the armpit was the mark of the bullet--a small puncture already closed, half hidden under a clot or two of blood. The coolie lay quite unconscious, his eyes wide open, drawing a faint, quick breath at irregular intervals. “What do you think, mate?” asked Moran in a low voice. “I think he's got it through the lungs,” answered Wilbur, frowning in distress and perplexity. “Poor old Charlie!” Moran went down on a knee, and put a finger on the slim, corded wrist, yellow as old ivory. “Charlie,” she called--“Charlie, here, don't you know me? Wake up, old chap! It's Moran. You're not hurt so very bad, are you?” Charlie's eyes closed and opened a couple of times. “No can tell,” he answered feebly; “hurt plenty big”; then he began to cough. Wilbur drew a sigh of relief. “He's all right!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I think he's all right,” assented Moran. “First thing to do now is to get him aboard the schooner,” said Wilbur. “We'll take him right across in the beach-combers' dory here. By Jove!” he exclaimed on a sudden. “The ambergris--I'd forgotten all about it.” His heart sank. In the hideous confusion of that morning's work, all thought of the loot had been forgotten. Had the battle been for nothing, after all? The moment the beach-combers had been made aware of the meditated attack, it would have been an easy matter for them to have hidden the ambergris--destroyed it even. In two strides Wilbur had reached the beach-combers' dory and was groping in the forward cuddy. Then he uttered a great shout of satisfaction. The “stuff” was there, all of it, though the mass had been cut into quarters, three parts of it stowed in tea-flails, the fourth still reeved up in the hammock netting. “We've got it!” he cried to Moran, who had followed him. “We've got it, Moran! Over $100,000. We're rich--rich as boodlers, you and I. Oh, it was worth fighting for, after all, wasn't it? Now we'll get out of here--now we'll cut for home.” “It's only Charlie I'm thinking about,” answered Moran, hesitating. “If it wasn't for that we'd be all right. I don't know whether we did right, after all, in jumping the camp here. I wouldn't like to feel that I'd got Charlie into our quarrel only to have him killed.” Wilbur stared at this new Moran in no little amazement. Where was the reckless, untamed girl of the previous night, who had sworn at him and denounced his niggling misgivings as to right and wrong? “Hoh!” he retorted impatiently, “Charlie's right enough. And, besides, I didn't force him to anything. I--we, that is--took the same chances. If I hadn't done for my man there behind the cabin, he would have done for me. At all events, we carried our point. We got the loot. They took it from us, and we were strong enough to get it back.” Moran merely nodded, as though satisfied with his decision, and added: “Well, what next, mate?” “We'll get back to the 'Bertha' now and put to sea as soon as we can catch the tide. I'll send Jim and two of the other men across in the dory with Charlie. The rest of us will go around by the shore. We've got to have a chin-chin with Hoang, if he don't get loose aboard there and fire the boat before we can get back. I don't propose taking these beach-combers back to 'Frisco with us.” “What will we do with the two prisoners?” she asked. “Let them go; we've got their arms.” The positions of the two were reversed. It was Wilbur who assumed control and direction of what went forward, Moran taking his advice and relying upon his judgment. In accordance with Wilbur's orders, Charlie was carried aboard the dory; which, with two Chinamen at the oars, and the ambergris stowed again into the cuddy, at once set off for the schooner. Wilbur himself cut the ropes on the two prisoners, and bade them shift for themselves. The rest of the party returned to the “Bertha Millner” around the wide sweep of the beach. It was only by high noon, under the flogging of a merciless sun, that the entire crew of the little schooner once more reassembled under the shadow of her stranded hulk. They were quite worn out; and as soon as Charlie was lifted aboard, and the ambergris--or, as they spoke of it now, the “loot”--was safely stowed in the cabin, Wilbur allowed the Chinamen three or four hours' rest. They had had neither breakfast nor dinner; but their exhaustion was greater than their hunger, and in a few moments the entire half-dozen were stretched out asleep on the forward deck in the shadow of the foresail raised for the purpose of sheltering them. However, Wilbur and Moran sought out Hoang, whom they found as they had left him--bound upon the floor of the cabin. “Now we have a talk--savvy?” Wilbur told him as he loosed the ropes about his wrists and ankles. “We got our loot back from you, old man, and we got one of your men into the bargain. You woke up the wrong crowd, Hoang, when you went up against this outfit. You're in a bad way, my friend. Your junk is wrecked; all your oil and blubber from the whale is lost; four of your men have run away, one is killed, another one we caught and let go, another one has been hamstrung; and you yourself are our prisoner, with your teeth filed down to your gums. Now,” continued Wilbur, with the profoundest gravity, “I hope this will be a lesson to you. Don't try and get too much the next time. Just be content with what is yours by right, or what you are strong enough to keep, and don't try to fight with white people. Other coolies, I don't say. But when you try to get the better of white people you are out of your class.” The little beach-comber (he was scarcely above five feet) rubbed his chafed wrists, and fixed Wilbur with his tiny, twinkling eyes. “What you do now?” “We go home. I'm going to maroon you and your people here on this beach. You deserve that I should let you eat your fists by way of table-board; but I'm no such dirt as you. When our men left the schooner they brought off with them a good share of our provisions. I'll leave them here for you--and there's plenty of turtle and abalone to be had for the catching. Some of the American men-of-war, I believe, come down to this bay for target-practice twice a year, and if we speak any on the way up we'll ask them to call here for castaways. That's what I'll do for you, and that's all! If you don't like it, you can set out to march up the coast till you hit a town; but I wouldn't advise you to try it. Now what have you got to say?” Hoang was silent. His queue had become unbound for half its length, and he plaited it anew, winking his eyes thoughtfully. “Well, what do you say?” said Moran. “I lose face,” answered Hoang at length, calmly. “You lose face? What do you mean?” “I lose face,” he insisted; then added: “I heap 'shamed. You fightee my China boy, you catchee me. My boy no mo' hab me fo' boss--savvy? I go back, him no likee me. Mebbe all same killee me. I lose face--no mo' boss.” “What a herd of wild cattle!” muttered Wilbur. “There's something in what he says, don't you think, mate?” observed Moran, bringing a braid over each shoulder and stroking it according to her habit. “We'll ask Jim about it,” decided Wilbur. But Jim at once confirmed Hoang's statement. “Oh, Kai-gingh killum no-good boss, fo' sure,” he declared. “Don't you think, mate,” said Moran, “we'd better take him up to 'Frisco with us? We've had enough fighting and killing.” So it was arranged that the defeated beach-comber, the whipped buccaneer, who had “lost face” and no longer dared look his men in the eye, should be taken aboard. By four o'clock next morning Wilbur had the hands at work digging the sand from around the “Bertha Millner's” bow. The line by which she was to be warped off was run out to the ledge of the rock; fresh water was taken on; provisions for the marooned beach-combers were cached upon the beach; the dory was taken aboard, gaskets were cast off, and hatches battened down. At high tide, all hands straining upon the warp, the schooner was floated off, and under touch of the lightest airs drew almost imperceptibly away from the land. They were quite an hour crawling out to the heads of the bay. But here the breeze was freshening. Moran took the wheel; the flying-jib and staysail were set; the wake began to whiten under the schooner's stern, the forefoot sang; the Pacific opened out more and more; and by 12:30 o'clock Moran put the wheel over, and, as the schooner's bow swung to the northward, cried to Wilbur: “Mate, look your last of Magdalena Bay!” Standing at her side, Wilbur turned and swept the curve of the coast with a single glance. The vast, heat-scourged hoop of yellow sand, the still, smooth shield of indigo water, with its beds of kelp, had become insensibly dear to him. It was all familiar, friendly, and hospitable. Hardly an acre of that sweep of beach that did not hold the impress of his foot. There was the point near by the creek where he and Moran first landed to fill the water-casks and to gather abalones; the creek itself, where he had snared quail; the sand spit with its whitened whale's skull, where he and Moran had beached the schooner; and there, last of all, that spot of black over which still hung a haze of brown-gray smoke, the charred ruins of the old Portuguese whaling-cabin, where they had outfought the beach-combers. For a moment Wilbur and Moran looked back without speaking. They stood on the quarter-deck; in the shadow of the main-sail, shut off from the sight of the schooner's crew, and for the instant quite alone. “Well, Moran, it's good-by to the old places, isn't it?” said Wilbur at length. “Yes,” she said, her deep voice pitched even deeper than usual. “Mate, great things have happened there.” “It doesn't look like a place for a Tong row with Chinese pirates, though, does it?” he said; but even as he spoke the words, he guessed that that was not what he meant. “Oh, what did that amount to?” she said, with an impatient movement of her head. “It was there that I first knew myself; and knew that, after all, you were a man and I was a woman; and that there was just us--you and I--in the world; and that you loved me and I loved you, and that nothing else was worth thinking of.” Wilbur shut his hand down over hers as it gripped a spoke of the wheel. “Moran, I knew that long since,” he said. “Such a month as this has been! Why, I feel as though I had only begun to live since I began to love you.” “And you do, mate?” she answered--“you do love me, and always will? Oh, you don't know,” she went on, interrupting his answer, “you haven't a guess, how the last two days have changed me. Something has happened here”--and she put both her hands over her breast. “I'm all different here, mate. It's all you inside here--all you! And it hurts, and I'm proud that it does hurt. Oh!” she cried, of a sudden, “I don't know how to love yet, and I do it very badly, and I can't tell you how I feel, because I can't even tell it to myself. But you must be good to me now.” The deep voice trembled a little. “Good to me, mate, and true to me, mate, because I've only you, and all of me is yours. Mate, be good to me, and always be kind to me. I'm not Moran any more. I'm not proud and strong and independent, and I don't want to be lonely. I want you--I want you always with me. I'm just a woman now, dear--just a woman that loves you with a heart she's just found.” Wilbur could find no words to answer. There was something so pathetic and at the same time so noble in Moran's complete surrender of herself, and her dependence upon him, her unquestioned trust in him and his goodness, that he was suddenly smitten with awe at the sacredness of the obligation thus imposed on him. She was his now, to have and to hold, to keep, to protect, and to defend--she who was once so glorious of her strength, of her savage isolation, her inviolate, pristine maidenhood. All words seemed futile and inadequate to him. She came close to him, and put her hands upon his shoulders, and, looking him squarely in the eye, said: “You do love me, mate, and you always will?” “Always, Moran,” said Wilbur, simply. He took her in his arms, and she laid her cheek against his for a moment, then took his head between her hands and kissed him. Two days passed. The “Bertha Millner” held steadily to her northward course, Moran keeping her well in toward the land. Wilbur maintained a lookout from the crow's-nest in the hope of sighting some white cruiser or battleship on her way south for target-practice. In the cache of provisions he had left for the beach-combers he had inserted a message, written by Hoang, to the effect that they might expect to be taken off by a United States man-of-war within the month. Hoang did not readily recover his “loss of face.” The “Bertha's” Chinamen would have nothing to do with this member of a hostile Tong; and the humiliated beach-comber kept almost entirely to himself, sitting on the forecastle-head all day long, smoking his sui-yen-hu and brooding silently to himself. Moran had taken the lump of ambergris from out Kitchell's old hammock, and had slung the hammock itself in the schooner's waist, and Charlie was made as comfortable as possible therein. They could do but little for him, however; and he was taken from time to time with spells of coughing that racked him with a dreadful agony. At length one noon, just after Moran had taken the sun and had calculated that the “Bertha” was some eight miles to the southwest of San Diego, she was surprised to hear Wilbur calling her sharply. She ran to him, and found him standing in the waist by Charlie's hammock. The Chinaman was dying, and knew it. He was talking in a faint and feeble voice to Wilbur as she came up, and was trying to explain to him that he was sorry he had deserted the schooner during the scare in the bay. “Planty muchee solly,” he said; “China boy, him heap flaid of Feng-shui. When Feng-shui no likee, we then must go chop-chop. Plenty much solly I leave-um schooner that night; solly plenty--savvy?” “Of course we savvy, Charlie,” said Moran. “You weren't afraid when it came to fighting.” “I die pletty soon,” said Charlie calmly. “You say you gib me fifteen hundled dollah?” “Yes, yes; that was our promise. What do you want done with it, Charlie?” “I want plenty fine funeral in Chinatown in San Francisco. Oh, heap fine! You buy um first-chop coffin--savvy? Silver heap much--costum big money. You gib my money to Hop Sing Association, topside Ming Yen temple. You savvy Hop Sing? --one Six Companies.” “Yes, yes.” “Tellum Hop Sing I want funeral--four-piecee horse. You no flogettee horse?” he added apprehensively. “No, I'll not forget the horses Charlie. You shall have four.” “Want six-piecee band musicians--China music--heap plenty gong. You no flogettee? Two piecee priest, all dressum white--savvy? You mus' buyum coffin yo'self. Velly fine coffin, heap much silver, an' four-piecee horse. You catchum fireclacker--one, five, seven hundled fireclacker, makeum big noise; an' loast pig, an' plenty lice an' China blandy. Heap fine funeral, costum fifteen hundled dollah. I be bury all same Mandarin--all same Little Pete. You plomise, sure?” “I promise you, Charlie. You shall have a funeral finer than little Pete's.” Charlie nodded his head contentedly, drawing a breath of satisfaction. “Bimeby Hop Sing sendum body back China.” He closed his eyes and lay for a long time, worn out with the effort of speaking, as if asleep. Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. “You no flogettee horse?” “Four horses, Charlie. I'll remember.” He drooped once more, only to rouse again at the end of a few minutes with: “First-chop coffin, plenty much silver”; and again, a little later and very feebly: “Six-piecee--band music--China music--four-piecee gong--four.” “I promise you, Charlie,” said Wilbur. “Now,” answered Charlie--“now I die.” And the low-caste Cantonese coolie, with all the dignity and calmness of a Cicero, composed himself for death. An hour later Wilbur and Moran knew that he was dead. Yet, though they had never left the hammock, they could not have told at just what moment he died. Later, on that same afternoon, Wilbur, from the crow's-nest, saw the lighthouse on Point Loma and the huge rambling bulk of the Coronado Hotel spreading out and along the beach. It was the outpost of civilization. They were getting back to the world again. Within an hour's ride of the hotel were San Diego, railroads, newspapers, and policemen. Just off the hotel, however, Wilbur could discern the gleaming white hull of a United States man-of-war. With the glass he could make her out to be one of the monitors--the “Monterey” in all probability. After advising with Moran, it was decided to put in to land. The report as to the castaways could be made to the “Monterey,” and Charlie's body forwarded to his Tong in San Francisco. In two hours' time the schooner was well up, and Wilbur stood by Moran's side at the wheel, watching and studying the familiar aspect of Coronado Beach. “It's a great winter resort,” he told her. “I was down here with a party two years ago. Nothing has changed. You see that big sort of round wing, Moran, all full of windows? That's the dining-room. And there's the bathhouse and the bowling-alley. See the people on the beach, and the girls in white duck skirts; and look up there by the veranda--let me take the glass--yes, there's a tally-ho coach. Isn't it queer to get back to this sort of thing after Magdalena Bay and the beach-combers?” Moran spun the wheel without reply, and gave an order to Jim to ease off the foresheet.	{ "id": "321" }
12	NEW CONDITIONS	The winter season at the Hotel del Coronado had been unusually gay that year, and the young lady who wrote the society news in diary form for one of the San Francisco weekly papers had held forth at much length upon the hotel's “unbroken succession of festivities.” She had also noted that “prominent among the newest arrivals” had been Mr. Nat Ridgeway, of San Francisco, who had brought down from the city, aboard his elegant and sumptuously fitted yacht “Petrel,” a jolly party, composed largely of the season's debutantes. To be mentioned in the latter category was Miss Josie Herrick, whose lavender coming-out tea at the beginning of the season was still a subject of comment among the gossips--and all the rest of it. The “Petrel” had been in the harbor but a few days, and on this evening a dance was given at the hotel in honor of her arrival. It was to be a cotillon, and Nat Ridgeway was going to lead with Josie Herrick. There had been a coaching party to Tia Juana that day, and Miss Herrick had returned to the hotel only in time to dress. By 9:30 she emerged from the process--which had involved her mother, her younger sister, her maid, and one of the hotel chambermaids--a dainty, firm-corseted little body, all tulle, white satin, and high-piled hair. She carried Marechal Niel roses, ordered by wire from Monterey; and about an hour later, when Ridgeway gave the nod to the waiting musicians, and swung her off to the beat of a two-step, there was not a more graceful little figure upon the floor of the incomparable round ballroom of the Coronado Hotel. The cotillon was a great success. The ensigns and younger officers of the monitor--at that time anchored off the hotel--attended in uniform; and enough of the members of what was known in San Francisco as the “dancing set” were present to give the affair the necessary entrain. Even Jerry Haight, who belonged more distinctly to the “country-club set,” and who had spent the early part of that winter shooting elk in Oregon, was among the ranks of the “rovers,” who grouped themselves about the draughty doorways, and endeavored to appear unconscious each time Ridgeway gave the signal for a “break.” The figures had gone round the hall once. The “first set” was out again, and as Ridgeway guided Miss Herrick by the “rovers” she looked over the array of shirt-fronts, searching for Jerry Haight. “Do you see Mr. Haight?” she asked of Ridgeway. “I wanted to favor him this break. I owe him two already, and he'll never forgive me if I overlook him now.” Jerry Haight had gone to the hotel office for a few moments' rest and a cigarette, and was nowhere in sight. But when the set broke, and Miss Herrick, despairing of Jerry, had started out to favor one of the younger ensigns, she suddenly jostled against him, pushing his way eagerly across the floor in the direction of the musicians' platform. “Oh!” she cried, “Mr. Haight, you've missed your chance--I've been looking for you.” But Jerry did not hear--he seemed very excited. He crossed the floor, almost running, and went up on the platform where the musicians were meandering softly through the mazes of “La Paloma,” and brought them to an abrupt silence. “Here, I say, Haight!” exclaimed Ridgeway, who was near by, “you can't break up my figure like that.” “Gi' me a call there on the bugle,” said Haight rapidly to the cornetist. “Anything to make 'em keep quiet a moment.” The cornetist sounded a couple of notes, and the cotillon paused in the very act of the break. The shuffling of feet grew still, and the conversation ceased. A diamond brooch had been found, no doubt, or some supper announcement was to be made. But Jerry Haight, with a great sweep of his arm, the forgotten cigarette between his fingers, shouted out breathlessly: “Ross Wilbur is out in the office of the hotel!” There was an instant's silence, and then a great shout. Wilbur found! Ross Wilbur come back from the dead! Ross Wilbur, hunted for and bootlessly traced from Buenos Ayres in the south to the Aleutian Islands in the north. Ross Wilbur, the puzzle of every detective bureau on the coast; the subject of a thousand theories; whose name had figured in the scareheads of every newspaper west of the Mississippi. Ross Wilbur, seen at a fashionable tea and his club of an afternoon, then suddenly blotted out from the world of men; swallowed up and engulfed by the unknown, with not so much as a button left behind. Ross Wilbur the suicide; Ross Wilbur, the murdered; Ross Wilbur, victim of a band of kidnappers, the hero of some dreadful story that was never to be told, the mystery, the legend--behold he was there! Back from the unknown, dropped from the clouds, spewed up again from the bowels of the earth--a veritable god from the machine who in a single instant was to disentangle all the unexplained complications of those past winter months. “Here he comes!” shouted Jerry, his eyes caught by a group of men in full dress and gold lace who came tramping down the hall to the ballroom, bearing a nondescript figure on their shoulders. “Here he comes--the boys are bringing him in here! Oh!” he cried, turning to the musicians, “can't you play something? --any-thing! Hit it up for all you're worth! Ridgeway--Nat, look here! Ross was Yale, y' know--Yale '95; ain't we enough Yale men here to give him the yell?” Out of all time and tune, but with a vigor that made up for both, the musicians banged into a patriotic air. Jerry, standing on a chair that itself was standing on the platform, led half a dozen frantic men in the long thunder of the “Brek-kek-kek-kek, co-ex, co-ex.” Around the edges of the hall excited girls, and chaperons themselves no less agitated, were standing up on chairs and benches, splitting their gloves and breaking their fans in their enthusiasm; while every male dancer on the floor--ensigns in their gold-faced uniforms and “rovers” in starched and immaculate shirt-bosoms--cheered and cheered and struggled with one another to shake hands with a man whom two of their number old Yale grads, with memories of athletic triumphs yet in their minds--carried into that ball-room, borne high upon their shoulders. And the hero of the occasion, the centre of all this enthusiasm--thus carried as if in triumph into this assembly in evening dress, in white tulle and whiter kid, odorous of delicate sachets and scarce-perceptible perfumes--was a figure unhandsome and unkempt beyond description. His hair was long, and hanging over his eyes. A thick, uncared-for beard concealed the mouth and chin. He was dressed in a Chinaman's blouse and jeans--the latter thrust into slashed and tattered boots. The tan and weatherbeatings of nearly half a year of the tropics were spread over his face; a partly healed scar disfigured one temple and cheek-bone; the hands, to the very finger-nails, were gray with grime; the jeans and blouse and boots were fouled with grease, with oil, with pitch, and all manner of the dirt of an uncared-for ship. And as the dancers of the cotillon pressed about, and a hundred kid-gloved hands stretched toward his own palms, there fell from Wilbur's belt upon the waxed floor of the ballroom the knife he had so grimly used in the fight upon the beach, the ugly stains still blackening on the haft. There was no more cotillon that night. They put him down at last; and in half a dozen sentences Wilbur told them of how he had been shanghaied--told them of Magdalena Bay, his fortune in the ambergris, and the fight with the beach-combers. “You people are going down there for target-practice, aren't you?” he said, turning to one of the “Monterey's” officers in the crowd about him. “Yes? Well, you'll find the coolies there, on the beach, waiting for you. All but one,” he added, grimly. “We marooned six of them, but the seventh didn't need to be marooned. They tried to plunder us of our boat, but, by -----, we made it interesting for 'em!” “I say, steady, old man!” exclaimed Nat Ridgeway, glancing nervously toward the girls in the surrounding group. “This isn't Magdalena Bay, you know.” And for the first time Wilbur felt a genuine pang of disappointment and regret as he realized that it was not. Half an hour later, Ridgeway drew him aside. “I say, Ross, let's get out of here. You can't stand here talking all night. Jerry and you and I will go up to my rooms, and we can talk there in peace. I'll order up three quarts of fizz, and--” “Oh, rot your fizz!” declared Wilbur. “If you love me, give me Christian tobacco.” As they were going out of the ballroom, Wilbur caught sight of Josie Herrick, and, breaking away from the others, ran over to her. “Oh!” she cried, breathless. “To think and to think of your coming back after all! No, I don't realize it--I can't. It will take me until morning to find out that you've really come back. I just know now that I'm happier than I ever was in my life before. Oh!” she cried, “do I need to tell you how glad I am? It's just too splendid for words. Do you know, I was thought to be the last person you had ever spoken to while alive, and the reporters and all--oh, but we must have such a talk when all is quiet again! And our dance--we've never had our dance. I've got your card yet. Remember the one you wrote for me at the tea--a facsimile of it was published in all the papers. You are going to be a hero when you get back to San Francisco. Oh, Ross! Ross!” she cried, the tears starting to her eyes, “you've really come back, and you are just as glad as I am, aren't you--glad that you've come back--come back to me?” Later on, in Ridgeway's room, Wilbur told his story again more in detail to Ridgeway and Jerry. All but one portion of it. He could not make up his mind to speak to them--these society fellows, clubmen and city bred--of Moran. How he was going to order his life henceforward--his life, that he felt to be void of interest without her--he did not know. That was a question for later consideration. “We'll give another cotillon!” exclaimed Ridgeway, “up in the city--give it for you, Ross, and you'll lead. It'll be the event of the season!” Wilbur uttered an exclamation of contempt. “I've done with that sort of foolery,” he answered. “Nonsense; why, think, we'll have it in your honor. Every smart girl in town will come, and you'll be the lion of--” “You don't seem to understand!” cried Wilbur impatiently. “Do you think there's any fun in that for me now? Why, man, I've fought--fought with a naked dirk, fought with a coolie who snapped at me like an ape--and you talk to me of dancing and functions and german favors! It wouldn't do some of you people a bit of harm if you were shanghaied yourselves. That sort of life, if it don't do anything else, knocks a big bit of seriousness into you. You fellows make me sick,” he went on vehemently. “As though there wasn't anything else to do but lead cotillons and get up new figures!” “Well, what do you propose to do?” asked Nat Ridgeway. “Where are you going now--back to Magdalena Bay?” “No.” “Where, then?” Wilbur smote the table with his fist. “Cuba!” he cried. “I've got a crack little schooner out in the bay here, and I've got a hundred thousand dollars' worth of loot aboard of her. I've tried beach-combing for a while, and now I'll try filibustering. It may be a crazy idea, but it's better than dancing. I'd rather lead an expedition than a german, and you can chew on that, Nathaniel Ridgeway.” Jerry looked at him as he stood there before them in the filthy, reeking blouse and jeans, the ragged boots, and the mane of hair and tangled beard, and remembered the Wilbur he used to know--the Wilbur of the carefully creased trousers, the satin scarfs and fancy waistcoats. “You're a different sort than when you went away, Ross,” said Jerry. “Right you are,” answered Wilbur. “But I will venture a prophecy,” continued Jerry, looking keenly at him. “Ross, you are a born-and-bred city man. It's in the blood of you and the bones of you. I'll give you three years for this new notion of yours to wear itself out. You think just now you're going to spend the rest of your life as an amateur buccaneer. In three years, at the outside, you'll be using your 'loot,' as you call it, or the interest of it, to pay your taxes and your tailor, your pew rent and your club dues, and you'll be what the biographers call 'a respectable member of the community.'” “Did you ever kill a man, Jerry?” asked Wilbur. “No? Well, you kill one some day--kill him in a fair give-and-take fight--and see how it makes you feel, and what influence it has on you, and then come back and talk to me.” It was long after midnight. Wilbur rose. “We'll ring for a boy,” said Ridgeway, “and get you a room. I can fix you out with clothes enough in the morning.” Wilbur stared in some surprise, and then said: “Why, I've got the schooner to look after. I can't leave those coolies alone all night.” “You don't mean to say you're going on board at this time in the morning?” “Of course!” “Why--but--but you'll catch your death of cold.” Wilbur stared at Ridgeway, then nodded helplessly, and, scratching his head, said, half aloud: “No, what's the use; I can't make 'em understand. Good-night I'll see you in the morning.” “We'll all come out and visit you on your yacht,” Ridgeway called after him; but Wilbur did not hear. In answer to Wilbur's whistle, Jim came in with the dory and took him off to the schooner. Moran met him as he came over the side. “I took the watch myself to-night and let the boy turn in,” she said. “How is it ashore, mate?” “We've come back to the world of little things, Moran,” said Wilbur. “But we'll pull out of here in the morning and get back to the places where things are real.” “And that's a good hearing, mate.” “Let's get up here on the quarterdeck,” added Wilbur. “I've something to propose to you.” Moran laid an arm across his shoulder, and the two walked aft. For half an hour Wilbur talked to her earnestly about his new idea of filibustering; and as he told her of the war he warmed to the subject, his face glowing, his eyes sparkling. Suddenly, however, he broke off. “But no!” he exclaimed. “You don't understand, Moran. How can you--you're foreign-born. It's no affair of yours!” “Mate! mate!” cried Moran, her hands upon his shoulders. “It's you who don't understand--don't understand me. Don't you know--can't you see? Your people are mine now. I'm happy only in your happiness. You were right--the best happiness is the happiness one shares. And your sorrows belong to me, just as I belong to you, dear. Your enemies are mine, and your quarrels are my quarrels.” She drew his head quickly toward her and kissed him. In the morning the two had made up their minds to a certain vague course of action. To get away--anywhere--was their one aim. Moran was by nature a creature unfit for civilization, and the love of adventure and the desire for action had suddenly leaped to life in Wilbur's blood and was not to be resisted. They would get up to San Francisco, dispose of their “loot,” outfit the “Bertha Millner” as a filibuster, and put to sea again. They had discussed the advisability of rounding the Horn in so small a ship as the “Bertha Millner,” but Moran had settled that at once. “I've got to know her pretty well,” she told Wilbur. “She's sound as a nut. Only let's get away from this place.” But toward ten o'clock on the morning after their arrival off Coronado, and just as they were preparing to get under way, Hoang touched Wilbur's elbow. “Seeum lil one-piece smoke-boat; him come chop-chop.” In fact, a little steam-launch was rapidly approaching the schooner. In another instant she was alongside. Jerry, Nat Ridgeway, Josie Herrick, and an elderly woman, whom Wilbur barely knew as Miss Herrick's married sister, were aboard. “We've come off to see your yacht!” cried Miss Herrick to Wilbur as the launch bumped along the schooner's counter. “Can we come aboard?” She looked very pretty in her crisp pink shirt-waist her white duck skirt, and white kid shoes, her sailor hat tilted at a barely perceptible angle. The men were in white flannels and smart yachting suits. “Can we come aboard?” she repeated. Wilbur gasped and stared. “Good Lord!” he muttered. “Oh, come along,” he added, desperately. The party came over the side. “Oh, my!” said Miss Herrick blankly, stopping short. The decks, masts, and rails of the schooner were shiny with a black coating of dirt and grease; the sails were gray with grime; a strangling odor of oil and tar, of cooking and of opium, of Chinese punk and drying fish, pervaded all the air. In the waist, Hoang and Jim, bare to the belt, their queues looped around their necks to be out of the way, were stowing the dory and exchanging high-pitched monosyllables. Miss Herrick's sister had not come aboard. The three visitors--Jerry, Ridgeway, and Josie--stood nervously huddled together, their elbows close in, as if to avoid contact with the prevailing filth, their immaculate white outing-clothes detaching themselves violently against the squalor and sordid grime of the schooner's background. “Oh, my!” repeated Miss Herrick in dismay, half closing her eyes. “To think of what you must have been through! I thought you had some kind of a yacht. I had no idea it would be like this.” And as she spoke, Moran came suddenly upon the group from behind the foresail, and paused in abrupt surprise, her thumbs in her belt. She still wore men's clothes and was booted to the knee. The heavy blue woolen shirt was open at the throat, the sleeves rolled half-way up her large white arms. In her belt she carried her haftless Scandinavian dirk. She was hatless as ever, and her heavy, fragrant cables of rye-hued hair fell over her shoulders and breast to far below her belt. Miss Herrick started sharply, and Moran turned an inquiring glance upon Wilbur. Wilbur took his resolution in both hands. “Miss Herrick,” he said, “this is Moran--Moran Sternersen.” Moran took a step forward, holding out her hand. Josie, all bewildered, put her tight-gloved fingers into the calloused palm, looking up nervously into Moran's face. “I'm sure,” she said feebly, almost breathlessly, “I--I'm sure I'm very pleased to meet Miss Sternersen.” It was long before the picture left Wilbur's imagination. Josie Herrick, petite, gowned in white, crisp from her maid's grooming; and Moran, sea-rover and daughter of a hundred Vikings, towering above her, booted and belted, gravely clasping Josie's hand in her own huge fist.	{ "id": "321" }
13	MORAN STERNERSEN	San Francisco once more! For two days the “Bertha Millner” had been beating up the coast, fighting her way against northerly winds, butting into head seas. The warmth, the stillness, the placid, drowsing quiet of Magdalena Bay, steaming under the golden eye of a tropic heaven, the white, baked beach, the bay-heads, striated with the mirage in the morning, the coruscating sunset, the enchanted mystery of the purple night, with its sheen of stars and riding moon, were now replaced by the hale and vigorous snorting of the Trades, the roll of breakers to landward, and the unremitting gallop of the unnumbered multitudes of gray-green seas, careering silently past the schooner, their crests occasionally hissing into brusque eruptions of white froth, or smiting broad on under her counter, showering her decks with a sprout of icy spray. It was cold; at times thick fogs cloaked all the world of water. To the east a procession of bleak hills defiled slowly southward; lighthouses were passed; streamers of smoke on the western horizon marked the passage of steamships; and once they met and passed close by a huge Cape Horner, a great deep-sea tramp, all sails set and drawing, rolling slowly and leisurely in seas that made the schooner dance. At last the Farallones looked over the ocean's edge to the north; then came the whistling-buoy, the Seal Rocks, the Heads, Point Reyes, the Golden Gate flanked with the old red Presidio, Lime Point with its watching cannon; and by noon of a gray and boisterous day, under a lusty wind and a slant of rain, just five months after her departure, the “Bertha Millner” let go her anchor in San Francisco Bay some few hundred yards off the Lifeboat Station. In this berth the schooner was still three or four miles from the city and the water-front. But Moran detested any nearer approach to civilization, and Wilbur himself was willing to avoid, at least for one day, the publicity which he believed the “Bertha's” reappearance was sure to attract. He remembered, too, that the little boat carried with her a fortune of $100,000, and decided that until it could be safely landed and stored it was not desirable that its existence should be known along “the Front.” For days, weeks even, Wilbur had looked eagerly forward to this return to his home. He had seen himself again in his former haunts, in his club, and in the houses along Pacific avenue where he was received; but no sooner had the anchor-chain ceased rattling in the “Bertha's” hawse-pipe than a strange revulsion came upon him. The new man that seemed to have so suddenly sprung to life within him, the Wilbur who was the mate of the “Bertha Millner,” the Wilbur who belonged to Moran, believed that he could see nothing to be desired in city life. For him was the unsteady deck of a schooner, and the great winds and the tremendous wheel of the ocean's rim, and the horizon that ever fled before his following prow; so he told himself, so he believed. What attractions could the city offer him? What amusements? what excitements? He had been flung off the smoothly spinning circumference of well-ordered life out into the void. He had known romance, and the spell of the great, simple, and primitive emotions; he had sat down to eat with buccaneers; he had seen the fierce, quick leap of unleashed passions, and had felt death swoop close at his nape and pass like a swift spurt of cold air. City life, his old life, had no charm for him now. Wilbur honestly believed that he was changed to his heart's core. He thought that, like Moran, he was henceforth to be a sailor of the sea, a rover, and he saw the rest of his existence passed with her, aboard their faithful little schooner. They would have the whole round world as their playground; they held the earth and the great seas in fief; there was no one to let or to hinder. They two belonged to each other. Once outside the Heads again, and they swept the land of cities and of little things behind them, and they two were left alone once more; alone in the great world of romance. About an hour after her arrival off the station, while Hoang and the hands were furling the jib and foresail and getting the dory over the side, Moran remarked to Wilbur: “It's good we came in when we did, mate; the glass is going down fast, and the wind's breezing up from the west; we're going to have a blow; the tide will be going out in a little while, and we never could have come in against wind and tide.” “Moran,” said Wilbur, “I'm going ashore--into the station here; there's a telephone line there; see the wires? I can't so much as turn my hand over before I have some shore-going clothes. What do you suppose they would do to me if I appeared on Kearney Street in this outfit? I'll ring up Langley & Michaels--they are the wholesale chemists in town--and have their agent come out here and talk business to us about our ambergris. We've got to pay the men their prize-money; then as soon as we get our own money in hand we can talk about overhauling and outfitting the 'Bertha.'” Moran refused to accompany him ashore and into the Lifeboat Station. Roofed houses were an object of suspicion to her. Already she had begun to be uneasy at the distant sight of the city of San Francisco, Nob, Telegraph, Russian, and Rincon hills, all swarming with buildings and grooved with streets; even the land-locked harbor fretted her. Wilbur could see she felt imprisoned, confined. When he had pointed out the Palace Hotel to her--a vast gray cube in the distance, overtopping the surrounding roofs--she had sworn under her breath. “And people can live there, good heavens! Why not rabbit-burrows, and be done with it? Mate, how soon can we be out to sea again? I hate this place.” Wilbur found the captain of the Lifeboat Station in the act of sitting down to a dinner of boiled beef and cabbage. He was a strongly built well-looking man, with the air more of a soldier than a sailor. He had already been studying the schooner through his front window and had recognized her, and at once asked Wilbur news of Captain Kitchell. Wilbur told him as much of his story as was necessary, but from the captain's talk he gathered that the news of his return had long since been wired from Coronado, and that it would be impossible to avoid a nine days' notoriety. The captain of the station (his name was Hodgson) made Wilbur royally welcome, insisted upon his dining with him, and himself called up Langley & Michaels as soon as the meal was over. It was he who offered the only plausible solution of the mystery of the lifting and shaking of the schooner and the wrecking of the junk. Though Wilbur was not satisfied with Hodgson's explanation, it was the only one he ever heard. When he had spoken of the matter, Hodgson had nodded his head. “Sulphur-bottoms,” he said. “Sulphur-bottoms?” “Yes; they're a kind of right-whale; they get barnacles and a kind of marine lice on their backs, and come up and scratch them selves against a ship's keel, just like a hog under a fence.” When Wilbur's business was done, and he was making ready to return to the schooner, Hodgson remarked suddenly: “Hear you've got a strapping fine girl aboard with you. Where did you fall in with her?” and he winked and grinned. Wilbur started as though struck, and took himself hurriedly away; but the man's words had touched off in his brain a veritable mine of conjecture. Moran in Magdalena Bay was consistent, congruous, and fitted into her environment. But how--how was Wilbur to explain her to San Francisco, and how could his behavior seem else than ridiculous to the men of his club and to the women whose dinner invitations he was wont to receive? They could not understand the change that had been wrought in him; they did not know Moran, the savage, half-tamed Valkyrie so suddenly become a woman. Hurry as he would, the schooner could not be put to sea again within a fortnight. Even though he elected to live aboard in the meanwhile, the very business of her preparation would call him to the city again and again. Moran could not be kept a secret. As it was, all the world knew of her by now. On the other hand he could easily understand her position; to her it seemed simplicity itself that they two who loved each other should sail away and pass their lives together upon the sea, as she and her father had done before. Like most men, Wilbur had to walk when he was thinking hard. He sent the dory back to the schooner with word to Moran that he would take a walk around the beach and return in an hour or two. He set off along the shore in the direction of Fort Mason, the old red-brick fort at the entrance to the Golden Gate. At this point in the Presidio Government reservation the land is solitary. Wilbur followed the line of the beach to the old fort; and there, on the very threshold of the Western world, at the very outpost of civilization, sat down in the lee of the crumbling fortification, and scene by scene reviewed the extraordinary events of the past six months. In front of him ran the narrow channel of the Golden Gate; to his right was the bay and the city; at his left the open Pacific. He saw himself the day of his advent aboard the “Bertha” in his top hat and frock coat; saw himself later “braking down” at the windlass, the “Petrel” within hailing distance. Then the pictures began to thicken fast: the derelict bark “Lady Letty” rolling to her scuppers, abandoned and lonely; the “boy” in the wheel-box; Kitchell wrenching open the desk in the captain's stateroom; Captain Sternersen buried at sea, his false teeth upside down; the black fury of the squall, and Moran at the wheel; Moran lying at full length on the deck, getting the altitude of a star; Magdalena Bay; the shark-fishing; the mysterious lifting and shuddering of the schooner; the beach-combers' junk, with its staring red eyes; Hoang, naked to the waist, gleaming with sweat and whale-oil; the ambergris; the race to beach the sinking schooner; the never-to-be-forgotten night when he and Moran had camped together on the beach; Hoang taken prisoner, and the hideous filing of his teeth; the beach-combers, silent and watchful behind their sand breastworks; the Chinaman he had killed twitching and hic-coughing at his feet; Moran turned Berserker, bursting down upon him through a haze of smoke; Charlie dying in the hammock aboard the schooner, ordering his funeral with its “four-piecee horse”; Coronado; the incongruous scene in the ballroom; and, last of all, Josie Herrick in white duck and kid shoes, giving her hand to Moran in her boots and belt, hatless as ever, her sleeves rolled up to above the elbows, her white, strong arm extended, her ruddy face, and pale, milk-blue eyes gravely observant, her heavy braids, yellow as ripening rye, hanging over her shoulder and breast. A sudden explosion of cold wind, striking down blanket-wise and bewildering from out the west, made Wilbur look up quickly. The gray sky seemed scudding along close overhead. The bay, the narrow channel of the Golden Gate, the outside ocean, were all whitening with crests of waves. At his feet the huge green ground-swells thundered to the attack of the fort's granite foundations. Through the Gate, the bay seemed rushing out to the Pacific. A bewildered gull shot by, tacking and slanting against the gusts that would drive it out to sea. Evidently the storm was not far off. Wilbur rose to his feet, and saw the “Bertha Millner,” close in, unbridled and free as a runaway horse, headed directly for the open sea, and rushing on with all the impetus of wind and tide!	{ "id": "321" }
14	THE OCEAN IS CALLING FOR YOU	A little while after Wilbur had set off for the station, while Moran was making the last entries in the log-book, seated at the table in the cabin, Jim appeared at the door. “Well,” she said, looking up. “China boy him want go asho' plenty big, seeum flen up Chinatown in um city.” “Shore leave, is it?” said Moran. “You deserted once before without even saying good-by; and my hand in the fire, you'll come back this time dotty with opium. Get away with you. We'll have men aboard here in a few days.” “Can go?” inquired Jim suavely. “I said so. Report our arrival to your Six Companies.” Hoang rowed Jim and the coolies ashore, and then returned to the schooner with the dory and streamed her astern. As he passed the cabin door on his way forward, Moran hailed him. “I thought you went ashore?” she cried. “Heap flaid,” he answered. “Him other boy go up Chinatown; him tell Sam Yup; I tink Sam Yup alla same killee me. I no leaveum ship two, thlee day; bimeby I go Olegon. I stay topside ship. You wantum cook. I cook plenty fine; standum watch for you.” Indeed, ever since leaving Coronado the ex-beach-comber had made himself very useful about the schooner; had been, in fact, obsequiousness itself, and seemed to be particularly desirous of gaining the good-will of the “Bertha's” officers. He understood pigeon English better than Jim, and spoke it even better than Charlie had done. He acted the part of interpreter between Wilbur and the hands; even turned to in the galley upon occasion; and of his own accord offered to give the vessel a coat of paint above the water-line. Moran turned back to her log, and Hoang went forward. Standing on the forward deck, he looked after the “Bertha's” coolies until they disappeared behind a row of pine-trees on the Presidio Reservation, going cityward. Wilbur was nowhere in sight. For a longtime Hoang studied the Lifeboat Station narrowly, while he made a great show of coiling a length of rope. The station was just out of hailing distance. Nobody seemed stirring. The whole shore and back land thereabout was deserted; the edge of the city was four miles distant. Hoang returned to the forecastle-hatch and went below, groping under his bunk in his ditty-box. “Well, what is it?” exclaimed Moran a moment later, as the beach-comber entered the cabin, and shut the door behind him. Hoang did not answer; but she did not need to repeat the question. In an instant Moran knew very well what he had come for. “God!” she exclaimed under her breath, springing to her feet. “Why didn't we think of this!” Hoang slipped his knife from the sleeve of his blouse. For an instant the old imperiousness, the old savage pride and anger, leaped again in Moran's breast--then died away forever. She was no longer the same Moran of that first fight on board the schooner, when the beach-combers had plundered her of her “loot.” Only a few weeks ago, and she would have fought with Hoang without hesitation and without mercy; would have wrenched a leg from the table and brained him where he stood. But she had learned since to know what it meant to be dependent; to rely for protection upon some one who was stronger than she; to know her weakness; to know that she was at last a woman, and to be proud of it. She did not fight; she had no thought of fighting. Instinctively she cried aloud, “Mate--mate! --Oh, mate, where are you? Help me!” and Hoang's knife nailed the words within her throat. The “loot” was in a brass-bound chest under one of the cabin's bunks, stowed in two gunny-bags. Hoang drew them out, knotted the two together, and, slinging them over his shoulder, regained the deck. He looked carefully at the angry sky and swelling seas, noting the direction of the wind and set of the tide; then went forward and cast the anchor-chains from the windlass in such a manner that the schooner must inevitably wrench free with the first heavy strain. The dory was still tugging at the line astern. Hoang dropped the sacks in the boat, swung himself over the side, and rowed calmly toward the station's wharf. If any notion of putting to sea with the schooner had entered the obscure, perverted cunning of his mind, he had almost instantly rejected it. Chinatown was his aim; once there and under the protection of his Tong, Hoang knew that he was safe. He knew the hiding-places that the See Yup Association provided for its members--hiding places whose very existence was unknown to the police of the White Devil. No one interrupted--no one even noticed--his passage to the station. At best, it was nothing more than a coolie carrying a couple of gunny-sacks across his shoulder. Two hours later, Hoang was lost in San Francisco's Chinatown. ***** At the sight of the schooner sweeping out to sea, Wilbur was for an instant smitten rigid. What had happened? Where was Moran? Why was there nobody on board? A swift, sharp sense of some unnamed calamity leaped suddenly at his throat. Then he was aware of a crattering of hoofs along the road that led to the fort. Hodgson threw himself from one of the horses that were used in handling the surf-boat, and ran to him hatless and panting. “My God!” he shouted. “Look, your schooner, do you see her? She broke away after I'd started to tell you--to tell you--to tell you--your girl there on board--It was horrible!” “Is she all right?” cried Wilbur, at top voice, for the clamor of the gale was increasing every second. “All right! No; they've killed her--somebody--the coolies, I think--knifed her! I went out to ask you people to come into the station to have supper with me--” “Killed her--killed her! Who? I don't believe you--” “Wait--to have supper with me, and I found her there on the cabin floor. She was still breathing. I carried her up on deck--there was nobody else aboard. I carried her up and laid her on the deck--and she died there. Just now I came after you to tell you, and--” “Good God Almighty, man! who killed her? Where is she? Oh--but of course it isn't true! How did you know? Moran killed! Moran killed!” “And the schooner broke away after I started!” “Moran killed! But--but--she's not dead yet; we'll have to see--” “She died on the deck; I brought her up and laid her on--” “How do you know she's dead? Where is she? Come on, we'll go right back to her--to the station!” “She's on board--out there!” “Where--where is she? My God, man, tell me where she is!” “Out there aboard the schooner. I brought her up on deck--I left her on the schooner--on the deck--she was stabbed in the throat--and then came after you to tell you. Then the schooner broke away while I was coming; she's drifting out to sea now!” “Where is she? Where is she?” “Who--the girl--the schooner--which one? The girl is on the schooner--and the schooner--that's her, right there--she's drifting out to sea!” Wilbur put both hands to his temples, closing his eyes. “I'll go back!” exclaimed Hodgson. “We'll have the surf-boat out and get after her; we'll bring the body back!” “No, no!” cried Wilbur, “it's better--this way. Leave her, let her go--she's going out to sea again!” “But the schooner won't live two hours outside in this weather; she'll go down!” “It's better--that way--let her go. I want it so!” “I can't stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should sig-storm coming up, and I've got to be at my station.” Wilbur did not answer; he was watching the schooner. “I can't stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should signal--I can't stop here, I must be on duty. Come back, you can't do anything!” “No!” “I have got to go!” Hodgson ran back, swung himself on the horse, and rode away at a furious gallop, inclining his head against the gusts. And the schooner in a world of flying spray, white scud, and driving spoondrift, her cordage humming, her forefoot churning, the flag at her peak straining stiff in the gale, came up into the narrow passage of the Golden Gate, riding high upon the outgoing tide. On she came, swinging from crest to crest of the waves that kept her company and that ran to meet the ocean, shouting and calling out beyond there under the low, scudding clouds. Wilbur had climbed to the top of the old fort. Erect upon its granite ledge he stood, and watched and waited. Not once did the “Bertha Millner” falter in her race. Like an unbitted horse, all restraint shaken off, she ran free toward the ocean as to her pasture-land. She came nearer, nearer, rising and rolling with the seas, her bowsprit held due west, pointing like a finger out to sea, to the west--out to the world of romance. And then at last, as the little vessel drew opposite the old fort and passed not one hundred yards away, Wilbur, watching from the rampart, saw Moran lying upon the deck with outstretched arms and calm, upturned face; lying upon the deck of that lonely fleeing schooner as upon a bed of honor, still and calm, her great braids smooth upon her breast, her arms wide; alone with the sea; alone in death as she had been in life. She passed out of his life as she had come into it--alone, upon a derelict ship, abandoned to the sea. She went out with the tide, out with the storms; out, out, out to the great gray Pacific that knew her and loved her, and that shouted and called for her, and thundered in the joy of her as she came to meet him like a bride to meet a bridegroom. “Good-by, Moran!” shouted Wilbur as she passed. “Good-by, good-by, Moran! You were not for me--not for me! The ocean is calling for you, dear; don't you hear him? Don't you hear him? Good-by, good-by, good-by!” The schooner swept by, shot like an arrow through the swirling currents of the Golden Gate, and dipped and bowed and courtesied to the Pacific that reached toward her his myriad curling fingers. They infolded her, held her close, and drew her swiftly, swiftly out to the great heaving bosom, tumultuous and beating in its mighty joy, its savage exultation of possession. Wilbur stood watching. The little schooner lessened in the distance--became a shadow in mist and flying spray--a shadow moving upon the face of the great waste of water. Fainter and fainter she grew, vanished, reappeared, was heaved up again--a mere speck upon the western sky--a speck that dwindled and dwindled, then slowly melted away into the gray of the horizon.	{ "id": "321" }
1	TOBY'S INTRODUCTION TO THE CIRCUS.	"Couldn't you give more'n six pea-nuts for a cent?" was a question asked by a very small boy, with big, staring eyes, of a candy vender at a circus booth. And as he spoke he looked wistfully at the quantity of nuts piled high up on the basket, and then at the six, each of which now looked so small as he held them in his hand. "Couldn't do it," was the reply of the proprietor of the booth, as he put the boy's penny carefully away in the drawer. The little fellow looked for another moment at his purchase, and then carefully cracked the largest one. A shade--and a very deep shade it was--of disappointment passed over his face, and then, looking up anxiously, he asked, "Don't you swap 'em when they're bad?" The man's face looked as if a smile had been a stranger to it for a long time; but one did pay it a visit just then, and he tossed the boy two nuts, and asked him a question at the same time. "What is your name?" The big brown eyes looked up for an instant, as if to learn whether the question was asked in good faith, and then their owner said, as he carefully picked apart another nut, "Toby Tyler." "Well, that's a queer name." "Yes, I s'pose so, myself; but, you see, I don't expect that's the name that belongs to me. But the fellers call me so, an' so does Uncle Dan'l." "Who is Uncle Daniel?" was the next question. In the absence of other customers the man seemed disposed to get as much amusement out of the boy as possible. "He hain't my uncle at all; I only call him so because all the boys do, an' I live with him." "Where's your father and mother?" "I don't know," said Toby, rather carelessly. "I don't know much about 'em, an' Uncle Dan'l says they don't know much about me. Here's another bad nut; goin' to give me two more?" [Illustration: TOBY STRIKES A BARGAIN.] The two nuts were given him, and he said, as he put them in his pocket, and turned over and over again those which he held in his hand, "I shouldn't wonder if all of these was bad. Sposen you give me two for each one of 'em before I crack 'em, an' then they won't be spoiled so you can't sell 'em again." As this offer of barter was made, the man looked amused, and he asked, as he counted out the number which Toby desired, "If I give you these, I suppose you'll want me to give you two more for each one, and you'll keep that kind of a trade going until you get my whole stock?" "I won't open my head if every one of 'em's bad." "All right; you can keep what you've got, and I'll give you these besides; but I don't want you to buy any more, for I don't want to do that kind of business." Toby took the nuts offered, not in the least abashed, and seated himself on a convenient stone to eat them, and at the same time to see all that was going on around him. The coming of a circus to the little town of Guilford was an event, and Toby had hardly thought of anything else since the highly colored posters had first been put up. It was yet quite early in the morning, and the tents were just being erected by the men. Toby had followed, with eager eyes, everything that looked as if it belonged to the circus, from the time the first wagon had entered the town until the street parade had been made, and everything was being prepared for the afternoon's performance. The man who had made the losing trade in pea-nuts seemed disposed to question the boy still further, probably owing to the fact that he had nothing better to do. "Who is this Uncle Daniel you say you live with--is he a farmer?" "No; he's a deacon, an' he raps me over the head with the hymn-book whenever I go to sleep in meetin', an' he says I eat four times as much as I earn. I blame him for hittin' so hard when I go to sleep, but I s'pose he's right about my eatin'. You see," and here his tone grew both confidential and mournful, "I am an awful eater, an' I can't seem to help it. Somehow I'm hungry all the time. I don't seem ever to get enough till carrot-time comes, an' then I can get all I want without troubling anybody." "Didn't you ever have enough to eat?" "I s'pose I did; but you see Uncle Dan'l he found me one mornin' on his hay, an' he says I was cryin' for something to eat then, an' I've kept it up ever since. I tried to get him go give me money enough to go into the circus with; but he said a cent was all he could spare these hard times, an' I'd better take that an' buy something to eat with it, for the show wasn't very good anyway. I wish pea-nuts wasn't but a cent a bushel." "Then you would make yourself sick eating them." "Yes, I s'pose I should; Uncle Dan'l says I'd eat till I was sick, if I got the chance; but I'd like to try it once." He was a very small boy, with a round head covered with short, red hair a face as speckled as any turkey's egg, but thoroughly good-natured-looking; and as he sat there on the rather sharp point of the rock, swaying his body to and fro as he hugged his knees with his hands, and kept his eyes fastened on the tempting display of good things before him, it would have been a very hard-hearted man who would not have given him something. But Mr. Job Lord, the proprietor of the booth, was a hard-hearted man, and he did not make the slightest advance toward offering the little fellow anything. Toby rocked himself silently for a moment, and then he said, hesitatingly, "I don't suppose you'd like to sell me some things, an' let me pay you when I get older, would you?" Mr. Lord shook his head decidedly at this proposition. "I didn't s'pose you would," said Toby, quickly; "but you didn't seem to be selling anything, an' I thought I'd just see what you'd say about it." And then he appeared suddenly to see something wonderfully interesting behind him, which served as an excuse to turn his reddening face away. "I suppose your uncle Daniel makes you work for your living, don't he?" asked Mr. Lord, after he had rearranged his stock of candy, and had added a couple of slices of lemon-peel to what was popularly supposed to be lemonade. "That's what I think; but he says that all the work I do wouldn't pay for the meal that one chicken would eat, an' I s'pose it's so, for I don't like to work as well as a feller without any father and mother ought to. I don't know why it is, but I guess it's because I take up so much time eatin' that it kinder tires me out. I s'pose you go into the circus whenever you want to, don't you?" "Oh yes; I'm there at every performance, for I keep the stand under the big canvas as well as this one out here." There was a great big sigh from out Toby's little round stomach, as he thought what bliss it must be to own all those good things, and to see the circus wherever it went. "It must be nice," he said, as he faced the booth and its hard-visaged proprietor once more. "How would you like it?" asked Mr. Lord, patronizingly, as he looked Toby over in a business way, very much as if he contemplated purchasing him. "Like it!" echoed Toby; "why, I'd grow fat on it." "I don't know as that would be any advantage," continued Mr. Lord, reflectively, "for it strikes me that you're about as fat now as a boy of your age ought to be. But I've a great mind to give you a chance." "What!" cried Toby, in amazement, and his eyes opened to their widest extent, as this possible opportunity of leading a delightful life presented itself. "Yes, I've a great mind to give you the chance. You see," and now it was Mr. Lord's turn to grow confidential, "I've had a boy with me this season, but he cleared out at the last town, and I'm running the business alone now." Toby's face expressed all the contempt he felt for the boy who would run away from such a glorious life as Mr. Lord's assistant must lead; but he said not a word, waiting in breathless expectation for the offer which he now felt certain would be made him. "Now I ain't hard on a boy," continued Mr. Lord, still confidentially, "and yet that one seemed to think that he was treated worse and made to work harder than any boy in the world." "He ought to live with Uncle Dan'l a week," said Toby, eagerly. "Here I was just like a father to him," said Mr. Lord, paying no attention to the interruption, "and I gave him his board and lodging, and a dollar a week besides." "Could he do what he wanted to with the dollar?" "Of course he could. I never checked him, no matter how extravagant he was, an' yet I've seen him spend his whole week's wages at this very stand in one afternoon. And even after his money had all gone that way, I've paid for peppermint and ginger out of my own pocket just to cure his stomach-ache." Toby shook his head mournfully, as if deploring that depravity which could cause a boy to run away from such a tender-hearted employer, and from such a desirable position. But even as he shook his head so sadly he looked wistfully at the pea-nuts, and Mr. Lord observed the look. It may have been that Mr. Job Lord was the tender-hearted man he prided himself upon being, or it may have been that he wished to purchase Toby's sympathy; but, at all events, he gave him a large handful of nuts, and Toby never bothered his little round head as to what motive prompted the gift. Now he could listen to the story of the boy's treachery and eat at the same time; therefore he was an attentive listener. "All in the world that boy had to do," continued Mr. Lord, in the same injured tone he had previously used, "was to help me set things to rights when we struck a town in the morning, and then tend to the counter till we left the town at night, and all the rest of the time he had to himself. Yet that boy was ungrateful enough to run away." Mr. Lord paused, as if expecting some expression of sympathy from his listener; but Toby was so busily engaged with his unexpected feast, and his mouth was so full, that it did not seem even possible for him to shake his head. "Now what should you say if I told you that you looked to me like a boy that was made especially to help run a candy counter at a circus, and if I offered the place to you?" Toby made one frantic effort to swallow the very large mouthful, and in a choking voice he answered, quickly, "I should say I'd go with you, an' be mighty glad of the chance." "Then it's a bargain, my boy, and you shall leave town with me to-night."	{ "id": "32393" }
2	TOBY RUNS AWAY FROM HOME.	Toby could scarcely restrain himself at the prospect of this golden future that had so suddenly opened before him. He tried to express his gratitude, but could only do so by evincing his willingness to commence work at once. "No, no, that won't do," said Mr. Lord, cautiously. "If your uncle Daniel should see you working here, he might mistrust something, and then you couldn't get away." "I don't believe he'd try to stop me," said Toby, confidently; "for he's told me lots of times that it was a sorry day for him when he found me." "We won't take any chances, my son," was the reply, in a very benevolent tone, as he patted Toby on the head, and at the same time handed him a piece of pasteboard. "There's a ticket for the circus, and you come around to see me about ten o'clock to-night. I'll put you on one of the wagons, and by to-morrow morning your uncle Daniel will have hard work to find you." If Toby had followed his inclinations, the chances are that he would have fallen on his knees, and kissed Mr. Lord's hands in the excess of his gratitude. But not knowing exactly how such a show of thankfulness might be received, he contented himself by repeatedly promising that he would be punctual to the time and place appointed. He would have loitered in the vicinity of the candy stand in order that he might gain some insight into the business; but Mr. Lord advised that he remain away, lest his uncle Daniel should see him, and suspect where he had gone when he was missed in the morning. As Toby walked around the circus grounds, whereon was so much to attract his attention, he could not prevent himself from assuming an air of proprietorship. His interest in all that was going on was redoubled, and in his anxiety that everything should be done correctly and in the proper order he actually, and perhaps for the first time in his life, forgot that he was hungry. He was really to travel with a circus, to become a part, as it were, of the whole, and to be able to see its many wonderful and beautiful attractions every day. Even the very tent ropes had acquired a new interest for him, and the faces of the men at work seemed suddenly to have become those of friends. How hard it was for him to walk around unconcernedly: and how especially hard to prevent his feet from straying toward that tempting display of dainties which he was to sell to those who came to see and enjoy, and who would look at him with wonder and curiosity! It was very hard not to be allowed to tell his playmates of his wonderfully good fortune; but silence meant success, and he locked his secret in his bosom, not even daring to talk with any one he knew, lest he should betray himself by some incautious word. He did not go home to dinner that day, and once or twice he felt impelled to walk past the candy stand, giving a mysterious shake of the head at the proprietor as he did so. The afternoon performance passed off as usual to all of the spectators save Toby. He imagined that each one of the performers knew that he was about to join them; and even as he passed the cage containing the monkeys he fancied that one particularly old one knew all about his intention of running away. Of course it was necessary for him to go home at the close of the afternoon's performance, in order to get one or two valuable articles of his own--such as a boat, a kite, and a pair of skates--and in order that his actions might not seem suspicious. Before he left the grounds, however, he stole slyly around to the candy stand, and informed Mr. Job Lord, in a very hoarse whisper, that he would be on hand at the time appointed. Mr. Lord patted him on the head, gave him two large sticks of candy, and, what was more kind and surprising, considering the fact that he wore glasses, and was cross-eyed, he winked at Toby. A wink from Mr. Lord must have been intended to convey a great deal, because, owing to the defect in his eyes, it required no little exertion, and even then could not be considered as a really first-class wink. That wink, distorted as it was, gladdened Toby's heart immensely, and took away nearly all the sting of the scolding with which Uncle Daniel greeted him when he reached home. That night--despite the fact that he was going to travel with the circus, despite the fact that his home was not a happy or cheerful one--Toby was not in a pleasant frame of mind. He began to feel for the first time that he was doing wrong; and as he gazed at Uncle Daniel's stern, forbidding-looking face, it seemed to have changed somewhat from its severity, and caused a great lump of something to come up in his throat as he thought that perhaps he should never see it again. Just then one or two kind words would have prevented him from running away, bright as the prospect of circus life appeared. It was almost impossible for him to eat anything, and this very surprising state of affairs attracted the attention of Uncle Daniel. "Bless my heart! what ails the boy?" asked the old man, as he peered over his glasses at Toby's well-filled plate, which was usually emptied so quickly. "Are ye sick, Toby, or what is the matter with ye?" "No, I hain't sick," said Toby, with a sigh; "but I've been to the circus, an' I got a good deal to eat." "Oho, you spent that cent I give ye, eh, an' got so much that it made ye sick?" Toby thought of the six pea-nuts which he had bought with the penny Uncle Daniel had given him; and, amid all his homesickness, he could not help wondering if Uncle Daniel ever made himself sick with only six pea-nuts when he was a boy. As no one paid any further attention to Toby, he pushed back his plate, arose from the table, and went with a heavy heart to attend to his regular evening chores. The cow, the hens, and even the pigs, came in for a share of his unusually kind attention; and as he fed them all the big tears rolled down his cheeks, as he thought that perhaps never again would he see any of them. These dumb animals had all been Toby's confidants; he had poured out his griefs in their ears, and fancied, when the world or Uncle Daniel had used him unusually hard, that they sympathized with him. Now he was leaving them forever, and as he locked the stable door he could hear the sounds of music coming from the direction of the circus grounds, and he was angry at it, because it represented that which was taking him away from his home, even though it was not as pleasant as it might have been. Still, he had no thought of breaking the engagement which he had made. He went to his room, made a bundle of his worldly possessions, and crept out of the back door, down the road to the circus. Mr. Lord saw him as soon as he arrived on the grounds, and as he passed another ticket to Toby he took his bundle from him, saying, as he did so, "I'll pack up your bundle with my things, and then you'll be sure not to lose it. Don't you want some candy?" Toby shook his head; he had just discovered that there was possibly some connection between his heart and his stomach, for his grief at leaving home had taken from him all desire for good things. It is also more than possible that Mr. Lord had had experience enough with boys to know that they might be homesick on the eve of starting to travel with a circus; and in order to make sure that Toby would keep to his engagement he was unusually kind. That evening was the longest Toby ever knew. He wandered from one cage of animals to another; then to see the performance in the ring, and back again to the animals, in the vain hope of passing the time pleasantly. But it was of no use; that lump in his throat would remain there, and the thoughts of what he was about to do would trouble him severely. The performance failed to interest him, and the animals did not attract until he had visited the monkey-cage for the third or fourth time. Then he fancied that the same venerable monkey who had looked so knowing in the afternoon was gazing at him with a sadness which could only have come from a thorough knowledge of all the grief and doubt that was in his heart. There was no one around the cages, and Toby got just as near to the iron bars as possible. No sooner had he flattened his little pug-nose against the iron than the aged monkey came down from the ring in which he had been swinging, and, seating himself directly in front of Toby's face, looked at him most compassionately. It would not have surprised the boy just then if the animal had spoken; but as he did not, Toby did the next best thing, and spoke to him. "I s'pose you remember that you saw me this afternoon, an' somebody told you that I was goin' to join the circus, didn't they?" The monkey made no reply, though Toby fancied that he winked an affirmative answer; and he looked so sympathetic that he continued, confidentially, [Illustration: TOBY AND HIS NEW FRIEND.] "Well, I'm the same feller, an' I don't mind telling you that I'm awfully sorry I promised that candy man I'd go with him. Do you know that I came near crying at the supper table to-night; an' Uncle Dan'l looked real good an' nice, though I never thought so before. I wish I wasn't goin', after all, 'cause it don't seem a bit like a good time now; but I s'pose I must, 'cause I promised to, an' 'cause the candy man has got all my things." The big tears had begun to roll down Toby's cheeks, and as he ceased speaking the monkey reached out one little paw, which Toby took as earnestly as if it had been done purposely to console him. "You're real good, you are," continued Toby; "an' I hope I shall see you real often, for it seems to me now, when there hain't any folks around, as if you was the only friend I've got in this great big world. It's awful when a feller feels the way I do, an' when he don't seem to want anything to eat. Now if you'll stick to me, I'll stick to you, an' then it won't be half so bad when we feel this way." During this speech Toby had still clung to the little brown paw, which the monkey now withdrew, and continued to gaze into the boy's face. "The fellers all say I don't amount to anything," sobbed Toby, "an' Uncle Dan'l says I don't, an' I s'pose they know; but I tell you I feel just as bad, now that I'm goin' away from them all, as if I was as good as any of them." At this moment Toby saw Mr. Lord enter the tent, and he knew that the summons to start was about to be given. "Good-bye," he said to the monkey, as he vainly tried to take him by the hand again; "remember what I've told you, an' don't forget that Toby Tyler is feelin' worse to-night than if he was twice as big an' twice as good." Mr. Lord had come to summon him away, and he now told Toby that he would show him with which man he was to ride that night. Toby looked another good-bye at the venerable monkey, who was watching him closely, and then followed his employer out of the tent, among the ropes and poles and general confusion attendant upon the removal of a circus from one place to another.	{ "id": "32393" }
3	THE NIGHT RIDE.	The wagon on which Mr. Lord was to send his new-found employé was, by the most singular chance, the one containing the monkeys, and Toby accepted this as a good omen. He would be near his venerable friend all night, and there was some consolation in that. The driver instructed the boy to watch his movements, and when he saw him leading his horses around, "to look lively, and be on hand, for he never waited for any one." Toby not only promised to do as ordered, but he followed the driver around so closely that, had he desired, he could not have rid himself of his little companion. The scene which presented itself to Toby's view was strange and weird in the extreme. Shortly after he had attached himself to the man with whom he was to ride, the performance was over, and the work of putting the show and its belongings into such a shape as could be conveyed from one town to another was soon in active operation. Toby forgot his grief, forgot that he was running away from the only home he had ever known--in fact, forgot everything concerning himself--so interested was he in that which was going on about him. As soon as the audience had got out of the tent--and almost before--the work of taking down the canvas was begun. Torches were stuck in the earth at regular intervals, the lights that had shone so brilliantly in and around the ring had been extinguished, the canvas sides had been taken off, and the boards that had formed the seats were being packed into one of the carts with a rattling sound that seemed as if a regular fusillade of musketry was being indulged in. Men were shouting; horses were being driven hither and thither, harnessed to the wagons, or drawing the huge carts away as soon as they were loaded; and everything seemed in the greatest state of confusion, while really the work was being done in the most systematic manner possible. Toby had not long to wait before the driver informed him that the time for starting had arrived, and assisted him to climb up to the narrow seat whereon he was to ride that night. [Illustration: TOBY'S FIRST NIGHT RIDE.] The scene was so exciting, and his efforts to stick to the narrow seat so great, that he really had no time to attend to the homesick feeling that had crept over him during the first part of the evening. The long procession of carts and wagons drove slowly out of the town, and when the last familiar house had been passed the driver spoke to Toby for the first time since they started. "Pretty hard work to keep on--eh, sonny?" "Yes," replied the boy, as the wagon jolted over a rock, bouncing him high in air, and he, by strenuous efforts, barely succeeded in alighting on the seat again, "it is pretty hard work; an' my name's Toby Tyler." Toby heard a queer sound that seemed to come from the man's throat, and for a few moments he feared that his companion was choking. But he soon understood that this was simply an attempt to laugh, and he at once decided that it was a very poor style of laughing. "So you object to being called sonny, do you?" "Well, I'd rather be called Toby, for, you see, that's my name." "All right, my boy; we'll call you Toby. I suppose you thought it was a mighty fine thing to run away an' jine a circus, didn't you?" Toby started in affright, looked around cautiously, and then tried to peer down through the small square aperture, guarded by iron rods, that opened into the cage just back of the seat they were sitting on. Then he turned slowly around to the driver, and asked, in a voice sunk to a whisper, "How did you know that I was runnin' away? Did he tell you?" and Toby motioned with his thumb as if he were pointing out some one behind him. It was the driver's turn now to look around in search of the "he" referred to by Toby. "Who do you mean?" asked the man, impatiently. "Why, the old feller; the one in the cart there. I think he knew I was runnin' away, though he didn't say anything about it; but he looked just as if he did." The driver looked at Toby in perfect amazement for a moment, and then, as if suddenly understanding the boy, relapsed into one of those convulsive efforts that caused the blood to rush up into his face, and gave him every appearance of having a fit. "You must mean one of the monkeys," said the driver, after he had recovered his breath, which had been almost shaken out of his body by the silent laughter. "So you thought a monkey had told me what any fool could have seen if he had watched you for five minutes." "Well," said Toby, slowly, as if he feared he might provoke one of those terrible laughing spells again, "I saw him to-night, an' he looked as if he knew what I was doin'; so I up an' told him, an' I didn't know but he'd told you, though he didn't look to me like a feller that would be mean." There was another internal shaking on the part of the driver, which Toby did not fear so much, since he was getting accustomed to it, and then the man said, "Well, you are the queerest little cove I ever saw." "I s'pose I am," was the reply, accompanied by a long-drawn sigh. "I don't seem to amount to so much as the other fellers do, an' I guess it's because I'm always hungry; you see, I eat awful, Uncle Dan'l says." The only reply which the driver made to this plaintive confession was to put his hand down into the deepest recesses of one of his deep pockets, and to draw therefrom a huge doughnut, which he handed to his companion. Toby was so much at his ease by this time that the appetite which had failed him at supper had now returned in full force, and he devoured the doughnut in a most ravenous manner. "You're too small to eat so fast," said the man, in a warning tone, as the last morsel of the greasy sweetness disappeared, and he fished up another for the boy. "Some time you'll get hold of one of the India-rubber doughnuts that they feed to circus people, an' choke yourself to death." Toby shook his head, and devoured this second cake as quickly as he had the first, craning his neck, and uttering a funny little squeak as the last bit went down, just as a chicken does when he gets too large a mouthful of dough. "I'll never choke," he said, confidently: "I'm used to it; and Uncle Dan'l says I could eat a pair of boots an' never wink at 'em; but I don't just believe that." As the driver made no reply to this remark Toby curled himself up on one corner of the seat, and watched with no little interest all that was passing on around him. Each of the wagons had a lantern fastened to the hind axle, and these lights could be seen far ahead on the road, as if a party of fire-flies had started in single file on an excursion. The trees by the side of the road stood out weird and ghostly-looking in the darkness, and the rumble of the carts ahead and behind formed a musical accompaniment to the picture that sounded strangely doleful. Mile after mile was passed over in perfect silence, save now and then when the driver would whistle a few bars of some very dismal tune that would fairly make Toby shiver with its mournfulness. Eighteen miles was the distance from Guilford to the town where the next performance of the circus was to be given, and as Toby thought of the ride before them it seemed as if the time would be almost interminable. He curled himself up on one corner of the seat, and tried very hard to go to sleep; but just as his eyes began to grow heavy the wagon would jolt over some rock or sink deep in some rut, till Toby, the breath very nearly shaken out of his body, and his neck almost dislocated, would sit bolt-upright, clinging to the seat with both hands, as if he expected each moment to be pitched out into the mud. The driver watched him closely, and each time that he saw him shaken up and awakened so thoroughly he would indulge in one of his silent laughing spells, until Toby would wonder whether he would ever recover from it. Several times had Toby been awakened, and each time he had seen the amusement his sufferings caused, until he finally resolved to put an end to the sport by keeping awake. "What is your name?" he asked of the driver, thinking a conversation would be the best way to rouse himself into wakefulness. "Waal," said the driver, as he gathered the reins carefully in one hand, and seemed to be debating in his mind how he should answer the question, "I don't know as I know myself, it's been so long since I've heard it." Toby was wide enough awake now, as this rather singular problem was forced upon his mind. He revolved the matter silently for some moments, and at last he asked, "What do folks call you when they want to speak to you?" "They always call me Old Ben, an' I've got so used to the name that I don't need any other." Toby wanted very much to ask more questions, but he wisely concluded that it would not be agreeable to his companion. "I'll ask the old man about it," said Toby to himself, referring to the aged monkey, whom he seemed to feel acquainted with; "he most likely knows, if he'll say anything." After this the conversation ceased, until Toby again ventured to suggest, "It's a pretty long drive, hain't it?" "You want to wait till you've been in this business a year or two," said Ben, sagely, "an' then you won't think much of it. Why, I've known the show towns to be thirty miles apart, an' them was the times when we had lively work of it; riding all night and working all day kind of wears on a fellow." "Yes, I s'pose so," said Toby, with a sigh, as he wondered whether he had got to work as hard as that; "but I s'pose you get all you want to eat, don't you?" "Now you've struck it!" said Ben, with the air of one about to impart a world of wisdom, as he crossed one leg over the other, that his position might be as comfortable as possible while he was initiating his young companion into the mysteries of the life. "I've had all the boys ride with me since I've been with this show, an' I've tried to start them right; but they didn't seem to profit by it, an' always got sick of the show an' run away, just because they didn't look out for themselves as they ought to. Now listen to me, Toby, an' remember what I say. You see they put us all in a hotel together, an' some of these places where we go don't have any too much stuff on the table. Whenever we strike a new town you find out at the hotel what time they have the grub ready, an' you be on hand, so's to get in with the first. Eat all you can, an' fill your pockets." "If that's all a feller has to do to travel with a circus," said Toby, "I'm just the one, 'cause I always used to do just that when I hadn't any idea of bein' a circus man." "Then you'll get along all right," said Ben, as he checked the speed of his horses, and, looking carefully ahead, said, as he guided his team to one side of the road, "This is as far as we're going to-night." Toby learned that they were within a couple of miles of the town, and that the entire procession would remain by the roadside until time to make the grand entrée into the village, when every wagon, horse, and man would be decked out in the most gorgeous array, as they had been when they entered Guilford. Under Ben's direction he wrapped himself in an old horse-blanket, and lay down on the top of the wagon; and he was so tired from the excitement of the day and night, that he had hardly stretched out at full length before he was fast asleep.	{ "id": "32393" }
4	THE FIRST DAY WITH THE CIRCUS.	When Toby awakened and looked around he could hardly realize where he was or how he came there. As far ahead and behind on the road as he could see the carts were drawn up on one side; men were hurrying to and fro, orders were being shouted, and everything showed that the entry into the town was about to be made. Directly opposite the wagon on which he had been sleeping were the four elephants and two camels, and close behind, contentedly munching their breakfasts, were a number of tiny ponies. Troops of horses were being groomed and attended to; the road was littered with saddles, flags, and general decorations, until it seemed to Toby that there must have been a smash-up, and that he now beheld ruins rather than systematic disorder. How different everything looked now, compared to the time when the cavalcade marched into Guilford, dazzling every one with the gorgeous display! Then the horses pranced gayly under their gaudy decorations, the wagons were bright with glass, gilt, and flags, the lumbering elephants and awkward camels were covered with fancifully embroidered velvets, and even the drivers of the wagons were resplendent in their uniforms of scarlet and gold. Now, in the gray light of the early morning, everything was changed. The horses were tired and muddy, and wore old and dirty harness; the gilded chariots were covered with mud-bespattered canvas, which caused them to look like the most ordinary of market wagons; the elephants and camels looked dingy, dirty, almost repulsive; and the drivers were only a sleepy-looking set of men, who, in their shirt-sleeves, were getting ready for the change which would dazzle the eyes of the inhabitants of the town. Toby descended from his lofty bed, rubbed his eyes to thoroughly awaken himself, and under the guidance of Ben went to a little brook near by and washed his face. He had been with the circus not quite ten hours, but now he could not realize that it had ever seemed bright and beautiful. He missed his comfortable bed, the quiet and cleanliness, and the well-spread table; even although he had felt the lack of parents' care, Uncle Daniel's home seemed the very abode of love and friendly feeling compared to this condition, where no one appeared to care even enough for him to scold at him. He was thoroughly homesick, and heartily wished that he was back in his old native town. While he was washing his face in the brook he saw some of the boys who had come out from the town to catch the first glimpse of the circus, and he saw at once that he was the object of their admiring gaze. He heard one of the boys say, when they first discovered him, "There's one of them, an' he's only a little feller; so I'm going to talk to him." The evident admiration which the boys had for Toby pleased him, and this pleasure was the only drop of comfort he had had since he started. He hoped they would come and talk with him; and, that they might have the opportunity, he was purposely slow in making his toilet. The boys approached him shyly, as if they had their doubts whether he was made of the same material as themselves, and when they got quite near to him, and satisfied themselves that he was only washing his face in much the same way that any well-regulated boy would do, the one who had called attention to him said, half timidly, "Hello!" "Hello!" responded Toby, in a tone that was meant to invite confidence. "Do you belong to the circus?" "Yes," said Toby, a little doubtfully. Then the boys stared at him again as if he were one of the strange-looking animals, and the one who had been the spokesman drew a long breath of envy as he said, longingly, "My! what a nice time you must have!" Toby remembered that only yesterday he himself had thought that boys must have a nice time with a circus, and he now felt what a mistake that thought was; but he concluded that he would not undeceive his new acquaintance. "And do they give you frogs to eat, so's to make you limber?" This was the first time that Toby had thought of breakfast, and the very mention of eating made him hungry. He was just at that moment so very hungry that he did not think he was replying to the question when he said, quickly, "Eat frogs! I could eat anything, if I only had the chance." The boys took this as an answer to their question, and felt perfectly convinced that the agility of circus riders and tumblers depended upon the quantity of frogs eaten, and they looked upon Toby with no little degree of awe. Toby might have undeceived them as to the kind of food he ate, but just at that moment the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was heard calling him, and he hurried away to commence his first day's work. Toby's employer was not the same pleasant, kindly-spoken man that he had been during the time they were in Guilford, and before the boy was absolutely under his control. He looked cross, he acted cross, and it did not take the boy very long to find out that he was very cross. He scolded Toby roundly, and launched more oaths at his defenceless head than Toby had ever heard in his life. He was angry that the boy had not been on hand to help him, and also that he had been obliged to hunt for him. Toby tried to explain that he had no idea of what he was expected to do, and that he had been on the wagon to which he had been sent, only leaving it to wash his face; but the angry man grew still more furious. "Went to wash your face, did yer? Want to set yourself up for a dandy, I suppose, and think that you must souse that speckled face of yours into every brook you come to? I'll soon break you of that; and the sooner you understand that I can't afford to have you wasting your time in washing, the better it will be for you." Toby now grew angry, and not realizing how wholly he was in the man's power, he retorted, "If you think I'm going round with a dirty face, even if it is speckled, for a dollar a week, you're mistaken, that's all. How many folks would eat your candy if they knew you handled it over before you washed your hands?" [Illustration: OLD BEN COMES TO THE RESCUE.] "Oho! I've picked up a preacher, have I? Now, I want you to understand, my bantam, that I do all the preaching as well as the practising myself, and this is about as quick a way as I know of to make you understand it." As the man spoke he grasped the boy by the coat-collar with one hand, and with the other plied a thin rubber cane with no gentle force to every portion of Toby's body that he could reach. Every blow caused the poor boy the most intense pain; but he determined that his tormentor should not have the satisfaction of forcing an outcry from him, and he closed his lips so tightly that not a single sound could escape from them. This very silence enraged the man so much that he redoubled the force and rapidity of his blows, and it is impossible to say what might have been the consequences had not Ben come that way just then, and changed the aspect of affairs. "Up to your old tricks of whipping the boys, are you, Job?" he said, as he wrested the cane from the man's hand and held him off at arm's-length, to prevent him from doing Toby more mischief. Mr. Lord struggled to release himself, and insisted that, since the boy was in his employ, he should do with him just as he saw fit. "Now look here, Mr. Lord," said Ben as gravely as if he was delivering some profound piece of wisdom, "I've never interfered with you before; but now I'm going to stop your game of thrashing your boy every morning before breakfast. You just tell this youngster what you want him to do, and if he don't do it you can discharge him. If I hear of your flogging him, I shall attend to your case at once. You hear me?" Ben shook the now terrified candy vender much as if he had been a child, and then released him, saying to Toby as he did so, "Now, my boy, you attend to your business as you ought to, and I'll settle his account if he tries the flogging game again." "You see, I don't know what there is for me to do," sobbed Toby, for the kindly interference of Ben had made him show more feeling than Mr. Lord's blows had done. "Tell him what he must do," said Ben, sternly. "I want him to go to work and wash the tumblers, and fix up the things in that green box, so we can commence to sell as soon as we get into town," snarled Mr. Lord, as he motioned toward a large green chest that had been taken out of one of the carts, and which Toby saw was filled with dirty glasses, spoons, knives, and other utensils such as were necessary to carry on the business. Toby got a pail of water from the brook, hunted around and found towels and soap, and devoted himself to his work with such industry that Mr. Lord could not repress a grunt of satisfaction as he passed him, however angry he felt because he could not administer the whipping which would have smoothed his ruffled temper. By the time the procession was ready to start for the town Toby had as much of his work done as he could find that it was necessary to do, and his master, in his surly way, half acknowledged that this last boy of his was better than any he had had before. Although Toby had done his work so well he was far from feeling happy; he was both angry and sad as he thought of the cruel blows that had been inflicted, and he had plenty of leisure to repent of the rash step he had taken, although he could not see very clearly how he was to get away from it. He thought that he could not go back to Guilford, for Uncle Daniel would not allow him to come to his house again; and the hot scalding tears ran down his cheeks as he realized that he was homeless and friendless in this great big world. It was while he was in this frame of mind that the procession, all gaudy with flags, streamers, and banners, entered the town. Under different circumstances this would have been a most delightful day for him, for the entrance of a circus into Guilford had always been a source of one day's solid enjoyment; but now he was the most disconsolate and unhappy boy in all that crowd. He did not ride throughout the entire route of the procession, for Mr. Lord was anxious to begin business, and the moment the tenting ground was reached the wagon containing Mr. Lord's goods was driven into the enclosure, and Toby's day's work began. He was obliged to bring water, to cut up the lemons, fetch and carry fruit from the booth in the big tent to the booth on the outside, until he was ready to drop with fatigue, and having had no time for breakfast, was nearly famished. It was quite noon before he was permitted to go to the hotel for something to eat, and then Ben's advice to be one of the first to get to the tables was not needed. In the eating line that day he astonished the servants, the members of the company, and even himself, and by the time he arose from the table, with both pockets and his stomach full to bursting, the tables had been set and cleared away twice while he was making one meal. "Well, I guess you didn't hurry yourself much," said Mr. Lord, when Toby returned to the circus ground. "Oh yes, I did," was Toby's innocent reply: "I ate just as fast as I could;" and a satisfied smile stole over the boy's face as he thought of the amount of solid food he had consumed. The answer was not one which was calculated to make Mr. Lord feel any more agreeably disposed toward his new clerk, and he showed his ill-temper very plainly as he said, "It must take a good deal to satisfy you." "I s'pose it does," calmly replied Toby. "Sam Merrill used to say that I took after Aunt Olive and Uncle Dan'l, one ate a good while, an' the other ate awful fast." Toby could not understand what it was that Mr. Lord said in reply, but he could understand that his employer was angry at somebody or something, and he tried unusually hard to please him. He talked to the boys who had gathered around, to induce them to buy, washed the glasses as fast as they were used, tried to keep off the flies, and in every way he could think of endeavored to please his master.	{ "id": "32393" }
5	THE COUNTERFEIT TEN-CENT PIECE.	When the doors of the big tent were opened, and the people began to crowd in, just as Toby had seen them do at Guilford, Mr. Lord announced to his young clerk that it was time for him to go into the tent to work. Then it was that Toby learned for the first time that he had two masters instead of one, and this knowledge caused him no little uneasiness. If the other one was anything like Mr. Lord, his lot would be just twice as bad, and he began to wonder whether he could even stand it one day longer. As the boy passed through the tent on his way to the candy stand, where he was really to enter upon the duties for which he had run away from home, he wanted to stop for a moment and speak with the old monkey who he thought had taken such an interest in him. But when he reached the cage in which his friend was confined, there was such a crowd around it that it was impossible for him to get near enough to speak without being overheard. This was such a disappointment to the little fellow that the big tears came into his eyes, and in another instant would have gone rolling down his cheeks if his aged friend had not chanced to look toward him. Toby fancied that the monkey looked at him in the most friendly way, and then he was certain that he winked one eye. Toby felt that there was no mistake about that wink, and it seemed as if it was intended to convey comfort to him in his troubles. He winked back at the monkey in the most emphatic and grave manner possible, and then went on his way, feeling wonderfully comforted. The work inside the tent was far different and much harder than it was outside. He was obliged to carry around among the audience trays of candy, nuts, and lemonade for sale, and he was also expected to cry aloud the description of that which he offered. The partner of Mr. Lord, who had charge of the stand inside the tent, showed himself to be neither better nor worse than Mr. Lord himself. When Toby first presented himself for work he handed him a tray filled with glasses of lemonade, and told him to go among the audience, crying, "Here's your nice cold lemonade, only five cents a glass!" Toby started to do as he was bidden; but when he tried to repeat the words in anything like a loud tone of voice they stuck in his throat, and he found it next to impossible to utter a sound above a whisper. It seemed to him that every one in the audience was looking only at him, and the very sound of his own voice made him afraid. He went entirely around the tent once without making a sale, and when he returned to the stand he was at once convinced that one of his masters was quite as bad as the other. This one--and he knew that his name was Jacobs, for he heard some one call him so--very kindly told him that he would break every bone in his body if he didn't sell something, and Toby confidently believed that he would carry out his threat. It was with a very heavy heart that he started around again in obedience to Mr. Jacobs's angry command; but this time he did manage to cry out, in a very thin and very squeaky voice, the words which he had been told to repeat. This time--perhaps owing to his pitiful and imploring look, certainly not because of the noise he made--he met with very good luck, and sold every glass of the mixture which Messrs. Lord and Jacobs called lemonade, and went back to the stand for more. He certainly thought he had earned a word of praise, and fully expected it as he put the empty glasses and money on the stand in front of Mr. Jacobs. But, instead of the kind words, he was greeted with a volley of curses; and the reason for it was that he had taken in payment for two of the glasses a lead ten-cent piece. Mr. Jacobs, after scolding poor little Toby to his heart's content, vowed that the amount should be kept from his first week's wages, and then handed back the coin, with orders to give it to the first man who gave him money to change, under the penalty of a severe flogging if he failed to do so. Poor Toby tried to explain matters by saying, "You see, I don't know anything about money; I never had more'n a cent at a time, an' you mustn't expect me to get posted all at once." "I'll post you with a stick if you do it again; an' it won't be well for you if you bring that ten-cent piece back here!" Now, Toby was very well aware that to pass the coin, knowing it to be bad, would be a crime, and he resolved to take the consequences of which Mr. Jacobs had intimated, if he could not find the one who had given him the counterfeit, and persuade him to give him good money in its stead. He remembered very plainly where he had sold each glass of lemonade, and he retraced his steps, glancing at each face carefully as he passed. At last he was confident that he saw the man who had gotten him into such trouble, and he climbed up the board seats, saying, as he stood in front of him and held out the coin, "Mister, this money that you gave me is bad. Won't you give me an other one for it?" The man was a rough-looking party who had taken his girl to the circus, and who did not seem at all disposed to pay any heed to Toby's request. Therefore he repeated it, and this time more loudly. "Get out the way!" said the man, angrily. "How can you expect me to see the show if you stand right in front of me?" "You'll like it better," said Toby, earnestly, "if you give me another ten-cent piece." "Get out, an' don't bother me!" was the angry rejoinder; and the little fellow began to think that perhaps he would be obliged to "get out" without getting his money. It was becoming a desperate case, for the man was growing angry very fast, and if Toby did not succeed in getting good money for the bad, he would have to take the consequences of which Mr. Jacobs had spoken. "Please, mister," he said, imploringly--for his heart began to grow very heavy, and he was fearing that he should not succeed--"won't you please give me the money back? You know you gave it to me, an' I'll have to pay it if you don't." The boy's lip was quivering, and those around began to be interested in the affair, while several in the immediate vicinity gave vent to their indignation that a man should try to cheat a boy out of ten cents by giving him counterfeit money. [Illustration: "WON'T YOU PLEASE GIVE ME THE MONEY BACK?"] The man whom Toby was speaking to was about to dismiss him with an angry reply, when he saw that those about him were not only interested in the matter, but were evidently taking sides with the boy against him; and knowing well that he had given the counterfeit money, he took another coin from his pocket, and handing it to Toby, said, "I didn't give you the lead piece; but you're making such a fuss about it that here's ten cents to make you keep quiet." "I'm sure you did give me the money," said Toby, as he took the extended coin, "an' I'm much obliged to you for takin' it back. I didn't want to tell you before, 'cause you'd thought I was beggin'; but if you hadn't given me this, I 'xpect I'd have got an awful whippin', for Mr. Jacobs said he'd fix me if I didn't get the money for it." The man looked sheepish enough as he put the bad money in his pocket, and Toby's innocently told story caused such a feeling in his behalf among those who sat near that he not only disposed of his entire stock then and there, but received from one gentleman twenty-five cents for himself. He was both proud and happy as he returned to Mr. Jacobs with empty glasses, and with the money to refund the amount of loss which would have been caused by the counterfeit. But the worthy partner of Mr. Lord's candy business had no words of encouragement for the boy who was trying so hard to please. "Let that make you keep your eyes open," he growled out, sulkily; "an' if you get caught in that trap again, you won't be let off so easy." Poor little Toby! his heart seemed ready to break; but his few hours' previous experience had taught him that there was but one thing to do, and that was to work just as hard as possible, trusting to some good fortune to enable him to get out of the very disagreeable position in which he had voluntarily placed himself. He took the basket of candy that Mr. Jacobs handed him, and trudged around the circle of seats, selling far more because of the pitifulness of his face than because of the excellence of his goods; and even this worked to his disadvantage. Mr. Jacobs was keen enough to see why his little clerk sold so many goods, and each time that he returned to the stand he said something to him in an angry tone, which had the effect of deepening the shadow on the boy's face and at the same time increasing trade. By the time the performance was over Toby had in his pocket a dollar and twenty-five cents which had been given him for himself by some of the kind-hearted in the audience, and he kept his hand almost constantly upon it, for the money seemed to him like some kind friend who would help him out of his present difficulties. After the audience had dispersed, Mr. Jacobs set Toby at work washing the glasses and clearing up generally, and then, the boy started toward the other portion of the store--that watched over by Mr. Lord. Not a person save the watchmen was in the tent, and as Toby went toward the door he saw his friend the monkey sitting in one corner of the cage, and apparently watching his every movement. It was as if he had suddenly seen one of the boys from home, and Toby, uttering an exclamation of delight, ran up to the cage and put his hand through the wires. The monkey, in the gravest possible manner, took one of the fingers in his paw, and Toby shook hands with him very earnestly, "I was sorry that I couldn't speak to you when I went in this noon," said Toby, as if making an apology; "but, you see, there were so many around here to see you that I couldn't get the chance. Did you see me wink at you?" The monkey made no reply, but he twisted his face into such a funny little grimace that Toby was quite as well satisfied as if he had spoken. "I wonder if you hain't some relation to Steve Stubbs?" Toby continued, earnestly, "for you look just like him, only he don't have quite so many whiskers. What I wanted to say was, that I'm awful sorry I run away. I used to think that Uncle Dan'l was bad enough; but he was just a perfect good Samarathon to what Mr. Lord an' Mr. Jacobs are; an' when Mr. Lord looks at me with that crooked eye of his, I feel it 'way down in my boots. Do you know"--and here Toby put his mouth nearer to the monkey's head and whispered--"I'd run away from this circus if I could get the chance; wouldn't you?" Just at this point, as if in answer to the question, the monkey stood up on his hind-feet, and reached out his paw to the boy, who seemed to think this was his way of being more emphatic in saying "Yes." Toby took the paw in his hand, shook it again earnestly, and said, as he released it, "I was pretty sure you felt just about the same way I did, Mr. Stubbs, when I passed you this noon. Look here"--and Toby took the money from his pocket which had been given him--"I got all that this afternoon, an' I'll try an' stick it out somehow till I get as much as ten dollars, an' then we'll run away some night, an' go 'way off as far as--as--as out West; an' we'll stay there too." The monkey, probably tired with remaining in one position so long, started toward the top of the cage, chattering and screaming, joining the other monkeys, who had gathered in a little group in one of the swings. "Now see here, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, in alarm, "you mustn't go to telling everybody about it, or Mr. Lord will know, an' then we'll be dished, sure." The monkey sat quietly in the swing, as if he felt reproved by what the boy had said; and Toby, considerably relieved by his silence, said, as he started toward the door, "That's right--mum's the word; you keep quiet, an' so will I, an' pretty soon we'll get away from the whole crowd." All the monkeys chattered; and Toby, believing that everything which he had said had been understood by the animals, went out of the door to meet his other taskmaster.	{ "id": "32393" }
6	A TENDER-HEARTED SKELETON.	"Now, then, lazy-bones," was Mr. Lord's warning cry as Toby came out of the tent, "if you've fooled away enough of your time, you can come here an' tend shop for me while I go to supper. You crammed yourself this noon, an' it'll teach you a good lesson to make you go without anything to eat to-night; it'll make you move round more lively in future." Instead of becoming accustomed to such treatment as he was receiving from his employers, Toby's heart grew more tender with each brutal word, and this last punishment--that of losing his supper--caused the poor boy more sorrow than blows would. Mr. Lord started for the hotel as he concluded his cruel speech; and poor little Toby, going behind the counter, leaned his head upon the rough boards and cried as if his heart would break. All the fancied brightness and pleasure of a circus life had vanished, and in its place was the bitterness of remorse that he had repaid Uncle Daniel's kindness by the ingratitude of running away. Toby thought that if he could only nestle his little red head on the pillows of his little bed in that rough room at Uncle Daniel's, he would be the happiest and best boy, in the future, in all the great wide world. While he was still sobbing away at a most furious rate he heard a voice close at his elbow, and, looking up, saw the thinnest man he had ever seen in all his life. The man had flesh-colored tights on, and a spangled red velvet garment--that was neither pants, because there were no legs to it, nor a coat, because it did not come above his waist--made up the remainder of his costume. Because he was so wonderfully thin, because of the costume which he wore, and because of a highly colored painting which was hanging in front of one of the small tents, Toby knew that the Living Skeleton was before him, and his big brown eyes opened all the wider as he gazed at him. "What is the matter, little fellow?" asked the man, in a kindly tone. "What makes you cry so? Has Job been up to his old tricks again?" "I don't know what his old tricks are"--and Toby sobbed, the tears coming again because of the sympathy which this man's voice expressed for him--"but I know that he's a mean, ugly thing--that's what I know; an' if I could only get back to Uncle Dan'l, there hain't elephants enough in all the circuses in the world to pull me away again." "Oh, you run away from home, did you?" "Yes, I did," sobbed Toby, "an' there hain't any boy in any Sunday-school book that ever I read that was half so sorry he'd been bad as I am. It's awful; an' now I can't have any supper, 'cause I stopped to talk with Mr. Stubbs." "Is Mr. Stubbs one of your friends?" asked the skeleton as he seated himself in Mr. Lord's own private chair. "Yes, he is, an' he's the only one in this whole circus who 'pears to be sorry for me. You'd better not let Mr. Lord see you sittin' in that chair, or he'll raise a row." "Job won't raise any row with me," said the skeleton. "But who is this Mr. Stubbs? I don't seem to know anybody by that name." "I don't think that is his name. I only call him so, 'cause he looks so much like a feller I know who is named Stubbs." This satisfied the skeleton that this Mr. Stubbs must be some one attached to the show, and he asked, "Has Job been whipping you?" "No; Ben, the driver on the wagon where I ride, told him not to do that again; but he hain't going to let me have any supper, 'cause I was so slow about my work--though I wasn't slow; I only talked to Mr. Stubbs when there wasn't anybody round his cage." "Sam! Sam! Sam-u-el!" This name, which was shouted twice in a quick, loud voice, and the third time in a slow manner, ending almost in a screech, did not come from either Toby or the skeleton, but from an enormously large woman, dressed in a gaudy red-and-black dress, cut very short, and with low neck and an apology for sleeves, who had just come out from the tent whereon the picture of the Living Skeleton hung. "Samuel," she screamed again, "come inside this minute, or you'll catch your death o' cold, an' I shall have you wheezin' around with the phthisic all night. Come in, Sam-u-el." "That's her," said the skeleton to Toby, as he pointed his thumb in the direction of the fat woman, but paying no attention to the outcry she was making--"that's my wife Lilly, an' she's the Fat Woman of the show. She's always yellin' after me that way the minute I get out for a little fresh air, an' she's always sayin' just the same thing. Bless you, I never have the phthisic, but she does awful; an' I s'pose 'cause she's so large she can't feel all over her, an' thinks it's me that has it." "Is--is all that--is that your wife?" stammered Toby, in astonishment, as he looked at the enormously fat woman who stood in the tent door, and then at the wonderfully thin man who sat beside him. "Yes, that's her," said the skeleton. "She weighs pretty nigh four hundred, though of course the show cards says it's over six hundred, an' she earns almost as much money as I do. Of course she can't get so much, for skeletons is much scarcer than fat folks; but we make a pretty good thing travellin' together." "Sam-u-el!" again came the cry from the fat woman, "are you never coming in?" "Not yet, my angel," said the skeleton, placidly, as he crossed one thin leg over the other and looked calmly at her. "Come here an' see Job's new boy." "Your imprudence is wearin' me away so that I sha'n't be worth five dollars a week to any circus," she said, impatiently, at the same time coming toward the candy stand quite as rapidly as her very great size would admit. "This is my wife Lilly--Mrs. Treat," said the skeleton, with a proud wave of his hand, as he rose from his seat and gazed admiringly at her. "This is my flower--my queen, Mr.--Mr.--" "Tyler," said Toby, supplying the name which the skeleton--or Mr. Treat, as Toby now learned his name was--did not know; "Tyler is my name--Toby Tyler." "Why, what a little chap you are!" said Mrs. Treat, paying no attention to the awkward little bend of the head which Toby intended for a bow. "How small he is, Samuel!" "Yes," said the skeleton, reflectively, as he looked Toby over from head to foot, as if he were mentally trying to calculate exactly how many inches high he was, "he is small; but he's got all the world before him to grow in, an' if he only eats enough--There, that reminds me. Job isn't going to give him any supper, because he didn't work hard enough." "He won't, won't he?" exclaimed the large lady, savagely. "Oh, he's a precious one, he is; an' some day I shall just give him a good shakin'-up, that's what I'll do. I get all out of patience with that man's ugliness." "An' she'll do just what she says," said the skeleton to Toby, with an admiring shake of the head. "That woman hain't afraid of anybody, an' I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she did give Job a pretty rough time." Toby thought, as he looked at her, that she was large enough to give 'most any one a pretty rough time, but he did not venture to say so. While he was looking first at her, and then at her very thin husband, the skeleton told his wife the little that he had learned regarding the boy's history; and when he had concluded she waddled away toward her tent. "Great woman that," said the skeleton, as he saw her disappear within the tent. "Yes," said Toby, "she's the greatest I ever saw." "I mean that she's got a great head. Now you'll see about how much she cares for what Job says." "If I was as big as her," said Toby, with just a shade of envy in his voice, "I wouldn't be afraid of anybody." "It hain't so much the size," said the skeleton, sagely--"it hain't so much the size, my boy; for I can scare that woman almost to death when I feel like it." Toby looked for a moment at Mr. Treat's thin legs and arms, and then he said, warningly, "I wouldn't feel like it very often if I was you, Mr. Treat, 'cause she might break some of your bones if you didn't happen to scare her enough." "Don't fear for me, my boy--don't fear for me; you'll see how I manage her if you stay with the circus long enough. Now, I often--" If Mr. Treat was about to confide a family secret to Toby, it was fated that he should not hear it then, for Mrs. Treat had just come out of her tent, carrying in her hands a large tin plate piled high with a miscellaneous assortment of pie, cake, bread, and meat. She placed this in front of Toby, and as she did so she handed him two pictures. [Illustration: TOBY GETS HIS SUPPER.] "There, little Toby Tyler," she said--"there's something for you to eat, if Mr. Job Lord and his precious partner Jacobs did say you shouldn't have any supper: an' I've brought you a picture of Samuel an' me. We sell 'em for ten cents apiece, but I'm going to give them to you, because I like the looks of you." Toby was quite overcome with the presents, and seemed at a loss how to thank her for them. He attempted to speak, but could not get the words out at first; and then he said, as he put the two photographs in the same pocket with his money, "You're awful good to me, an' when I get to be a man I'll give you lots of things. I wasn't so very hungry, if I am such a big eater, but I did want something." "Bless your dear little heart, and you _shall_ have something to eat," said the Fat Woman, as she seized Toby, squeezed him close up to her, and kissed his freckled face as kindly as if it had been as fair and white as possible. "You shall eat all you want to; an' if you get the stomach-ache, as Samuel does sometimes when he's been eatin' too much, I'll give you some catnip-tea out of the same dipper that I give him his. He's a great eater, Samuel is," she added, in a burst of confidence, "an' it's a wonder to me what he does with it all sometimes." "Is he?" exclaimed Toby, quickly. "How funny that is! for I'm an awful eater. Why, Uncle Dan'l used to say that I ate twice as much as I ought to, an' it never made me any bigger. I wonder what's the reason?" "I declare I don't know," said the Fat Woman, thoughtfully, "an' I've wondered at it time an' time again. Some folks is made that way, an' some folks is made different. Now, I don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive, an' yet I grow fatter an' fatter every day--don't I, Samuel?" "Indeed you do, my love," said the skeleton, with a world of pride in his voice; "but you mustn't feel bad about it, for every pound you gain makes you worth just so much more to the show." "Oh, I wasn't worryin', I was only wonderin'. But we must go, Samuel, for the poor child won't eat a bit while we are here. After you've eaten what there is there, bring the plate in to me," she said to Toby, as she took her lean husband by the arm and walked him off toward their own tent. Toby gazed after them a moment, and then he commenced a vigorous attack upon the eatables which had been so kindly given him. Of the food which he had taken from the dinner-table he had eaten some while he was in the tent, and after that he had entirely forgotten that he had any in his pocket; therefore, at the time that Mrs. Treat had brought him such a liberal supply he was really very hungry. He succeeded in eating nearly all the food which had been brought to him, and the very small quantity which remained he readily found room for in his pockets. Then he washed the plate nicely; and seeing no one in sight, he thought he could leave the booth long enough to return the plate. He ran with it quickly into the tent occupied by the thin man and fat woman, and handed it to her, with a profusion of thanks for her kindness. "Did you eat it all?" she asked. "Well," hesitated Toby, "there was two doughnuts an' a piece of pie left over, an' I put them in my pocket. If you don't care, I'll eat them some time to-night." "You shall eat it whenever you want to; an' any time that you get hungry again, you come right to me." "Thank you, marm. I must go now, for I left the store all alone." "Run, then; an' if Job Lord abuses you, just let me know it, an' I'll keep him from cuttin' up any monkey shines." Toby hardly heard the end of her sentence, so great was his haste to get back to the booth; and just as he emerged from the tent, on a quick run, he received a blow on the ear which sent him sprawling in the dust, and he heard Mr. Job Lord's angry voice as it said, "So, just the moment my back is turned, you leave the stand to take care of itself, do you, an' run around tryin' to plot some mischief against me, eh?" And the brute kicked the prostrate boy twice with his heavy boot. "Please don't kick me again!" pleaded Toby. "I wasn't gone but a minute, an' I wasn't doing anything bad." "You're lying now, an' you know it, you young cub!" exclaimed the angry man as he advanced to kick the boy again. "I'll let you know who you've got to deal with when you get hold of me!" "And I'll let you know who you've got to deal with when you get hold of me!" said a woman's voice; and, just as Mr. Lord raised his foot to kick the boy again, the Fat Woman seized him by the collar, jerked him back over one of the tent ropes, and left him quite as prostrate as he had left Toby. "Now, Job Lord," said the angry woman, as she towered above the thoroughly enraged but thoroughly frightened man, "I want you to understand that you can't knock and beat this boy while I'm around. I've seen enough of your capers, an' I'm going to put a stop to them. That boy wasn't in this tent more than two minutes, an' he attends to his work better than any one you have ever had; so see that you treat him decent. Get up," she said to Toby, who had not dared to rise from the ground; "and if he offers to strike you again, come to me." Toby scrambled to his feet, and ran to the booth in time to attend to one or two customers who had just come up. He could see from out the corner of his eye that Mr. Lord had arisen to his feet also, and was engaged in an angry conversation with Mrs. Treat, the result of which he very much feared would be another and a worse whipping for him. [Illustration: JOB LORD LEARNS A LESSON.] But in this he was mistaken, for Mr. Lord, after the conversation was ended, came toward the booth, and began to attend to his business without speaking one word to Toby. When Mr. Jacobs returned from his supper Mr. Lord took him by the arm and walked him out toward the rear of the tents; and Toby was very positive that he was to be the subject of their conversation, which made him not a little uneasy. It was not until nearly time for the performance to begin that Mr. Lord returned, and he had nothing to say to Toby save to tell him to go into the tent and begin his work there. The boy was only too glad to escape so easily, and he went to his work with as much alacrity as if he were about entering upon some pleasure. When he met Mr. Jacobs that gentleman spoke to him very sharply about being late, and seemed to think it no excuse at all that he had just been relieved from the outside work by Mr. Lord.	{ "id": "32393" }
7	AN ACCIDENT AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.	Toby's experience in the evening was very similar to that of the afternoon, save that he was so fortunate as not to take any more bad money in payment for his goods. Mr. Jacobs scolded and swore alternately, and the boy really surprised him by his way of selling goods, though he was very careful not to say anything about it, but made Toby believe that he was doing only about half as much work as he ought to do. Toby's private hoard of money was increased that evening, by presents, ninety cents, and he began to look upon himself as almost a rich man. When the performance was nearly over Mr. Jacobs called to him to help in packing up; and by the time the last spectator had left the tent the worldly possessions of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs were ready for removal, and Toby allowed to do as he had a mind to, so long as he was careful to be on hand when Old Ben was ready to start. Toby thought that he would have time to pay a visit to his friends the skeleton and the Fat Woman, and to that end started toward the place where their tent had been standing; but to his sorrow he found that it was already being taken down, and he had only time to thank Mrs. Treat and to press the fleshless hand of her shadowy husband as they entered their wagon to drive away. He was disappointed, for he had hoped to be able to speak with his new-made friends a few moments before the weary night's ride commenced; but, failing in that, he went hastily back to the monkeys' cage. Old Ben was there, getting things ready for a start; but the wooden sides of the cage had not been put up, and Toby had no difficulty in calling the aged monkey up to the bars. He held one of the Fat Woman's doughnuts in his hand, and said, as he passed it through to the animal, "I thought perhaps you might be hungry, Mr. Stubbs, and this is some of what the skeleton's wife give me. I hain't got very much time to talk with you now; but the first chance I can get away to-morrow, an' when there hain't anybody 'round, I want to tell you something." The monkey had taken the doughnut in his hand-like paws, and was tearing it to pieces, eating small portions of it very rapidly. "Don't hurry yourself," said Toby, warningly, "for Uncle Dan'l always told me the worst thing a feller could do was to eat fast. If you want any more, after we start, just put your hand through the little hole up there near the seat, an' I'll give you all you want." From the look on his face Toby confidently believed the monkey was about to make some reply; but just then Ben shut up the sides, separating Toby and Mr. Stubbs, and the order was given to start. Toby clambered up on to the high seat, Ben followed him, and in another instant the team was moving along slowly down the dusty road, preceded and followed by the many wagons, with their tiny swinging lights. "Well," said Ben, when he had got his team well under way, and felt that he could indulge in a little conversation, "how did you get along to-day?" Toby related all of his movements, and gave the driver a faithful account of all that had happened to him, concluding his story by saying, "That was one of Mrs. Treat's doughnuts that I just gave to Mr. Stubbs." "To whom?" asked Ben, in surprise. "To Mr. Stubbs--the old fellow here in the cart, you know, that's been so good to me." Toby heard a sort of gurgling sound, saw the driver's body sway back and forth in a trembling way, and was just becoming thoroughly alarmed, when he thought of the previous night, and understood that Ben was only laughing in his own peculiar way. "How did you know his name was Stubbs?" asked Ben, after he had recovered his breath. "Oh, I don't know that that is his real name," was the quick reply; "I only call him that because he looks so much like a feller with that name that I knew at home. He don't seem to mind because I call him Stubbs." Ben looked at Toby earnestly for a moment, acting all the time as if he wanted to laugh again, but didn't dare to, for fear he might burst a blood-vessel; and then he said, as he patted him on the shoulder, "Well, you are the queerest little fish that I ever saw in all my travels. You seem to think that that monkey knows all you say to him." "I'm sure he does," said Toby, positively. "He don't say anything right out to me, but he knows everything I tell him. Do you suppose he could talk if he tried to?" "Look here, Mr. Toby Tyler"--and Ben turned half around in his seat and looked Toby full in the face, so as to give more emphasis to his words--"are you heathen enough to think that that monkey could talk if he wanted to?" "I know I hain't a heathen," said Toby, thoughtfully, "for if I had been some of the missionaries would have found me out a good while ago; but I never saw anybody like this old Mr. Stubbs before, an' I thought he could talk if he wanted to, just as the Living Skeleton does, or his wife. Anyhow, Mr. Stubbs winks at me; an' how could he do that if he didn't know what I've been sayin' to him?" "Look here, my son," said Ben, in a most fatherly fashion, "monkeys hain't anything but beasts, an' they don't know how to talk any more than they know what you say to 'em." "Didn't you ever hear any of them speak a word?" "Never. I've been in a circus, man an' boy, nigh on to forty years, an' I never seen nothin' in a monkey more'n any other beast, except their awful mischiefness." "Well," said Toby, still unconvinced, "I believe Mr. Stubbs knows what I say to him, anyway." "Now don't be foolish, Toby," pleaded Ben. "You can't show me one thing that a monkey ever did because you told him to." Just at that moment Toby felt some one pulling at the back of his coat, and looking round he saw it was a little brown hand, reaching through the bars of the air-hole of the cage, that was tugging away at his coat. "There!" he said, triumphantly, to Ben. "Look there! I told Mr. Stubbs if he wanted anything more to eat, to tell me, an' I would give it to him. Now you can see for yourself that he's come for it." And Toby took a doughnut from his pocket and put it into the tiny hand, which was immediately withdrawn. "Now what do you think of Mr. Stubbs knowing what I say to him?" "They often stick their paws up through there," said Ben, in a matter-of-fact tone. "I've had 'em pull my coat in the night till they made me as nervous as ever any old woman was. You see, Toby, my boy, monkeys is monkeys; an' you mustn't go to gettin' the idea that they're anything else, for it's a mistake. You think this old monkey in here knows what you say? Why, that's just the cuteness of the old fellow: he watches you to see if he can't do just as you do, an' that's all there is about it." Toby was more than half convinced that Ben was putting the matter in its proper light, and he would have believed all that had been said if, just at that moment, he had not seen that brown hand reaching through the hole to clutch him again by the coat. The action seemed so natural, so like a hungry boy who gropes in the dark pantry for something to eat, that it would have taken more arguments than Ben had at his disposal to persuade Toby that his Mr. Stubbs could not understand all that was said to him. Toby put another doughnut in the outstretched hand, and then sat silently, as if in a brown-study over some difficult problem. For some time the ride was continued in silence. Ben was going through all the motions of whistling without uttering a sound--a favorite amusement of his--and Toby's thoughts were far away in the humble home he had scorned, with Uncle Daniel, whose virtues had increased in his esteem with every mile of distance which had been put between them, and whose faults had decreased in a corresponding ratio. Toby's thoughtfulness had made him sleepy, and his eyes were almost closed in slumber, when he was startled by a crashing sound, was conscious of a feeling of being hurled from his seat by some great force, and then he lay senseless by the side of the road, while the wagon became a perfect wreck, from out of which a small army of monkeys was escaping. Ben's experienced ear had told him at the first crash that his wagon was breaking down, and, without having time to warn Toby of his peril, he had leaped clear of the wreck, keeping his horses under perfect control, and thus averting more trouble. It was the breaking of one of the axles which Toby had heard just before he was thrown from his seat, and when the body of the wagon came down upon the hard road. [Illustration: THE BREAK-DOWN, AND ESCAPE OF THE MONKEYS.] The monkeys, thus suddenly released from confinement, had scampered off in every direction, and by a singular chance Toby's aged friend started for the woods in such a direction as to bring him directly before the boy's insensible form. The monkey, on coming up to Toby, stopped, urged by the well-known curiosity of its race, and began to examine the boy's person carefully, prying into pockets and trying to open the boy's half-closed eyelids. Fortunately for Toby, he had fallen upon a mud-bank, and was only stunned for the moment, having received no serious bruises. The attentions bestowed upon him by the monkey served the purpose of bringing him to his senses; and, after he had looked around him in the gray light of the coming morning, it would have taken far more of a philosopher than Old Ben was to persuade the boy that monkeys did not possess reasoning faculties. The monkey was busy at Toby's ears, nose, and mouth, as monkeys will do when they get an opportunity, and the expression of its face was as grave as possible. Toby firmly believed that the monkey's face showed sorrow at his fall, and he imagined that the attentions which were bestowed upon him were for the purpose of learning whether he had been injured or not. "Don't worry, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, anxious to reassure his friend, as he sat upright and looked about him. "I didn't get hurt any; but I would like to know how I got 'way over here." It really seemed as if the monkey was pleased to know that his little friend was not hurt, for he seated himself on his haunches, and his face expressed the liveliest pleasure that Toby was well again--or at least that was how the boy interpreted the look. By this time the news of the accident had been shouted ahead from one team to the other, and all hands were hurrying to the scene for the purpose of rendering aid. As Toby saw them coming he also saw a number of small forms, looking something like diminutive men, hurrying past him, and for the first time he understood how it was that the aged monkey was at liberty, and knew that those little dusky forms were the other occupants of the cage escaping to the woods. "See there, Mr. Stubbs! see there!" he exclaimed, pointing toward the fugitives; "they're all going off into the woods! What shall we do?" The sight of the runaways seemed to excite the old monkey quite as much as it did the boy. He sprung to his feet, chattering in the most excited way, screamed two or three times, as if he were calling them back, and then started off in vigorous pursuit. "Now he's gone too!" said Toby, disconsolately, believing the old fellow had run away from him. "I didn't think Mr. Stubbs would treat me this way!"	{ "id": "32393" }
8	CAPTURE OF THE MONKEYS.	The boy tried to rise to his feet, but his head whirled so, and he felt so dizzy and sick from the effects of his fall, that he was obliged to sit down again until he should feel able to stand. Meanwhile the crowd around the wagon paid no attention to him, and he lay there quietly enough, until he heard the hateful voice of Mr. Lord, asking if his boy were hurt. The sound of his voice affected Toby very much as the chills-and-fever affect a sufferer, and he shook so with fear, and his heart beat so loudly, that he thought Mr. Lord must know where he was by the sound. Seeing, however, that his employer did not come directly toward him, the thought flashed upon his mind that now would be a good chance to run away, and he acted upon it at once. He rolled himself over in the mud until he reached a low growth of fir-trees that skirted the road, and when beneath their friendly shade he arose to his feet and walked swiftly toward the woods, following the direction the monkeys had taken. He no longer felt dizzy and sick: the fear of Mr. Lord had dispelled all that, and he felt strong and active again. He had walked rapidly for some distance, and was nearly beyond the sound of the voices in the road, when he was startled by seeing quite a procession of figures emerge from the trees and come directly toward him. He could not understand the meaning of this strange company, and it so frightened him that he attempted to hide behind a tree, in the hope that they might pass without seeing him. But no sooner had he secreted himself than a strange, shrill chattering came from the foremost of the group, and in an instant Toby emerged from his place of concealment. He had recognized the peculiar sound as that of the old monkey who had left him a few moments before, and he knew now what he did not know then, owing to the darkness. The new-comers were the monkeys that had escaped from the cage, and had been overtaken and compelled to come back by the old monkey, who seemed to have the most perfect control over them. The old fellow was leading the band, and all were linked "hand-in-hand" with each other, which gave the whole crowd a most comical appearance as they came up to Toby, half hopping, half walking upright, and all chattering and screaming, like a crowd of children out for a holiday. Toby stepped toward the noisy crowd, held out his hand gravely to the old monkey, and said, in tones of heart-felt sorrow, "I felt awful bad because I thought you had gone off an' left me, when you only went off to find the other fellows. You're awful good, Mr. Stubbs; an' now, instead of runnin' away, as I was goin' to do, we'll all go back together." The old monkey grasped Toby's extended hand with his disengaged paw, and, clinging firmly to it, the whole crowd followed in unbroken line, chattering and scolding at the most furious rate, while every now and then Mr. Stubbs would look back and scream out something, which would cause the confusion to cease for an instant. It was really a comical sight, but Toby seemed to think it the most natural thing in the world that they should follow him in this manner, and he chattered to the old monkey quite as fast as any of the others were doing. He told him very gravely all that he knew about the accident, explained why it was that he conceived the idea of running away, and really believed that Mr. Stubbs understood every word he was saying. Very shortly after Toby had started to run away the proprietor of the circus drove up to the scene of disaster; and, after seeing that the wagon was being rapidly fixed up so that it could be hauled to the next town, he ordered that search should be made for the monkeys. It was very important that they should be captured at once, and he appeared to think more of the loss of the animals than of the damage done to the wagon. While the men were forming a plan for a search for the truants, so that in case of a capture they could let each other know, the noise made by Toby and his party was heard, and the men stood still to learn what it meant. The entire party burst into shouts of laughter as Toby and his companions walked into the circle of light formed by the glare of the lanterns, and the merriment was by no means abated at Toby's serious demeanor. The wagon was now standing upright, with the door open, and Toby therefore led his companions directly to it, gravely motioning them to enter. The old monkey, instead of obeying, stepped back to Toby's side, and screamed to the others in such a manner that they all entered the cage, leaving him on the outside with the boy. Toby motioned him to get in too, but he clung to his hand, and scolded so furiously, that it was apparent he had no idea of leaving his boy companion. One of the men stepped up, and was about to force him into the wagon, when the proprietor ordered him to stop. "What boy is that?" he asked. [Illustration: BRINGING BACK THE RUNAWAYS.] "Job Lord's new boy," said some one in the crowd. The man asked Toby how it was that he had succeeded in capturing all the runaways; and he answered, gravely, "Mr. Stubbs an' I are good friends, an' when he saw the others runnin' away he just stopped 'em, an' brought 'em back to me. I wish you'd let Mr. Stubbs ride with me; we like each other a good deal." "You can do just what you please with Mr. Stubbs, as you call him. I expected to lose half the monkeys in that cage, and you have brought back every one. That monkey shall be yours, and you may put him in the cage whenever you want to, or take him with you, just as you choose, for he belongs entirely to you." Toby's joy knew no bounds; he put his arm around the monkey's neck, and the monkey clung firmly to him, until even Job Lord was touched at the evidence of affection between the two. While the wagon was being repaired Toby and the monkey stood hand-in-hand watching the work go on, while those in the cage scolded and raved because they had been induced to return to captivity. After a while the old monkey seated himself on Toby's arm and cuddled close up to him, uttering now and then a contented sort of a little squeak as the boy talked to him. That night Mr. Stubbs slept in Toby's arms, in the band wagon, and both boy and monkey appeared very well contented with their lot, which a short time previous had seemed so hard. When Toby awakened to his second day's work with the circus his monkey friend was seated by his side, gravely exploring his pockets, and all the boy's treasures were being spread out on the floor of the wagon by his side. Toby remonstrated with him on this breach of confidence, but Mr. Stubbs was more in the mood for sport than for grave conversation, and the more Toby talked the more mischievous did he become, until at length the boy gathered up his little store of treasures, took the monkey by the paw, and walked him toward the cage from which he had escaped on the previous night. "Now, Mr. Stubbs," said Toby, speaking in an injured tone, "you must go in here and stay till I have got more time to fool with you." He opened the door of the cage, but the monkey struggled as well as he was able, and Toby was obliged to exert all his strength to put him in. When once the door was fastened upon him Toby tried to impress upon his monkey friend's mind the importance of being more sedate, and he was convinced that the words had sunk deep into Mr. Stubbs's heart, for, by the time he had concluded, the old monkey was seated in the corner of the cage, looking up from under his shaggy eyebrows in the most reproachful manner possible. Toby felt sorry that he had spoken so harshly, and was about to make amends for his severity, when Mr. Lord's gruff voice recalled him to the fact that his time was not his own, and he therefore commenced his day's work, but with a lighter heart than he had had since he stole away from Uncle Daniel and Guilford. This day was not very much different from the preceding one so far as the manner of Mr. Lord and his partner toward the boy was concerned; they seemed to have an idea that he was doing only about half as much work as he ought to, and both united in swearing at and abusing him as much as possible. So far as his relations with other members of the company were concerned, Toby now stood in a much better position than before. Those who had witnessed the scene told the others how Toby had led in the monkeys on the night previous, and nearly every member of the company had a kind word for the little fellow whose head could hardly be seen above the counter of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs's booth.	{ "id": "32393" }
9	THE DINNER-PARTY.	At noon Toby was thoroughly tired out, for whenever any one spoke kindly to him Mr. Lord seemed to take a malicious pleasure in giving him extra tasks to do, until Toby began to hope that no one else would pay any attention to him. On this day he was permitted to go to dinner first, and after he returned he was left in charge of the booth. Trade being dull--as it usually was during the dinner hour--he had very little work to do after he had cleaned the glasses and set things to rights generally. When, therefore, he saw the gaunt form of the skeleton emerge from his tent and come toward him he was particularly pleased, for he had begun to think very kindly of the thin man and his fleshy wife. "Well, Toby," said the skeleton, as he came up to the booth, carefully dusted Mr. Lord's private chair, and sat down very cautiously in it, as if he expected that it would break down under his weight, "I hear you've been making quite a hero of yourself by capturing the monkeys last night." Toby's freckled face reddened with pleasure as he heard these words, and he stammered out, with considerable difficulty, "I didn't do anything; it was Mr. Stubbs that brought 'em back." "Mr. Stubbs!" And the skeleton laughed so heartily that Toby was afraid he would dislocate some of his thinly-covered joints. "When you was tellin' about Mr. Stubbs yesterday I thought you meant some one belonging to the company. You ought to have seen my wife Lilly shake with laughing when I told her who Mr. Stubbs was!" "Yes," said Toby, at a loss to know just what to say, "I should think she _would_ shake when she laughs." "She does," replied the skeleton. "If you could see her when something funny strikes her you'd think she was one of those big plates of jelly that they have in the bake-shop windows." And Mr. Treat looked proudly at the gaudy picture which represented his wife in all her monstrosity of flesh. "She's a great woman, Toby, an' she's got a great head." Toby nodded his head in assent. He would have liked to have said something nice regarding Mrs. Treat, but he really did not know what to say, so he simply contented himself and the fond husband by nodding. "She thinks a good deal of you, Toby," continued the skeleton, as he moved his chair to a position more favorable for him to elevate his feet on the edge of the counter, and placed his handkerchief under him as a cushion; "she's talking of you all the time, and if you wasn't such a little fellow I should begin to be jealous of you--I should, upon my word." "You're--both--very--good," stammered Toby, so weighted down by a sense of the honor heaped upon him as to be at a loss for words. "An' she wants to see more of you. She made me come out here now, when she knew Mr. Lord would be away, to tell you that we're goin' to have a little kind of a friendly dinner in our tent to-morrow--she's cooked it all herself, or she's going to--and we want you to come in an' have some with us." Toby's eyes glistened at the thought of the unexpected pleasure, and then his face grew sad as he replied, "I'd like to come first-rate, Mr. Treat, but I don't s'pose Mr. Lord would let me stay away from the shop long enough." "Why, you won't have any work to do to-morrow, Toby--it's Sunday." "So it is!" said the boy, with a pleased smile, as he thought of the day of rest which was so near. And then he added, quickly, "An' this is Saturday afternoon. What fun the boys at home are havin'! You see there hain't any school Saturday afternoon, an' all the fellers go out in the woods." "And you wish you were there to go with them, don't you?" asked the skeleton, sympathetically. "Indeed I do!" exclaimed Toby, quickly. "It's twice as good as any circus that ever was." "But you didn't think so before you came with us, did you?" "I didn't know so much about circuses then as I do now," replied the boy, sadly. Mr. Treat saw that he was touching on a sore subject, and one which was arousing sad thoughts in his little companion's mind, and he hastened to change it at once. "Then I can tell Lilly that you'll come, can I?" "Oh yes, I'll be sure to be there; an' I want you to know just how good I think you both are to me." "That's all right, Toby," said Mr. Treat, with a pleased expression on his face; "an' you may bring Mr. Stubbs with you, if you want to." "Thank you," said Toby; "I'm sure Mr. Stubbs will be just as glad to come as I shall. But where will we be to-morrow?" "Right here. We always stay over Sunday at the place where we show Saturday. But I must be going, or Lilly will worry her life out of her for fear I'm somewhere getting cold. She's awful careful of me, that woman is. You'll be on hand to-morrow at one o'clock, won't you?" "Indeed I will," said Toby, emphatically, "an' I'll bring Mr. Stubbs with me too." With a friendly nod of the head, the skeleton hurried away to reassure his wife that he was safe and well; and before he had hardly disappeared within the tent Toby had another caller, who was none other than his friend Old Ben, the driver. "Well, my boy," shouted Ben, in his cheery, hearty tones, "I haven't seen you since you left the wagon so sudden last night. Did you get shook up much?" "Oh no," replied Toby: "you see I hain't very big; an' then I struck in the mud; so I got off pretty easy." "That's a fact; an' you can thank your lucky stars for it, too, for I've seen grown-up men get pitched off a wagon in that way an' break their necks doin' it. But has Job told you where you was going to sleep to-night? You know we stay over here till to-morrow." "I didn't think anything about that; but I s'pose I'll sleep in the wagon, won't I?" "You can sleep at the hotel, if you want to; but the beds will likely be dirty; an' if you take my advice you'll crawl into some of the wagons in the tent." Ben then explained to him that, after his work was done that night, he would not be expected to report for duty until the time for starting on Sunday night, and concluded his remarks by saying, "Now you know what your rights are, an' don't you let Job impose on you in any way. I'll be round here after you get through work, an' we'll bunk in somewhere together." The arrival of Messrs. Lord and Jacobs put a stop to the conversation, and was the signal for Toby's time of trial. It seemed to him, and with good reason, that the chief delight these men had in life was to torment him, for neither ever spoke a pleasant word to him; and when one was not giving him some difficult work to do, or finding fault in some way, the other would be sure to do so; and Toby had very little comfort from the time he began work in the morning until he stopped at night. It was not until after the evening performance was over that Toby had a chance to speak with Mr. Stubbs, and then he was so tired that he simply took the old monkey from the cage, nestled him under his jacket, and lay down with him to sleep in the place which Old Ben had selected. When the morning came Mr. Stubbs aroused his young master at a much earlier hour than he would have awakened had he been left to himself, and the two went out for a short walk before breakfast. They went instinctively toward the woods; and when the shade of the trees was once reached, how the two revelled in their freedom! Mr. Stubbs climbed into the trees, swung himself from one to the other by means of his tail, gathered half-ripe nuts, which he threw at his master, tried to catch the birds, and had a good time generally. Toby, stretched at full length on the mossy bank, watched the antics of his pet, laughing boisterously at times as Mr. Stubbs would do some one thing more comical than usual, and forgot there was in this world such a thing as a circus, or such a man as Job Lord. It was to Toby a morning without a flaw, and he took no heed of the time, until the sound of the church bells warned him of the lateness of the hour, reminding him at the same time of where he should be--where he would be, if he were at home with Uncle Daniel. In the mean time the old monkey had been trying to attract his young master's attention, and, failing in his efforts, he came down from the tree, crept softly up to Toby, and nestled his head under the boy's arm. This little act of devotion seemed to cause Toby's grief to burst forth afresh, and clasping the monkey around the neck, hugging him close to his bosom, he sobbed, "Oh, Mr. Stubbs, Mr. Stubbs, how lonesome we are! If we was only at Uncle Dan'l's we'd be the two happiest people in all this world. We could play on the hay, or go up to the pasture, or go down to the village; an' I'd work my fingers off if I could only be there just once more. It was wicked for me to run away, an' now I'm gettin' paid for it." He hugged the monkey closely, swaying his body to and fro, and presenting a perfect picture of grief. The monkey, not knowing what to make of this changed mood, cowered whimperingly in his arms, looking up into his face, and licking the boy's hands whenever he had the opportunity. It was some time before Toby's grief exhausted itself; and then, still clasping the monkey, he hurried out of the woods toward the town and the now thoroughly hated circus tents. The clocks were just striking one as Toby entered the enclosure used by the show as a place of performance, and, remembering his engagement with the skeleton and his wife, he went directly to their tent. From the odors which assailed him as he entered, it was very evident that a feast of no mean proportions was in course of preparation, and Toby's keen appetite returned in full vigor. Even the monkey seemed affected by the odor, for he danced about on his master's shoulder, and chattered so that Toby was obliged to choke him a little in order to make him present a respectable appearance. When Toby reached the interior of the tent he was astonished at the extent of the preparations that were being made, and gazed around him in surprise. The platform on which the lean man and fat woman were in the habit of exhibiting themselves now bore a long table, loaded with eatables; and, from the fact that eight or ten chairs were ranged around it, Toby understood that he was not the only guest invited to the feast. Some little attempt had also been made at decoration by festooning that end of the tent where the platform was placed with two or three flags and some streamers, and the tent-poles also were fringed with tissue-paper of the brightest colors. Toby had only time enough to notice this when the skeleton advanced toward him, and, with the liveliest appearance of pleasure, said, as he took him by the hands with a grip that made him wince, "It gives me great joy, Mr. Tyler, to welcome you at one of our little home reunions, if one can call a tent, that is moved every day in the week, home." Toby hardly knew whom Mr. Treat referred to when he said "Mr. Tyler;" but by the time his hands were released from the bony grasp he understood that it was himself who was spoken to. [Illustration: TOBY IS INTRODUCED TO THE ALBINOS.] The skeleton then formally introduced him to the other guests present, who were sitting at one end of the tent, and evidently anxiously awaiting the coming feast. "These," said Mr. Treat, as he waved his hand toward two white-haired, pink-eyed young ladies, who sat with their arms twined around each other's waist, and had been eying the monkey with some appearance of fear, "are the Miss Cushings, known to the world as the Albino Children; they command a large salary, and form a very attractive feature of our exhibition." The young ladies arose at the same time, as if they had been the Siamese Twins and could not act independently of each other, and bowed. Toby made the best bow he was capable of; and the monkey made frantic efforts to escape, as if he would enjoy twisting his paws in their perpendicular hair. "And this," continued Mr. Treat, pointing to a sickly, sour-looking individual, who was sitting apart from the others, with his arms folded, and looking as if he was counting the very seconds before the dinner should begin, "is the wonderful Signor Castro, whose sword-swallowing feats you have doubtless heard of." Toby stepped back just one step, as if overwhelmed by awe at beholding the signor in the guise of a humble individual; and the gentleman who gained his livelihood by swallowing swords unbent his dignity so far as to unfold his arms and present a very dirty-looking hand for Toby to shake. The boy took hold of the outstretched hand, wondering why the signor never used soap and water; and Mr. Stubbs, apparently afraid of the sour-looking man, retreated to Toby's shoulder, where he sat chattering and scolding about the introduction. Again the skeleton waved his hand, and this time he introduced "Mademoiselle Spelletti, the wonderful snake-charmer, whose exploits in this country, and before the crowned heads of Europe, had caused the whole world to stand aghast at her daring." Mademoiselle Spelletti was a very ordinary-looking young lady of about twenty-five years of age, who looked very much as if her name might originally have been Murphy, and she too extended a hand for Toby to grasp--only her hand was clean, and she appeared to be a very much more pleasant acquaintance than the gentleman who swallowed swords. This ended the introductions; and Toby was just looking around for a seat, when Mrs. Treat, the fat lady, and the giver of the feast which was about to come, and which already smelled so invitingly, entered from behind a curtain of canvas, where the cooking-stove was supposed to be located. She had every appearance of being the cook for the occasion. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair tumbled and frowzy, and there were several unmistakable marks of grease on the front of her calico dress. She waited for no ceremony, but rushed up to Toby, and taking him in her arms, gave him such a squeeze that there seemed to be every possibility that she would break all the bones in his body; and she kept him so long in this bear-like embrace that Mr. Stubbs reached his little brown paws over and got such a hold of her hair that all present, save Signor Castro, rushed forward to release her from the monkey's grasp. "You dear little thing!" said Mrs. Treat, paying but slight attention to the hair-pulling she had just undergone, and holding Toby at arm's-length, so that she could look into his face, "you were so late that I was afraid you wasn't coming; and my dinner wouldn't have tasted half so good if you hadn't been here to eat some." Toby hardly knew what to say for this hearty welcome, but he managed to tell the large and kind-hearted lady that he had had no idea of missing the dinner, and that he was very glad she wanted him to come. "Want you to come, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed, as she gave him another hug, but careful not to give Mr. Stubbs a chance of grasping her hair again. "Of course I wanted you to come, for this dinner has been got up so that you could meet these people here, and so that they could see you." Toby was entirely at a loss to know what to say to this overwhelming compliment, and for that reason did not say anything, only submitting patiently to the third hug, which was all Mrs. Treat had time to give him, as she was obliged to rush behind the canvas screen again, as there were unmistakable sounds of something boiling over on the stove. "You'll excuse me," said the skeleton, with an air of dignity, waving his hand once more toward the assembled company, "but, while introducing you to Mr. Tyler, I had almost forgotten to introduce him to you. This, ladies and gentlemen"--and here he touched Toby on the shoulder, as if he were some living curiosity whose habits and mode of capture he was about to explain to a party of spectators--"is Mr. Toby Tyler, of whom you heard on the night when the monkey cage was smashed, and who now carries with him the identical monkey which was presented to him by the manager of this great show as a token of esteem for his skill and bravery in capturing the entire lot of monkeys without a single blow." By the time that Mr. Treat got through with this long speech Toby felt very much as if he were some wonderful creature whom the skeleton was exhibiting; but he managed to rise to his feet and duck his little red head in his best imitation of a bow. Then he sat down and hugged Mr. Stubbs to cover his confusion. One of the Albino Children now came forward, and, while stroking Mr. Stubbs's hair, looked so intently at Toby that for the life of him he couldn't say which she regarded as the curiosity, himself or the monkey; therefore he hastened to say, modestly, "I didn't do much toward catchin' the monkeys; Mr. Stubbs here did almost all of it, an' I only led 'em in." "There, there, my boy," said the skeleton, in a fatherly tone, "I've heard the whole story from Old Ben, an' I sha'n't let you get out of it like that. We all know what you did, an' it's no use for you to deny any part of it."	{ "id": "32393" }
10	MR. STUBBS AT A PARTY.	Toby was about to say that he did not intend to represent the matter other than it really was, when a voice from behind the canvas screen arrested further conversation. "Sam-u-el, come an' help me carry these things in." Something very like a smile of satisfaction passed over Signor Castro's face as he heard this, which told him that the time for the feast was near at hand; and the snake-charmer, as well as the Albino Children, seemed quite as much pleased as did the sword-swallower. "You will excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," said the skeleton, in an important tone; "I must help Lilly, and then I shall have the pleasure of helping you to some of her cooking, which, if I do say it, that oughtn't, is as good as can be found in this entire country." Then he too disappeared behind the canvas screen. Left alone, Toby looked at the ladies, and the ladies looked at him, in perfect silence, while the sword-swallower grimly regarded them all, until Mr. Treat reappeared, bearing on a platter an immense turkey, as nicely browned as any Thanksgiving turkey Toby ever saw. Behind him came his fat wife, carrying several dishes, each of which emitted a most fragrant odor; and as these were placed upon the table the spirits of the sword-swallower seemed to revive, and he smiled pleasantly; while even the ladies appeared animated by the sight and odor of the good things which they were to be called upon so soon to pass judgment. Several times did Mr. and Mrs. Treat bustle in and out from behind the screen, and each time they made some addition to that which was upon the table, until Toby began to fear that they would never finish, and the sword-swallower seemed unable to restrain his impatience. At last the finishing touch had been put to the table, the last dish placed in position, and then, with a certain kind of grace, which no one but a man as thin as Mr. Treat could assume, he advanced to the edge of the platform and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, nothing gives me greater pleasure than to invite you all, including Mr. Tyler's friend Stubbs, to the bountiful repast which my Lilly has prepared for--" At this point, Mr. Treat's speech--for it certainly seemed as if he had commenced to make one--was broken off in a most summary manner. His wife had come up behind him, and, with as much ease as if he had been a child, lifted him from off the floor and placed him gently in the chair at the head of the table. "Come right up and get dinner," she said to her guests. "If you had waited until Samuel had finished his speech everything on the table would have been stone-cold." The guests proceeded to obey her kindly command; and it is to be regretted that the sword-swallower had no better manners than to jump on to the platform with one bound and seat himself at the table with the most unseemly haste. The others, and more especially Toby, proceeded in a leisurely and more dignified manner. A seat had been placed by the side of the one intended for Toby for the accommodation of Mr. Stubbs, who suffered a napkin to be tied under his chin, and behaved generally in a manner that gladdened the heart of his young master. Mr. Treat cut generous slices from the turkey for each guest, and Mrs. Treat piled their plates high with all sorts of vegetables, complaining, after the manner of housewives generally, that the food was not cooked as she would like to have had it, and declaring that she had had poor luck with everything that morning, when she firmly believed in her heart that her table had never looked better. After the company had had the edge taken off their appetites--which effect was produced on the sword-swallower only after he had been helped three different times, the conversation began by the Fat Woman asking Toby how he got along with Mr. Lord. Toby could not give a very good account of his employer, but he had the good sense not to cast a damper on a party of pleasure by reciting his own troubles; so he said, evasively, "I guess I shall get along pretty well, now that I have got so many friends." Just as he had commenced to speak the skeleton had put into his mouth a very large piece of turkey--very much larger in proportion than himself--and when Toby had finished speaking he started to say something evidently not very complimentary to Mr. Lord. But what it was the company never knew; for just as he opened his mouth to speak, the food went down the wrong way, his face became a bright purple, and it was quite evident that he was choking. Toby was alarmed, and sprung from his chair to assist his friend, upsetting Mr. Stubbs from his seat, causing him to scamper up the tent-pole, with the napkin still tied around his neck, and to scold in his most vehement manner. Before Toby could reach the skeleton, however, the Fat Woman had darted toward her lean husband, caught him by the arm, and was pounding his back, by the time Toby got there, so vigorously, that the boy was afraid her enormous hand would go through his tissue-paper-like frame. "I wouldn't," said Toby, in alarm; "you may break him." "Don't you get frightened," said Mrs. Treat, turning her husband completely over, and still continuing the drumming process. "He's often taken this way; he's such a glutton that he'd try to swallow the turkey whole if he could get it in his mouth, an' he's so thin that 'most anything sticks in his throat." "I should think you'd break him all up," said Toby, apologetically, as he resumed his seat at the table; "he don't look as if he could stand very much of that sort of thing." But apparently Mr. Treat could stand very much more than Toby gave him credit for, because at this juncture he stopped coughing, and his face fast assumed its natural hue. His attentive wife, seeing that he had ceased struggling, lifted him in her arms, and sat him down in his chair with a force that threatened to snap his very head off. "There!" she said, as he wheezed a little from the effects of the shock, "now see if you can behave yourself, an' chew your meat as you ought to! One of these days when you're alone you'll try that game, and that'll be the last of you." "If he'd try to do one of my tricks long enough he'd get so that there wouldn't hardly anything choke him," the sword-swallower ventured to suggest, mildly, as he wiped a small stream of cranberry-sauce from his chin and laid a well-polished turkey-bone by the side of his plate. "I'd like to see him try it!" said the fat lady, with just a shade of anger in her voice. Then turning toward her husband, she said, emphatically, "Samuel, don't you ever let me catch _you_ swallowing a sword!" "I won't, my love, I won't; and I will try to chew my meat more," replied the very thin glutton, in a feeble tone. Toby thought that perhaps the skeleton might keep the first part of that promise, but he was not quite sure about the last. It required no little coaxing on the part of both Toby and Mrs. Treat to induce Mr. Stubbs to come down from his lofty perch; but the task was accomplished at last, and by the gift of a very large doughnut he was induced to resume his seat at the table. The time had now come when the duties of a host, in his own peculiar way of viewing them, devolved upon Mr. Treat, and he said, as he pushed his chair back a short distance from the table, and tried to polish the front of his vest with his napkin, "I don't want this fact lost sight of, because it is an important one: every one must remember that we have gathered here to meet and become better acquainted with the latest and best addition to this circus, Mr. Toby Tyler." Poor Toby! As the company all looked directly at him, and Mrs. Treat nodded her enormous head energetically, as if to say that she agreed exactly with her husband, the poor boy's face grew very red and the squash-pie lost its flavor. "Although Mr. Tyler may not be exactly one of us, owing to the fact that he does not belong to the profession, but is only one of the adjuncts to it, so to speak," continued the skeleton, in a voice which was fast being raised to its highest pitch, "we feel proud, after his exploits at the time of the accident, to have him with us, and gladly welcome him now, through the medium of this little feast prepared by my Lilly." Here the Albino Children nodded their heads in approval, and the sword-swallower gave a grunt of assent; and, thus encouraged, the skeleton proceeded: "I feel, when I say that we like and admire Mr. Tyler, all present will agree with me, and all would like to hear him say a word for himself." The skeleton seemed to have expressed the views of those present remarkably well, judging from their expressions of pleasure and assent, and all waited for the honored guest to speak. Toby knew that he must say something, but he couldn't think of a single thing; he tried over and over again to call to his mind something which he had read as to how people acted and what they said when they were expected to speak at a dinner-table, but his thoughts refused to go back for him, and the silence was actually becoming painful. Finally, and with the greatest effort, he managed to say, with a very perceptible stammer, and while his face was growing very red: "I know I ought to say something to pay for this big dinner that you said was gotten up for me, but I don't know what to say, unless to thank you for it. You see I hain't big enough to say much, an', as Uncle Dan'l says, I don't amount to very much 'cept for eatin', an' I guess he's right. You're all real good to me, an' when I get to be a man I'll try to do as much for you." Toby had risen to his feet when he began to make his speech, and while he was speaking Mr. Stubbs had crawled over into his chair. When he finished he sat down again without looking behind him, and of course sat plump on the monkey. There was a loud outcry from Mr. Stubbs, a little frightened noise from Toby, an instant's scrambling, and then boy, monkey, and chair tumbled off the platform, landing on the ground in an indescribable mass, from which the monkey extricated himself more quickly than Toby could, and again took refuge on the top of the tent-pole. Of course all the guests ran to Toby's assistance; and while the Fat Woman poked him all over to see that none of his bones were broken, the skeleton brushed the dirt from his clothes. All this time the monkey screamed, yelled, and danced around on the tent-pole and ropes as if his feelings had received a shock from which he could never recover. "I didn't mean to end it up that way, but it was Mr. Stubbs's fault," said Toby, as soon as quiet had been restored, and the guests, with the exception of the monkey, were seated at the table once more. "Of course you didn't," said Mrs. Treat, in a kindly tone. "But don't you feel bad about it one bit, for you ought to thank your lucky stars that you didn't break any of your bones." "I s'pose I did," said Toby, soberly, as he looked back at the scene of his disaster, and then up at the chattering monkey that had caused all the trouble. Shortly after this, Mr. Stubbs having again been coaxed down from his lofty position, Toby took his departure, promising to call as often during the week as he could get away from his exacting employers. Just outside the tent he met Old Ben, who said, as he showed signs of indulging in another of his internal laughing spells: [Illustration: TOBY SITS DOWN ON MR. STUBBS.] "Hello! has the skeleton an' his lily of a wife been givin' a blow-out to you too?" "They invited me in there to dinner," said Toby, modestly. "Of course they did--of course they did," replied Ben, with a chuckle; "they carries a cookin'-stove along with 'em, so's they can give these little spreads whenever we stay over a day in a place. Oh, I've been there!" "And did they ask you to make a speech?" "Of course. Did they try it on you?" "Yes," said Toby, mournfully, "an' I tumbled off the platform when I got through." "I didn't do exactly that," replied Ben, thoughtfully; "but I s'pose you got too much steam on, seein' 's how it was likely your first speech. Now you'd better go into the tent an' try to get a little sleep, 'cause we've got a long ride to-night over a rough road, an' you won't get more'n a cat-nap all night." "But where are you going?" asked Toby, as he shifted Mr. Stubbs over to his other shoulder, preparatory to following his friend's advice. "I'm goin' to church," said Ben, and then Toby noticed for the first time that the old driver had made some attempt at dressing-up. "I've been with the circus, man an' boy, for nigh to forty years, an' I allus go to meetin' once on Sunday. It's somethin' I promised my old mother I would do, an' I hain't broke my promise yet." "Why don't you take me with you?" asked Toby, wistfully, as he thought of the little church on the hill at home, and wished--oh, so earnestly! --that he was there then, even at the risk of being thumped on the head with Uncle Daniel's book. "If I'd seen you this mornin' I would," said Ben; "but now you must try to bottle up some sleep agin to-night, an' next Sunday I'll take you." With these words Old Ben started off, and Toby proceeded to carry out his wishes, although he rather doubted the possibility of "bottling up" any sleep that afternoon. He lay down on the top of the wagon, after having put Mr. Stubbs inside, with the others of his tribe, and in a very few moments the boy was sound asleep, dreaming of a dinner-party at which Mr. Stubbs made a speech, and he himself scampered up and down the tent-pole.	{ "id": "32393" }
11	A STORMY NIGHT.	When Toby awoke it was nearly dark, and the bustle around him told very plainly that the time for departure was near at hand. He rubbed his eyes just enough to make sure that he was thoroughly awake, and then jumped down from his rather lofty bed, and ran around to the door of the cage to assure himself that Mr. Stubbs was safe. This done, his preparations for the journey were made. Now, Toby noticed that each one of the drivers was clad in rubber clothing, and, after listening for a moment, he learned the cause of their water-proof garments. It was raining very hard, and Toby thought with dismay of the long ride that he would have to take on the top of the monkeys' cage, with no protection whatever save that afforded by his ordinary clothing. While he was standing by the side of the wagon, wondering how he should get along, Old Ben came in. The water was pouring from his clothes in little rivulets, and he afforded most unmistakable evidence of the damp state of the weather. "It's a nasty night, my boy," said the old driver, in much the same cheery tone that he would have used had he been informing Toby that it was a beautiful moonlight evening. "I guess I'll get wet," said Toby, ruefully, as he looked up at the lofty seat which he was to occupy. "Bless me!" said Ben, as if the thought had just come to him, "it won't do for you to ride outside on a night like this. You wait here, an' I'll see what I can do for you." The old man hurried off to the other end of the tent, and almost before Toby thought he had time to go as far as the ring he returned. "It's all right," he said, and this time in a gruff voice, as if he were announcing some misfortune; "you're to ride in the women's wagon. Come with me." Toby followed without a question, though he was wholly at a loss to understand what the "women's wagon" was, for he had never seen anything which looked like one. He soon learned, however, when Old Ben stopped in front--or, rather, at the end--of a long covered wagon that looked like an omnibus, except that it was considerably longer, and the seats inside were divided by arms, padded, to make them comfortable to lean against. "Here's the boy," said Ben, as he lifted Toby up on the step, gave him a gentle push to intimate that he was to get inside, and then left him. As Toby stepped inside he saw that the wagon was nearly full of women and children; and fearing lest he should take a seat that belonged to some one else, he stood in the middle of the wagon, not knowing what to do. "Why don't you sit down, little boy?" asked one of the ladies, after Toby had remained standing nearly five minutes and the wagon was about to start. "Well," said Toby, with some hesitation, as he looked around at the two or three empty seats that remained, "I didn't want to get in anybody else's place, an' I didn't know where to sit." "Come right here," said the lady, as she pointed to a seat by the side of a little girl who did not look any older than Toby; "the lady who usually occupies that seat will not be here to-night, and you can have it." "Thank you, ma'am," said Toby, as he sat timidly down on the edge of the seat, hardly daring to sit back comfortably, and feeling very awkward meanwhile, but congratulating himself on being thus protected from the pouring rain. The wagon started, and as each one talked with her neighbor, Toby felt a most dismal sense of loneliness, and almost wished that he was riding on the monkey-cart with Ben, where he could have some one to talk with. He gradually pushed himself back into a more comfortable position, and had then an opportunity of seeing more plainly the young girl who rode by his side. She was quite as young as Toby, and small of her age; but there was an old look about her face that made the boy think of her as being an old woman cut down to fit children's clothes. Toby had looked at her so earnestly that she observed him, and asked, "What is your name?" "Toby Tyler." "What do you do in the circus?" "Sell candy for Mr. Lord." "Oh! I thought you was a new member of the company." Toby knew by the tone of her voice that he had fallen considerably in her estimation by not being one of the performers, and it was some little time before he ventured to speak; and then he asked, timidly, "What do you do?" "I ride one of the horses with mother." "Are you the little girl that comes out with the lady an' four horses?" asked Toby, in awe that he should be conversing with so famous a person. "Yes, I am. Don't I do it nicely?" "Why, you're a perfect little--little--fairy!" exclaimed Toby, after hesitating a moment to find some word which would exactly express his idea. [Illustration: TOBY IN THE "WOMEN'S WAGON."] This praise seemed to please the young lady, and in a short time the two became very good friends, even if Toby did not occupy a more exalted position than that of candy-seller. She had learned from him all about the accident to the monkey-cage, and about Mr. Stubbs, and in return had told him that her name was Ella Mason, though on the bills she was called "Mademoiselle Jeannette." For a long time the two children sat talking together, and then Mademoiselle Jeannette curled herself up on the seat, with her head in her mother's lap, and went to sleep. Toby had resolved to keep awake and watch her, for he was struck with admiration at her face; but sleep got the better of him in less than five minutes after he had made the resolution, and he sat bolt-upright, with his little round head nodding and bobbing until it seemed almost certain that he would shake it off. When Toby awoke the wagon was drawn up by the side of the road, the sun was shining brightly, preparations were being made for the entrée into town, and the harsh voice of Mr. Job Lord was shouting his name in a tone that boded no good for poor Toby when he should make his appearance. Toby would have hesitated before meeting his angry employer but that he knew it would only make matters worse for him when he did show himself, and he mentally braced himself for the trouble which he knew was coming. The little girl whose acquaintance he had made the night previous was still sleeping; and, wishing to say good-bye to her in some way without awakening her, he stooped down and gently kissed the skirt of her dress. Then he went out to meet his master. Mr. Lord was thoroughly enraged when Toby left the wagon, and saw the boy just as he stepped to the ground. The angry man gave a quick glance around, to make sure that none of Toby's friends were in sight, and then caught him by the coat-collar and commenced to whip him severely with the small rubber cane that he usually carried. Mr. Job Lord lifted the poor boy entirely clear of the ground, and each blow that he struck could be heard almost the entire length of the circus train. "You've been makin' so many acquaintances here that you hain't willin' to do any work," he said, savagely, as he redoubled the force of his blows. "Oh, please stop! please stop!" shrieked the poor boy in his agony. "I'll do everything you tell me to, if you won't strike me again!" This piteous appeal seemed to have no effect upon the cruel man, and he continued to whip the boy, despite his cries and entreaties, until his arm fairly ached from the exertion, and Toby's body was crossed and recrossed with the livid marks of the cane. "Now, let's see whether you'll 'tend to your work or not!" said the man as he flung Toby from him with such force that the boy staggered, reeled, and nearly fell into the little brook that flowed by the roadside. "I'll make you understand that all the friends you've whined around in this show can't save you from a lickin' when I get ready to give you one! Now go an' do your work that ought to have been done an hour ago!" Mr. Lord walked away with the proud consciousness of a man who has achieved a great victory, and Toby was limping painfully along toward the cart that was used in conveying Mr. Lord's stock-in-trade, when he felt a tiny hand slip into his, and heard a childish voice say, "Don't cry, Toby. Some time, when I get big enough, I'll make Mr. Lord sorry that he whipped you as he did; and I'm big enough now to tell him just what kind of a man I think he is." Looking around, Toby saw his little acquaintance of the evening previous, and he tried to force back the big tears that were rolling down his cheeks as he said, in a voice choked with grief, "You're awful good, an' I don't mind the lickin' when you say you're sorry for me. I s'pose I deserve it for runnin' away from Uncle Dan'l." "Did it hurt you much?" she asked, feelingly. "It did when he was doin' it," replied Toby, manfully, "but it don't a bit now that you've come." "Then I'll go and talk to that Mr. Lord, and I'll come and see you again after we get into town," said the little miss, as she hurried away to tell the candy vender what she thought of him. That day, as on all others since he had been with the circus, Toby went to his work with a heavy heart, and time and time again did he count the money which had been given him by kind-hearted strangers, to see whether he had enough to warrant his attempting to run away. Three dollars and twenty-five cents was the total amount of his treasure, and, large as that sum appeared to him, he could not satisfy himself that he had sufficient to enable him to get back to the home which he had so wickedly left. Whenever he thought of this home, of the Uncle Daniel who had in charity cared for him--a motherless, fatherless boy--and of returning to it, with not even as much right as the Prodigal Son, of whom he had heard Uncle Daniel tell, his heart sunk within him, and he doubted whether he would be allowed to remain even if he should be so fortunate as ever to reach Guilford again. This day passed, so far as Toby was concerned, very much as had the others: he could not satisfy either of his employers, try as hard as he might; but, as usual, he met with two or three kindly-disposed people, who added to the fund that he was accumulating for his second venture of running away by little gifts of money, each one of which gladdened his heart and made his trouble a trifle less hard to bear. During the entire week he was thus equally fortunate. Each day added something to his fund, and each night it seemed to Toby that he was one day nearer the freedom for which he so ardently longed. The skeleton, the fat lady, Old Ben, the Albino Children, little Ella, and even the sword-swallower, all gave him a kindly word as they passed him while he was at his work, or saw him as the preparations for the grand entrée were being made. The time had passed slowly to Toby, and yet Sunday came again--as Sundays always come; and on this day Old Ben hunted him up, made him wash his face and hands until they fairly shone from very cleanliness, and then took him to church. Toby was surprised to find that it was really a pleasant thing to be able to go to church after being deprived of it, and was more light-hearted than he had yet been since he left Guilford when he returned to the tent at noon. The skeleton had invited him to another dinner-party; but Toby had declined the invitation, agreeing to present himself in time for supper instead. He hardly cared to go through the ordeal of another state dinner; and besides, he wanted to go off to the woods with the old monkey, where he could enjoy the silence of the forest, which seemed like a friend to him, because it reminded him of home. Taking the monkey with him as usual, he inquired the nearest way to a grove, and, without waiting for dinner, started off for an afternoon's quiet enjoyment.	{ "id": "32393" }
12	TOBY'S GREAT MISFORTUNE.	The town in which the circus remained over Sunday was a small one, and a brisk walk of ten minutes sufficed to take Toby into a secluded portion of a very thickly-grown wood, where he could lie upon the mossy ground and fairly revel in freedom. As he lay upon his back, his hands under his head, and his eyes directed to the branches of the trees above, where the birds twittered and sung, and the squirrels played in fearless sport, the monkey enjoyed himself, in his way, by playing all the monkey antics he knew of. He scrambled from tree to tree, swung himself from one branch to the other by the aid of his tail, and amused both himself and his master, until, tired by his exertions, he crept down by Toby's side and lay there in quiet, restful content. One of Toby's reasons for wishing to be by himself that afternoon was, that he wanted to think over some plan of escape, for he believed that he had nearly money enough to enable him to make a bold stroke for freedom and Uncle Daniel's. Therefore, when the monkey nestled down by his side he was all ready to confide in him that which had been occupying his busy little brain for the past three days. "Mr. Stubbs," he said to the monkey, in a solemn tone, "we're goin' to run away in a day or two." Mr. Stubbs did not seem to be moved in the least at this very startling piece of intelligence, but winked his bright eyes in unconcern; and Toby, seeming to think that everything which he said had been understood by the monkey, continued: "I've got a good deal of money now, an' I guess there's enough for us to start out on. We'll get away some night, an' stay in the woods till they get through hunting for us, an' then we'll go back to Guilford, an' tell Uncle Dan'l if he'll only take us back we'll never go to sleep in meetin' any more, an' we'll be just as good as we know how. Now let's see how much money we've got." Toby drew from a pocket, which he had been at a great deal of trouble to make in his shirt, a small bag of silver, and spread it upon the ground, where he could count it at his leisure. The glittering coin instantly attracted the monkey's attention, and he tried by every means to thrust his little black paw into the pile; but Toby would allow nothing of that sort, and pushed him away quite roughly. Then he grew excited, and danced and scolded around Toby's treasure, until the boy had hard work to count it. He did succeed, however, and as he carefully replaced it in the bag he said to the monkey, "There's seven dollars an' thirty cents in that bag, an' every cent of it is mine. That ought to take care of us for a good while, Mr. Stubbs; an' by the time we get home we shall be rich men." The monkey showed his pleasure at this intelligence by putting his hand inside Toby's clothes to find the bag of treasure that he had seen secreted there, and two or three times, to the great delight of both himself and the boy, he drew forth the bag, which was immediately taken away from him. The shadows were beginning to lengthen in the woods, and, heeding this warning of the coming night, Toby took the monkey on his arm and started for home, or for the tent, which was the only place he could call home. As he walked along he tried to talk to his pet in a serious manner, but the monkey, remembering where he had seen the bright coins secreted, tried so hard to get at them that finally Toby lost all patience, and gave him quite a hard cuff on the ear, which had the effect of keeping him quiet for a time. That night Toby took supper with the skeleton and his wife, and he enjoyed the meal, even though it was made from what had been left of the turkey that served as the noonday feast, more than he did the state dinner, where he was obliged to pay for what he ate by the torture of making a speech. There were no guests but Toby present; and Mr. and Mrs. Treat were not only very kind, but so attentive that he was actually afraid he should eat so much as to stand in need of some of the catnip-tea which Mrs. Treat had said she gave to her husband when he had been equally foolish. The skeleton would pile his plate high with turkey-bones from one side, and the fat lady would heap it up, whenever she could find a chance, with all sorts of food from the other, until Toby pushed back his chair, his appetite completely satisfied, if it never had been so before. Toby had discussed the temper of his employer with his host and hostess, and, after some considerable conversation, confided in them his determination to run away. "I'd hate awfully to have you go," said Mrs. Treat, reflectively; "but it's a good deal better for you to get away from that Job Lord if you can. It wouldn't do to let him know that you had any idea of goin', for he'd watch you as a cat watches a mouse, an' never let you go so long as he saw a chance to keep you. I heard him tellin' one of the drivers the other day that you sold more goods than any other boy he ever had, an' he was going to keep you with him all summer." "Be careful in what you do, my boy," said the skeleton, sagely, as he arranged a large cushion in an arm-chair, and proceeded to make ready for his after-dinner nap; "be sure that you're all ready before you start, an', when you do go, get a good ways ahead of him; for if he should ever catch you the trouncin' you'd get would be awful." Toby assured his friends that he would use every endeavor to make his escape successful when he did start; and Mrs. Treat, with an eye to the boy's comfort, said, "Let me know the night you're goin', an' I'll fix you up something to eat, so's you won't be hungry before you come to a place where you can buy something." As these kind-hearted people talked with him, and were ready thus to aid him in every way that lay in their power, Toby thought that he had been very fortunate in thus having made so many kind friends in a place where he was having so much trouble. It was not until he heard the sounds of preparation for departure that he left the skeleton's tent, and then, with Mr. Stubbs clasped tightly to his breast, he hurried over to the wagon where Old Ben was nearly ready to start. "All right, Toby," said the old driver, as the boy came in sight; "I was afraid you was going to keep me waitin' for the first time. Jump right up on the box, for there hain't no time to lose, an' I guess you'll have to carry the monkey in your arms, for I don't want to stop to open the cage now." "I'd just as soon carry him, an' a little rather," said Toby, as he clambered up on the high seat and arranged a comfortable place in his lap for his pet to sit. In another moment the heavy team had started, and nearly the entire circus was on the move. "Now tell me what you've been doin' since I left you," said Old Ben, after they were well clear of the town, and he could trust his horses to follow the team ahead. "I s'pose you've been to see the skeleton an' his mountain of a wife?" Toby gave a clear account of where he had been and what he had done, and when he concluded he told Old Ben of his determination to run away, and asked his advice on the matter. "My advice," said Ben, after he had waited some time, to give due weight to his words, "is that you clear out from this show just as soon as you can. This hain't no fit place for a boy of your age to be in, an' the sooner you get back where you started from, an' get to school, the better. But Job Lord will do all he can to keep you from goin', if he thinks you have any idea of leavin' him." Toby assured Ben, as he had assured the skeleton and his wife, that he would be very careful in all he did, and lay his plans with the utmost secrecy; and then he asked whether Ben thought the amount of money which he had would be sufficient to carry him home. "Waal, that depends," said the driver, slowly. "If you go to spreadin' yourself all over creation, as boys are very apt to do, your money won't go very far; but if you look at your money two or three times afore you spend it, you ought to get back and have a dollar or two left." The two talked, and Old Ben offered advice, until Toby could hardly keep his eyes open, and almost before the driver concluded his sage remarks the boy had stretched himself on the top of the wagon, where he had learned to sleep without being shaken off, and was soon in dream-land. The monkey, nestled down snug in Toby's bosom, did not appear to be as sleepy as was his master, but popped his head in and out from under the coat, as if watching whether the boy was asleep or not. Toby was awakened by a scratching on his face, as if the monkey was dancing a hornpipe on that portion of his body, and by a shrill, quick chattering, which caused him to assume an upright position instantly. He was frightened, although he knew not at what, and looked around quickly to discover the cause of the monkey's excitement. Old Ben was asleep on his box, while the horses jogged along behind the other teams, and Toby failed to see anything whatever which should have caused his pet to become so excited. "Lie down an' behave yourself," said Toby, as sternly as possible, and as he spoke he took his pet by the collar, to oblige him to obey his command. The moment that he did this he saw the monkey throw something out into the road, and the next instant he also saw that he held something tightly clutched in his other paw. It required some little exertion and active movement on Toby's part to enable him to get hold of that paw, in order to discover what it was which Mr. Stubbs had captured; but the instant he did succeed, there went up from his heart such a cry of sorrow as caused Old Ben to start up in alarm, and the monkey to cower and whimper like a whipped dog. "What is it, Toby? What's the matter?" asked the old driver, as he peered out into the darkness ahead, as if he feared some danger threatened them from that quarter. "I don't see anything. What is it?" "Mr. Stubbs has thrown all my money away," cried Toby, holding up the almost empty bag, which a short time previous had been so well filled with silver. "Stubbs--thrown--the--money--away?" repeated Ben, with a pause between each word, as if he could not understand that which he himself was saying. [Illustration: MR. STUBBS AND TOBY'S MONEY] "Yes," sobbed Toby, as he shook out the remaining contents of the bag, "there's only half a dollar, an' all the rest is gone." "The rest gone!" again repeated Ben. "But how come the monkey to have the money?" "He tried to get at it out in the woods, an' I s'pose the moment I got asleep he felt for it in my pockets. This is all there is left, an' he threw away some just as I woke up." Again Toby held the bag up where Ben could see it, and again his grief broke out anew. Ben could say nothing; he realized the whole situation: that the monkey had got at the money-bag while Toby was sleeping; that in his play he had thrown it away piece by piece; and he knew that that small amount of silver represented liberty in the boy's eyes. He felt that there was nothing he could say which would assuage Toby's grief, and he remained silent. "Don't you s'pose we could go back an' get it?" asked the boy, after the intensity of his grief had somewhat subsided. "No, Toby, it's gone," replied Ben, sorrowfully. "You couldn't find it if it was daylight, an' you don't stand a ghost of a chance now in the dark. Don't take on so, my boy. I'll see if we can't make it up to you in some way." Toby gave no heed to this last remark of Ben's. He hugged the monkey convulsively to his breast, as if he would seek consolation from the very one who had wrought the ruin, and, rocking himself to and fro, he said, in a voice full of tears and sorrow, "Oh, Mr. Stubbs, why did you do it? --why did you do it? That money would have got us away from this hateful place, an' we'd gone back to Uncle Dan'l's, where we'd have been _so_ happy, you an' me. An' now it's all gone--all gone. What made you, Mr. Stubbs--what made you do such a bad, cruel thing? Oh! what made you?" "Don't, Toby--don't take on so," said Ben, soothingly. "There wasn't so very much money there, after all, an' you'll soon get as much more." "But it won't be for a good while, an' we could have been in the good old home long before I can get so much again." "That's true, my boy; but you must kinder brace up, an' not give way so about it. Perhaps I can fix it so the fellers will make it up to you. Give Stubbs a good poundin', an' perhaps that'll make you feel better." "That won't bring back my money, an' I don't want to whip him," cried Toby, hugging his pet the closer because of this suggestion. "I know what it is to get a whippin', an' I wouldn't whip a dog, much less Mr. Stubbs, who didn't know any better." "Then you must try to take it like a man," said Ben, who could think of no other plan by which the boy might soothe his feelings. "It hain't half so bad as it might be, an' you must try to keep a stiff upper lip, even if it does seem hard at first." This keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of all the trouble he was having was all very well to talk about, but Toby could not reduce it to practice, or, at least, not so soon after he knew of his loss, and he continued to rock the monkey back and forth, to whisper in his ear now and then, and to cry as if his heart was breaking, for nearly an hour. Ben tried, in his rough, honest way, to comfort him, but without success; and it was not until the boy's grief had spent itself that he would listen to any reasoning. All this time the monkey had remained perfectly quiet, submitting to Toby's squeezing without making any effort to get away, and behaving as if he knew he had done wrong, and was trying to atone for it. He looked up into the boy's face every now and then with such a penitent expression, that Toby finally assured him of forgiveness, and begged him not to feel so badly.	{ "id": "32393" }
13	TOBY ATTEMPTS TO RESIGN HIS SITUATION.	At last it was possible for Toby to speak of his loss with some degree of calmness, and then he immediately began to reckon up what he could have done with the money if he had not lost it. "Now see here, Toby," said Ben, earnestly: "don't go to doin' anything of that kind. The money's lost, an' you can't get it back by talkin'; so the very best thing for you is to stop thinkin' what you could do if you had it, an' just to look at it as a goner." "But--" persisted Toby. "I tell you there's no buts about it," said Ben, rather sharply. "Stop talkin' about what's gone, an' just go to thinkin' how you'll get more. Do what you've a mind to the monkey, but don't keep broodin' over what you can't help." Toby knew that the advice was good, and he struggled manfully to carry it into execution, but it was very hard work. At all events, there was no sleep for his eyes that night; and when, just about daylight, the train halted to wait a more seasonable hour in which to enter the town, the thought of what he might have done with his lost money was still in Toby's mind. Only once did he speak crossly to the monkey, and that was when he put him into the cage preparatory to commencing his morning's work. Then he said, "You wouldn't had to go into this place many times more if you hadn't been so wicked, for by to-morrow night we'd been away from this circus, an' on the way to home an' Uncle Dan'l. Now you've spoiled my chance an' your own for a good while to come, an' I hope before the day is over you'll feel as bad about it as I do." It seemed to Toby as if the monkey understood just what he said to him, for he sneaked over into one corner, away from the other monkeys, and sat there looking very penitent and very dejected. Then, with a heavy heart, Toby began his day's work. Hard as had been Toby's lot previous to losing his money, and difficult as it had been to bear the cruelty of Mr. Job Lord and his precious partner, Mr. Jacobs, it was doubly hard now while this sorrow was fresh upon him. Previous to this, when he had been kicked or cursed by one or the other of the partners, Toby thought exultantly that the time was not very far distant when he should be beyond the reach of his brutal task-masters, and that thought had given him strength to bear all that had been put upon him. Now the time of his deliverance from this bondage seemed very far off, and each cruel word or blow caused him the greater sorrow, because of the thought that but for the monkey's wickedness he would have been nearly free from that which made his life so very miserable. If he had looked sad and mournful before, he looked doubly so now, as he went his dreary round of the tent, crying, "Here's your cold lemonade," or "Fresh-baked pea-nuts, ten cents a quart;" and each day there were some in the audience who pitied the boy because of the misery which showed so plainly in his face, and they gave him a few cents more than his price for what he was selling, or gave him money without buying anything at all, thereby aiding him to lay up something again toward making his escape. Those few belonging to the circus who knew of Toby's intention to escape tried their best to console him for the loss of his money, and that kind-hearted couple, the skeleton and his fat wife, tried to force him to take a portion of their scanty earnings in the place of that which the monkey had thrown away. But this Toby positively refused to do; and to the arguments which they advanced as reasons why they should help him along he only replied that until he could get the money by his own exertions he would remain with Messrs. Lord and Jacobs, and get along as best he could. Every hour in the day the thought of what might have been if he had not lost his money so haunted his mind that finally he resolved to make one bold stroke, and tell Mr. Job Lord that he did not want to travel with the circus any longer. As yet he had not received the two dollars which had been promised him for his two weeks' work, and another one was nearly due. If he could get this money it might, with what he had saved again, suffice to pay his railroad fare to Guilford; and if it would not, he resolved to accept from the skeleton sufficient to make up the amount needed. He naturally shrunk from the task; but the hope that he might possibly succeed gave him the necessary amount of courage, and when he had gotten his work done, on the third morning after he had lost his money, and Mr. Lord appeared to be in an unusually good temper, he resolved to try the plan. It was just before the dinner hour. Trade had been unexceptionally good, and Mr. Lord had even spoken in a pleasant tone to Toby when he told him to fill up the lemonade pail with water, so that the stock might not be disposed of too quickly and with too little profit. Toby poured in quite as much water as he thought the already weak mixture could receive and retain any flavor of lemon; and then, as his employer motioned him to add more, he mixed another quart in, secretly wondering what it would taste like. "When you're mixin' lemonade for circus trade," said Mr. Lord, in such a benign, fatherly tone that one would have found it difficult to believe that he ever spoke harshly, "don't be afraid of water, for there's where the profit comes in. Always have a piece of lemon-peel floatin' on the top of every glass, an' it tastes just as good to people as if it cost twice as much." Toby could not agree exactly with that opinion, neither did he think it wise to disagree, more especially since he was going to ask the very great favor of being discharged; therefore he nodded his head gravely, and began to stir up what it pleased Mr. Lord to call lemonade, so that the last addition might be more thoroughly mixed with the others. Two or three times he attempted to ask the favor which seemed such a great one, and each time the words stuck in his throat, until it seemed to him that he should never succeed in getting them out. Finally, in his despair, he stammered out, "Don't you think you could find another boy in this town, Mr. Lord?" Mr. Lord moved round sideways, in order to bring his crooked eye to bear squarely on Toby, and then there was a long interval of silence, during which time the boy's color rapidly came and went, and his heart beat very fast with suspense and fear. "Well, what if I could?" he said at length. "Do you think that trade is so good I could afford to keep two boys, when there isn't half work enough for one?" Toby stirred the lemonade with renewed activity, as if by this process he was making both it and his courage stronger, and said, in a low voice, which Mr. Lord could scarcely hear, "I didn't think that; but you see I ought to go home, for Uncle Dan'l will worry about me; an', besides, I don't like a circus very well." Again there was silence on Mr. Lord's part, and again the crooked eye glowered down on Toby. "So," he said--and Toby could see that his anger was rising very fast--"you don't like a circus very well, an' you begin to think that your uncle Daniel will worry about you, eh? Well, I want you to understand that it don't make any difference to me whether you like a circus or not, and I don't care how much your uncle Daniel worries. You mean that you want to get away from me, after I've been to all the trouble and expense of teaching you the business?" Toby bent his head over the pail, and stirred away as if for dear life. "If you think you're going to get away from here until you've paid me for all you've eat, an' all the time I've spent on you, you're mistaken, that's all. You've had an easy time with me--too easy, in fact--and that's what ails you. Now, you just let me hear two words more out of your head about going away--only two more--an' I'll show you what a whipping is. I've only been playing with you before when you thought you was getting a whipping; but you'll find out what it means if I so much as see a thought in your eyes about goin' away. An' don't you dare to try to give me the slip in the night an' run away; for if you do I'll follow you, an' have you arrested. Now, you mind your eye in the future." It is impossible to say how much longer Mr. Lord might have continued this tirade, had not a member of the company--one of the principal riders--called him one side to speak with him. Poor Toby was so much confused by the angry words which had followed his very natural and certainly very reasonable suggestion that he paid no attention to anything around him, until he heard his own name mentioned; and then, fearing lest some new misfortune was about to befall him, he listened intently. "I'm afraid you couldn't do much of anything with him," he heard Mr. Lord say. "He's had enough of this kind of life already, so he says, an' I expect the next thing he does will be to try to run away." "I'll risk his getting away from you, Job," he heard the other say; "but of course I've got to take my chances. I'll take him in hand from eleven to twelve each day--just your slack time of trade--and I'll not only give you half of what he can earn in the next two years, but I'll pay you for his time, if he gives us the slip before the season is out." Toby knew that they were speaking of him, but what it all meant he could not imagine. "What are you going to do with him first?" Job asked. "Just put him right into the ring, and teach him what riding is. I tell you, Job, the boy's smart enough, and before the season's over I'll have him so that he can do some of the bare-back acts, and perhaps we'll get some money out of him before we go into winter-quarters." Toby understood the meaning of their conversation only too well, and he knew that his lot, which before seemed harder than he could bear, was about to be intensified through this Mr. Castle, of whom he had frequently heard, and who was said to be a rival of Mr. Lord's, so far as brutality went. The two men now walked toward the large tent, and Toby was left alone with his thoughts and the two or three little boy customers, who looked at him wonderingly, and envied him because he belonged to the circus. During the ride that night he told Old Ben what he had heard, confidently expecting that that friend at least would console him; but Ben was not the champion which he had expected. The old man, who had been with a circus, "man and boy, nigh to forty years," did not seem to think it any calamity that he was to be taught to ride. "That Mr. Castle is a little rough on boys," Old Ben said, thoughtfully; "but it'll be a good thing for you, Toby. Just so long as you stay with Job Lord you won't be nothin' more'n a candy-boy; but after you know how to ride it'll be another thing, an' you can earn a good deal of money, an' be your own boss." "But I don't want to stay with the circus," whined Toby; "I don't want to learn to ride, an' I do want to get back to Uncle Dan'l." "That may all be true, an' I don't dispute it," said Ben; "but you see you didn't stay with your uncle Daniel when you had the chance, an' you did come with the circus. You've told Job you wanted to leave, an' he'll be watchin' you all the time to see that you don't give him the slip. Now, what's the consequence? Why, you can't get away for a while, anyhow, an' you'd better try to amount to something while you are here. Perhaps after you've got so you can ride you may want to stay; an' I'll see to it that you get all of your wages, except enough to pay Castle for learnin' of you." [Illustration: TOBY AND THE LITTLE BOY CUSTOMERS.] "I sha'n't want to stay," said Toby. "I wouldn't stay if I could ride all the horses at once, an' was gettin' a hundred dollars a day." "But you can't ride one horse, an' you hain't gettin' but a dollar a week, an' still I don't see any chance of your gettin' away yet awhile," said Ben, in a matter-of-fact tone, as he devoted his attention again to his horses, leaving Toby to his own sad reflections, and the positive conviction that boys who run away from home do not have a good time, except in stories. The next forenoon, while Toby was deep in the excitement of selling to a boy no larger than himself, and with just as red hair, three cents' worth of pea-nuts and two sticks of candy, and while the boy was trying to induce him to "throw in" a piece of gum, because of the quantity purchased, Job Lord called him aside, and Toby knew that his troubles had begun. "I want you to go in an' see Mr. Castle; he's goin' to show you how to ride," said Mr. Lord, in as kindly a tone as if he were conferring some favor on the boy. If Toby had dared to, he would have rebelled then and there and refused to go; but, as he hadn't the courage for such proceeding, he walked meekly into the tent and toward the ring.	{ "id": "32393" }

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