Selected English short stories (xix and xx centuries)

SELECTED ENGLISH
SHOET STOEIES

(XIX AND XX CENTURIES)

HUMPHREY MILFORD

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW COPENHAGEN
NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN
BOMBAY CALCUTTA MADRAS SHANGHAI PEKING

* This second selection of English Short Stories was
first published in i The World's Classics ' in 1921 and
reprinted in the same year.

NOTE

A VOLUME of Selected English Short Stories (nine-
teenth century) was first published in 19 14, and has
been often reprinted. This is a second volume selected
on the same principles and from almost the same
period. Of both volumes it should be noted that
English means written in the English language, and
that no selection from living writers has been attempted.

H. S. M.

470450

CONTENTS

PAGE

MARY ANN LAMB, 1764-1847

The Sailor Uncle 1

CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834

First Going to Church .... 12

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1804-1864

The Maypole of Merry Mount . . .19
The Grey Champion .... 32
Roger Malvin's Burial .... 41
Old Esther Dudley .... 64

EDGAR ALLAN POE, 1809-1849

The Purloined Letter .... 78
The Cask of Amontillado . . . .100

CHARLES DICKENS, 1812-1870

The Holly Tree 108

WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS, 1824-1889

A Terribly Strange Bed . . . .148

WILLIAM HALE WHITE (' MARK RUTHER-
FORD'), 1831-1913

' The Sweetness of a Man's Friend ' . .169
(By kind permission of Mrs. White)

RICHARD GARN^TT, 1835-1906

Ananda the Miracle Worker . . .177
(By kind permission of Mr. John Lane)

viii CONTENTS

PAGE

FRANCIS BRET HARTE, 1839-1902

The Outcasts of Poker Flat . . .190
How Santa Clans came to Simpson's Bar . 202

CHARLES GRANT, 1841-1889

Peppiniello . . . r 220

(By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan
& Co.)

*" AMBROSE BIERCE, 1842-1913(7)

A Horseman in the Sky . . ' . 252

HENRY JAMES, 1843-1916

Owen Wingrave ..... 260

(By kind permission of Messrs. Harper Bros.)
Four Meetings. . . . . 301

(By kind permission of Mr. J. B. Pinker]

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, 1850-1894

The Sire de Maletroit's Door . . .334
(By kind permission of Messrs. Chatto &
Windus)

OSCAR WILDE, 1856-1900

The Birthday of the Infanta . . . 358
(By kind permission of Messrs. Methuen
& Co.)

GEORGE GISSING, 1857-1903

A Poor Gentleman ... . . 380
(By kind permission of Mr. J. B. Pinker)

HENRY HARLAND, 1861-1905

The House of Eulalie . > . . .396
(By kind permission of Mr. John Lane)

CONTENTS ix

PAGE

WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER ( ' O. HENRY ' ),
1867-1910

The Gift of the Magi . . . ,406
A Municipal Report . . . 412

Madame Bo-Peep, of the Ranches . . ^430

R, MURRAY GILCHRIST, 1867-1917

The Gap in the Wall . . . .452

A Witch in the Peak . . . .457
(By kind permission of Mrs. Gilchrist)

GERALD WARRE CORNISH, 1875-1916

The Stowaway 462

(By kind permission of Messrs. Grant
Richards, Ltd.)

MARY ANN LAMB

1764-1847

THE SAILOR UNCLE

(From Mrs. Leicester's School : or, The History of Several
Young Ladies related by themselves.)

MY father is the curate of a village church, about
five miles from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage-
house, which joins the church-yard. The first thing
I can remember was my father teaching me the alphabet
from the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head
of my mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's
study-door ; I think I now hear him say, ' Who is
there ? — What do you want, little girl ? ' 'Go and
see mamma. Go and learn pretty letters/ Many
times in the day would my father lay aside his books
and his papers to lead me to this spot, and make me
point to the letters, and then set me to spell syllables
and words : in this manner, the epitaph on my
mother's tomb being my primer and my spelling-book,
I learned to read.

I was one day sitting on a step placed across the
church-yard stile, when a gentleman passing by, heard
me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my
mother's name, and then say, Elizabeth Villiers, with
a firm tone, as if I had performed some great matter.
This gentleman was my uncle James, my mother's
brother : he was a lieutenant in the navy, and had left
England a few weeks after the marriage of my father
and mother, and now, returned home from a long sea-
voyage, he was coming to visit my mother ; no tidings

228 B

2 AT Aft Y AXN LAMB

of her decease having reached him, though she had
been dead more than a twelvemonth.

When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and
heard me pronounce my mother's name, he looked
earnestly in my face, and began to fancy a resemblance
to his sister, and to think I might be her child. I was
too intent on my employment to observe him, and
went spelling on. ' Who has taught you to spell so
prettily, my little maid ? ' said my uncle. * Mamma,'
I replied ; for I had an idea that the words on the tomb-
stone were somehow a part of mamma, and that she
had taught me. ' And who is mamma ? ' asked my
uncle. ' Elizabeth Villiers,' I replied ; and then my
uncle called me his dear little niece, and said he would
go with me to mamma : he took hold of my hand ,
intending to lead me home, delighted that he had
found out who I was, because he imagined it would
be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her little
daughter bringing home her long lost sailor uncle.

I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a
dispute about the way thither. My uncle was for
going along the road which led directly up to our house ;
I pointed to the church-yard, and said, that was the
way to mamma. Though impatient of any delay, he
was not willing to contest the point with his new
relation, therefore he lifted me over the stile, and was
then going to take me along the path to a gate he
knew was at the end of our garden ; but no, I would
not go that way either: letting go his hand, I said,
* You do not know the way — I will show you ' : and
making what haste I could among the long grass and
thistles, and jumping over the low graves, he said, as
he followed what he called my wayward steps, ' What a
positive soul this little niece of mine is ! I knew the
way to your mother's house before you were born,
child.' At last I stopped at my mother's grave, and,
pointing to the tombstone, said, ' Here is mamma/ in
a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him

THE SAILOR UNCLE 3

that I knew the way best : I looked up in his face to
see him acknowledge his mistake ; but oh, what a face
of sorrow did I see ! I was so frightened, that I have
but an imperfect recollection of what followed. I
remember I pulled his coat, and cried, ' Sir, sir,' and
tried to move him. I knew not what to do ; my mind
was in a strange confusion ; I thought I had done some-
thing wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma to
make him cry so sadly ; but what it was I could not
tell. This grave had always been a scene of delight to
me. In the house my father would often be weary of
my prattle, and send me from him ; but here he was all
my own. I might say anything and be as frolicsome
as I pleased here ; all was cheerfulness and good
humour in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My
father would tell me how quietly mamma slept there,
and that he and his little Betsy would one day sleep
beside mamma in that grave ; and when I went to bed,
as I laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I
was sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma ;
and in my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there,
and it was a place within the ground, all smooth, and
soft, and green. I never made out any figure of
mamma, but still it was the tombstone, and papa, and
the smooth green grass, and my head resting upon the
elbow of my father.

How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief
I know not ; to me it seemed a very long time : at last
he took me in his arms, and held me so tight, that I
began to cry, and ran home to my father, and told him,
that a gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty
letters.

No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my
father and my uncle. I remember that it was the first
day I ever saw my father weep : that I was in sad
trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our
servant, that papa was crying ; and she wanted to
keep me with her that I might not disturb the con versa-

4 MARY ANN LAMB

tion ; but I would go back to the parlour to poor papa,
and I went in softly, and crept between my father's
knees. My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I
turned sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father,
having conceived a dislike to my uncle because he had
made my father cry.

Now I first learned that my mother's death was a
heavy affliction ; for I heard my father tell a melan-
choly story of her long illness, her death, and what he
had suffered from her loss. My uncle said, what a sad
thing it was for my father to be left with such a young
child ; but my father replied, his little Betsy was all his
comfort, and that, but for me, he should have died with
grief. How I could be any comfort to my father, struck
me with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played
and talked with me ; but I thought that was all good-
ness and favour done to me, and I had no notion how I
could make any part of his happiness. The sorrow I
now heard he had suffered, was as new and strange to
me. I had no idea that he had ever been unhappy ;
bis voice was always kind and cheerful ; I had never
before seen him weep, or show any such signs of grief
as those in which I used to express my little troubles.
My thoughts on these subjects were confused and
childish ; but from that time I never ceased pondering
on the sad story of my dead mamma.

The next day I went by mere habit to the study- door,
to call papa to the beloved grave ; my mind misgave
me, and I could not tap at the door. I went backwards
and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and
what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met
me in the passage, and said, ' Betsy, will you come and
walk with me in the garden ? ' This I refused, for this
was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of
sitting on the grave, and talking to papa. My uncle
tried to persuade me, but still I said, ' No, no,' and ran
crying into the kitchen. As he followed me in there,
Susan said, ' This child is so fretful to -day, I do not

THE SAILOR UNCLE 5

know what to do with her.' ' Aye,' said my uncle, ' I
suppose my poor brother spoils her, having but one.'
This reflection on my papa made me quite in a little
passion of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new
uncle sorrow had first come into our dwelling : I
screamed loudly, till my father came out to know what
it was all about. He sent my uncle into the parlour,
and said, he would manage the little wrangler by him-
self. When my uncle was gone I ceased crying ; my
father forgot to lecture me for my ill humour, or to
inquire into the cause, and we were soon seated by the
side of the tombstone. No lesson went on that day ;
no talking of pretty mamma sleeping in the green
grave ; no jumping from the tombstone to the ground ;
no merry jokes or pleasant stories. I sate upon my
father's knee, looking up in his face, and thinking,
' How sorry papa looks ! ' till, having been fatigued with
crying, and now oppressed with thought, I fell fast

My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place
was our constant haunt ; she told him she did verily
believe her master would never get the better of the
death of her mistress, while he continued to teach the
child to read at the tombstone ; for, though it might
soothe his grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory.
The sight of his sister's grave had been such a shock to
my uncle, that he readily entered into Susan's appre-
hensions ; and concluding, that if I were set to study
by some other means, there would no longer be a pre-
tence for these visits to the grave, away my kind uncle
hastened to the nearest market- town to buy me some
books.

I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan,
and I did not approve of his interfering in our pleasures.
I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly
hoped he was gone beyond seas again, from whence
Susan had told me he had come. Where beyond seas was
I could not tell ; but 1 concluded it was somewhere a

6 MARY ANN LAMB

great way off. I took my seat on the church-yard stile,
and kept looking down the road, and saying, ' I hope I
shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle will not
come from beyond seas any more ' ; but I said this very
softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in a perverse
ill-humoured fit. Here I sate till my uncle returned
from the market-town with his new purchases. I saw
him come walking very fast with a parcel under his arm.
I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned, and tried to
look very cross. He untied his parcel, and said, ' Betsy,
I have brought you a pretty book.' I turned my head
away, and said, ' I don't want a book ' ; but I could not
help peeping again to look at it. In the hurry of open-
ing the parcel he had scattered all the books upon the
ground, and there I saw fine gilt covers and gay pictures
all fluttering about. What a fine sight ! — All my
resentment vanished, and I held up my face to kiss him,
that being my way of thanking my father for any
extraordinary favour.

My uncle had brought himself into rather a trouble-
some office ; he had heard me spell so well, that he
thought there was nothing to do but to put books into
my hand, and I should read ; yet, notwithstanding
I spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library
were so much smaller than I had been accustomed to,
they were like Greek characters to me ; I could make
nothing at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be
discouraged by this difficulty ; though unused to play
the schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print,
with unwearied diligence and patience ; and whenever
he saw my father and me look as if we wanted to
resume our visits to the grave, he would propose some
pleasant walk ; and if my father said it was too far for
the child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder,
and say, * Then Betsy shall ride ' ; and in this manner
has he carried me many many miles.

In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot
to make Susan furnish him with a luncheon which,

THE SAILOR UNCLE 7

though it generally happened every day, made a con-
stant surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under
some shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket and
began to distribute his little store ; and then I used to
peep into the other pocket to see if there were not some
currant wine there and the little bottle of water for
me ; if, perchance, the water was forgot, then it made
another joke, — that poor Betsy must be forced to
drink a little drop of wine. These are childish things
to tell of, and instead of my own silly history, I wish
I could remember the entertaining stories my uncle
used to relate of his voyages and travels, while we
sate under the shady trees, eating our noontide meal.

The long visit my uncle made us was such an im-
portant event in my life, that I feel I shall tire your
patience with talking of him ; but when he is gone,
the remainder of my story will be but short.

The summer months passed away, but not swiftly ; — •
the pleasant walks, and the charming stories of my
uncle's adventures, made them seem like years to me ;
I remember the approach of winter by the warm
great coat he bought for me, and how proud I was
when I first put it on, and that he called me Little
Red Riding Hood, and bade me beware of wolves,
and that I laughed and said there were no such things
now ; then he told me how many wolves, and bears,
and tigers, and lions he had met with in uninhabited
lands, that were like Robinson Crusoe's Island. Oh,
these were happy days !

In the winter our walks were shorter and less fre-
quent. My books were now my chief amusement,
though my studies were often interrupted by a game
of romps with my uncle, which too often ended in a
quarrel because he played so roughly ; yet long before
this I dearly loved my uncle, and the improvement
I made while he was with us was very great indeed.
I could now read very well, and the continual habit
of listening to the conversation of rny father and my

8 MARY ANN LAMB

uncle made me a little woman in understanding ; so
that my father said to him, ' James, you have made
my child quite a companionable little being.'

My father often left me alone with my uncle ;
sometimes to write his sermons ; sometimes to visit
the sick, or give counsel to his poor neighbours ; then
my uncle used to hold long conversations with me,
telling me how I should strive to make my father
happy, and endeavour to improve myself when he was
gone : — now I began justly to understand why he
had taken such pains to keep my father from visiting
my mother's grave, that grave which I often stole
privately to look at, but' now never without awe and
reverence ; for my uncle used to tell me what an
excellent lady my mother was, and I now thought of
her as having been a real mamma, which before seemed
an ideal something, no way connected with life. And
he told me that the ladies from the Manor-House, who
sate in the best pew in the church, were not so graceful,
and the best women in the village were not so good,
as was my sweet mamma ; and that if she had lived,
I should not have been forced to pick up a little
knowledge from him^ a rough sailor, or to learn to
knit and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught
me all lady-like fine works, and delicate behaviour and
perfect manners, and would have selected for me
proper books, such as were most fit to instruct my
mind, and of which he nothing knew. If ever in my
life I shall have any proper sense of what is excellent
or becoming in the womanly character, I owe it to
these lessons of my rough unpolished uncle ; for, in
telling me what my mother would have made me,
he taught me what to wish to be ; and when, soon
after my uncle left us, I was introduced to the ladies
at the Manor -House, instead of hanging down my
head with shame, as I should have done before my
uncle came, like a little village rustic, I tried to speak
distinctly, with ease, and a modest gentleness, as my

THE SAILOR UNCLE 9

uncle had said my mother used to do ; instead of
hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them,
and thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, and
thought how well my mother must have appeared,
since she was so much more graceful than these ladies
were ; and when I heard them compliment my father
on the admirable behaviour of his child, and say how
well he had brought me up, I thought to myself, * Papa
does not much mind my manners, if I am but a good
girl ; but it was my uncle that taught me'to behave
like mamma.' — I cannot now think my uncle was
so rough and unpolished as he said he was, for his
lessons were so good and so impressive that I shall
never forget them, and I hope they will be of use to
me as long as I live : he would explain to me the
meaning of all the words he used, such as grace and
elegance, modest diffidence and affectation, pointing
out instances of what he meant by those words, in
the manners of the ladies and their young daughters
who came to our church ; for, besides the ladies of
the Manor-House, many of the neighbouring families
came to our church because my father preached so
well.

It must have been early in the spring when my
uncle went away, for the crocuses were just blown
in the garden, and the primroses had begun to peep
from under the young budding hedge -rows. I cried
as if my heart would break, when I had the last sight
of him through a little opening among the trees, as
he went down the road. My father accompanied
him to the market-town, from whence he was to
proceed in the stage-coach to London. How tedious
I thought all Susan's endeavours to comfort me were.
The stile where I first saw my uncle came into my
mind, and I thought I would go and sit there, and
think about that day ; but I was no sooner seated
there, than I remembered how I had frightened him
by taking him so foolishly to my mother's grave,
u*

10 MARY ANN LAMB

and then again how naughty I had been when I sate
muttering to myself at this same stile, wishing that
he, who had gone so far to buy me books, might never
come back any more : all my little quarrels with my
uncle came into my mind, now that I could never
play with him again, and it almost broke my heart.
I was forced to run into the house to Susan for that
consolation I had just before despised.

Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire
with my father, after it was dark, and before the
candles were lighted, I gave him an account of my
troubled conscience at the church-stile, where I re-
membered how unkind I 'had been to my uncle when
he first came, and how sorry I still was whenever I
thought of the many quarrels I had had with him.

My father smiled and took hold of my hand, saying,
* I will tell you all about this, my little penitent.
This is the sort of way in which we all feel, when those
we love are taken from us. — When our dear friends
are with us, we go on enjoying their society, without
much thought or consideration of the blessings we
are possessed of, nor do we too nicely weigh the
measure of our daily actions ; — we let them freely
share our kind or our discontented moods ; and, if
any little bickerings disturb our friendship, it does
but the more endear us to each other when we are in
a happier temper. But these things come over us
like grievous faults when the object of our affection
is gone for ever. Your dear mamma and I had no
quarrels ; yet in the first days of my lonely sorrow,
how many things came into my mind that I might
have done to have made her happier. It is so with
you, my child. You did all a child could do to please
your uncle, and dearly did he love you ; and these
little things which now disturb your tender mind,
were remembered with delight by your uncle. He
was telling me in our last walk, just perhaps as you
were thinking about it with sorrow, of the difficulty

THE SAILOR UNCLE 11

he had in getting into your good graces when he first
came ; he will think of these things with pleasure
when he is far away. Put away from you this un-
founded grief ; only let it be a lesson to you to be as
kind as possible to those you love ; and remember,
when they are gone from you, you will never think
you had been kind enough. Such feelings as you have
now described are the lot of humanity. So you will
feel when I am no more ; and so will your children
feel when you are dead. But your uncle will come
back again, Betsy, and we will now think of where we
are to get the cage to keep the talking parrot in, he
is to bring home ; and go and tell Susan to bring the
candles, and ask her if the nice cake is almost -baked,
that she promised to give us for our tea.'

CHARLES LAMB

1775—1834
FIRST GOING TO CHURCH

(From Mrs* Leicester's School : or. The History of Several
Young -Ladies related by themselves.)

I WAS born and brought up, in a house in which my
parents had all their lives resided, which stood in the
midst of that lonely tract of land called the Lincoln-
shire fens. Few families besides our own lived near
the spot, both because it was reckoned an unwhole-
some air, and because its distance from any town or
market made it an inconvenient situation. My
lather was in no very affluent circumstances, and it
was a sad necessity which he was put to, of having
to go many miles to fetch anything he wanted from
the nearest village, which was full seven miles distant,
through a sad miry way that at all times made it
heavy walking, and after rain was almost impassable.
But he had no horse or carriage of his own.

The church which belonged to the parish in which
our house was situated, stood in this village ; and its
distance being, as I said before, seven miles from our
house, made it quite an impossible thing for my
mother or me to think of going to it. Sometimes,
indeed, on a fine dry Sunday, my father would rise
early, and take a walk to the village, just to see how
goodness thrived, as he used to say ; but he would
generally return tired, and the worse for his walk.
It is scarcely possible to explain to 'any one who has
not lived in the fens, what difficult and dangerous
walking it is. A mile is as good as four, I have heard

12

FIRST GOING TO CHURCH 13

my father say, in those parts. My mother, who in
the e*arly part of her life had lived in a more civilized
spot, and had been used to constant church-going,
would often lament her situation. It was from her I
early imbibed a great curiosity and anxiety to s«e that
thing, which I had heard her call a church, and so
often lament that she could never go to. I had seen
houses of various structures, and had seen in pictures
the shapes of ships and boats, and palaces and temples,
but never rightly anything that could be called a
church, or that could satisfy me about its form. Some-
times I thought it must be like our house, and some-
times I fancied it must be more like the house of our
neighbour, Mr. Sutton, which was bigger and hand-
somer than ours. Sometimes I thought it was a great
hollow cave, such as I have heard my father say the
first inhabitants of the earth dwelt in. Then I thought
it was like a waggon, or a cart, and that it must be
something moveable. The shape of it ran in my mind
strangely, and one day I ventured to ask my mother,
what was that foolish thing that she was always
longing to go to, and which she called a church. Was
it anything to eat or drink, or was it only like a great
huge plaything, to be seen and stared at ? — I was not
quite five years of age when I made this inquiry.

This question, so oddly put, made my mother
smile ; but in a little time she put on a more grave
look, and informed me, that a church was nothing
that I had supposed it, but it was a great building,
far greater than any house which I had seen, where
men, and women, and children, came together, twice
a day, on Sundays, to hear the Bible read, and make
good resolutions for the week to come. She told me,
that the fine music which we sometimes heard in the
air, eame from the bells of St. Mary's church, and
that we never heard it but when the wind was in a
particular point. This raised my wonder more than
all the rest ; for I had somehow conceived that the

14 CHARLES LAMB

noise which I heard was occasioned by birds up in the
air, or that it was made by the angels, whom (so
ignorant I was till that time) I had always considered
to be a sort of birds : for before this time I was totally
ignorant of anything like religion, it being a principle
of my father, that young heads should not be told
too many things at once, for fear they should get
confused ideas, and no clear notions of anything. We
had always indeed so far observed Sundays, that no
work was done upon that day, and upon that day I
wore my best muslin frock, and was not allowed to
sing, or to be noisy ; but I never understood why
that day should differ from any other. We had no
public meetings : — indeed, the few straggling houses
which were near us, would have furnished but a slender
congregation ; and the loneliness of the place we
lived in, instead of making us more sociable, and
drawing us closer together, as my mother used to say
it ought to have done, seemed to have the effect of
making us more distant and averse to society than
other people. One or two good neighbours indeed we
had, but not in numbers to give me an idea of church
attendance.

But now my mother thought it high time to give
me some clearer instruction in the main points of
religion, and my father came readily in to her plan.
I wras now permitted to sit up half an hour later on a
Sunday evening, that I might hear a portion of Scrip-
ture read, which had always been their custom, though
by reason of my tender age, and my father's opinion
on the impropriety of children being taught too young,
I had never till now been an auditor. I was taught
my prayers, and those things which you, ladies, I
doubt not, had the benefit of being instructed in at
a much earlier age.

The clearer my notions on these points became, they
only made me more passionately long for the privilege
of joining in that social service, from which it seemed

FIRST GOING TO CHURCH 15

that we alone, of all the inhabitants of the land, were
debarred ; and when the wind was in that point which
favoured the sound of the distant bells of St. Mary's
to be heard over the great moor which skirted our house,
I have stood out in the air to catch the sounds which I
almost devoured ; and the tears have come in my eyes,
when sometimes they seemed to speak to me almost in
articulate sounds, to eome to church, and because of the
great moor which was between me and them I could not
come ; and the too tender apprehensions of these things
have filled me with a religious melancholy. With
thoughts like these I entered into my seventh year.

And now the time has come, when the great moor
was no longer to separate me from the object of my
wishes and of my curiosity. My father having some
money left him by the will of a deceased relation, we
ventured to set up a sort of a carriage — no very superb
one, I assure you, ladies ; but in that part of the world
it was looked upon with some envy by our poorer neigh-
bours. The first party of pleasure which my father
proposed to take in it, was to the village where I had so
often wished to go, and my mother and I were to accom-
pany him ; for it was very fit, niy father observed, that
little Susan should go to church, and learn how to
behave herself, for we might some time or other have
occasion to live in London, and not always be confined
to that out of the way spot.

It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my little
heart beating with almost breathless expectation. The
day Avas fine, and the roads as good as they ever are
in those parts. I was so happy and so proud. I was
lost hi dreams of what I was going to see. At length
the tall steeple of St. Mary's church came in view. It
Avas pointed out to me by my father, as the place from
which that music had come which I had heard over the
moor, and had fancied to be angels singing. I was
wound up to the highest pitch of delight at having
visibly presented to ine the spot from which had pro-

16 CHARLES LAMB

ceeded that unknown friendly music ; and when it
began to peal, just as we approached the village, it
seemed to speak, Susan is come, as plainly as it used to
invite me to come, when I heard it over the moor. I
pass over our alighting at the house of a relation, and
all that passed till I went with my father and mother
to church.

St. Mary's church is a great church for such a small
village as it stands in. My father said it was a cathe-
dral, and that it had once belonged to a monastery,
but the monks were all gone. Over the door there was
stone work, representing saints and bishops, and here
and there, along the sides of the church, there were
figures of men's heads, made in a strange, grotesque
way : I have since seen the same sort of figures in the
round tower of the Temple church in London. My
father said they were very improper ornaments for such
a place, and so' I now think them ; but it seems the
people who built these great churches in old times, gave
themselves more liberties than they do now ; and I
remember that when I first saw them, and before my
father had made this observation, though they were
so ugly and out of shape, and some of them seemed to
be grinning and distorting their features with pain or
with laughter, yet being placed upon a church, to which
I had come with such serious thoughts, I could not help
thinking they had some serious meaning ; and I looked
at them with wonder, but without any temptation to
laugh. I somehow fancied they were the representa-
tion of wicked people set up as a warning.

When we got into the church, the service was not
begun, and my father kindly took me round, to show
me the monuments and everything else remarkable.
I remember seeing one of a venerable figure, which my
father said had been a judge. The figure was kneeling
as if it was alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, I
suppose the Bible, lying on it. I somehow fancied the
figure had a sort of life in it, it seemed so natural, or

FIRST GOING TO CHURCH 17

that the dead judge that it was done for, said his prayers
at it still. This was a silly notion, but I was very
young, and had passed my little life in a remote place,
where I had never seen anything nor knew anything ;
and the awe which I felt at first being in a church, took
from me all power but that of wondering. I did not
reason about anything, I was too young. Now I
understand why monuments are put up for the dead,
and why the figures which are upon them, are described
as doing the actions which they did in their life-times,
and that they are a sort of pictures set up for our in-
struction. But all was new and surprising to me on
that day ; the long windows with little panes, the
pillars, the pews made of oak, the little hassocks for
the people to kneel on, the form of the pulpit with the
sounding-board over it, gracefully carved in flower
work. To you, who have lived all your lives in
populous places, and have been taken to church from
the earliest time you can remember, my admiration of
these things must appear strangely ignorant. But I
was a lonely young creature, that had been brought up
in remote places, where there was neither church nor
church-going inhabitants. I have since lived in great
towns, and seen the ways of churches and of worship,
and I am old enough now to distinguish between what
is essential in religion, and what is merely formal or
ornamental.

When my father had done pointing out to me the
things most worthy of notice about the church, the
service was almost ready to begin ; the parishioners had
most of them entered, and taken their seats ; and we
were shown into a pew where my mother was already
seated. Soon after the clergyman entered, and the organ
began to play what is called the voluntary. I had never
seen so many people assembled before. At first I
thought that all eyes were upon me, and that because I
was a stranger. I was terribly ashamed and confused at
first ; but my mother helped me to find out the places

18 CHARLES LAMB

in the Prayer-book, and being busy about that, took
off some of my painful apprehensions. I was no
stranger to the order of the service, having often read
in a Prayer-book at home ; but my thoughts being
confused, it puzzled me a little to find out the responses
and other things, which I thought I knew so well ; but
I went through it tolerably well. One thing which has
often troubled me since, is, that I am afraid I was too
full of myself, and of thinking how happy I was, and
what a privilege it was for one that was so young to
join in the service with so many grown people, so that
I did not attend enough to the instruction which I might
have received. I remember, I foolishly applied every-
thing that was said to myself, so as it could mean no-
body but myself, I was so full of my own thoughts.
All that assembly of people seemed to me as if they
were come together only to show me the way of a
church. Not but I received some very affecting im-
pressions from some things which I heard that day ;
but the standing up and the sitting down of the people ;
the organ ; the singing ; — the way of all these things
took up more of my attention than was proper ; or I
thought it did. I believe I behaved better and was
more serious when I went a second time, and a third
time ; for now we went as a regular thing every Sunday,
and continued to do so, till, by a still further change
for the better in my father's circumstances, we removed
to London. Oh ! it was a happy day for me my first
going to St. Mary's church : before that day I used to
feel like a little outcast in the wilderness, like one that
did not belong to the world of Christian people. I
have never felt like a little outcast since. But I never
can hear the sweet noise of bells, that I don't think of
the angels singing, and what poor but pretty thoughts
I had of angels in my uninstructed solitude.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

1804—1864
THE MAYPOLE, OF MERRY MOUNT

There is an admirable foundation-* for a philosophic
romance, in the curious history of the early settlement of
Mount Wollaston, or Merry Mount. In the slight sketch
here attempted, the facts, recorded on the grave pages of
our New England annalists, have wrought themselves,
almost spontaneously, into a sort of allegory. The masques,
mummeries, and festive customs, described in the text,
are in accordance with the manners of the age. Authority
on these points may be found in Strutt's Book of English
Sports and Pastimes.

BRIGHT were the days at Merry Mount, when the
Maypole was the banner -staff of that gay colony !
They who reared it, should their banner be triumphant,
were to pour sunshine over New England's rugged hills,
and scatter flower-seeds throughout the soil. Jollity
and gloom were contending for an empire. Midsummer
eve had come, bringing deep verdure to the forest, and
roses in her lap, of a more vivid hue than the tender
buds of Spring. But May, or her mirthful spirit, dwelt
all the year round at Merry Mount, sporting with the
Summer months, and revelling with Autumn, and bask-
ing in the glow of Winter's fireside. Through a world
of toil and care she flitted with a dreamlike smile, and
came hither to find a home among the lightsome hearts
of Merry Mount.

Never had the Maypole been so gaily decked as at

sunset on Midsummer eve. This venerated emblem

was a pine-tree, which had preserved the slender grace

of youth, while it equalled the loftiest height of the

19

20 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

old wood monarchs. From its top streamed a silken
banner, coloured like the rainbow. Down nearly to the
ground the pole was dressed with birchen boughs, and
others of the liveliest green, and some with silvery
leaves, fastened by ribands that fluttered in fantastic
knots of twenty different colours, but no sad ones.
Garden flowers, and blossoms of the wilderness,
laughed gladly forth amid the verdure, so fresh and
dewy, that they must have grown by magic on that
happy pine-tree. Where this green and flowery
splendour ter minuted, the shaft of the Maypole was
stained with the seven brilliant hues of the banner at
its top. On the lowest green bough hung an abundant
wreath of roses, some that had been gathered in the
sunniest spots of the forest, and others, oi still richer
blush, which the colonists had reared from English seed.
O people of the Golden Age, the chief of your husbandry
was to raise flowers !

But what was the wild throng that stood hand in
hand about the Maypole ? It could not be, that the
fauns and nymphs, when driven from their classic
groves and homes of ancient fable, had sought refuge,
as all the persecuted did, in the fresh woods of the West.
These were Gothic monsters, though perhaps of Grecian
ancestry. On the shoulders of a comely youth, uprose
the head and branching antlers of a stag ; a second,
human in all other points, had the grim visage of a
wolf ; a third, still with the trunk and limbs of a mortal
man, showed the beard and horns of a venerable he-
goat. There was the likeness of a bear erect, brute in
all but his hind legs, which were adorned. with pink silk
stockings. And here again, almost as wondrous, stood
a real bear of the dark forest, lending each of his fore-
paws to the grasp of a human hand, and as ready for
the dance as any in that circle. His inferior nature
rose halfway to meet his companions as they stooped.
Other faces wore the similitude of man or woman, but
distorted or extravagant, with red noses pendulous

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 21

before their mouths, which seemed of awful depth, and
stretched from ear to ear in an eternal fit of laughter.
Here might be seen the Salvage Man, well known in
heraldry, hairy as a baboon, and girdled with green
leaves. By his side, a nobler figure, but still a counter-
feit, appeared an Indian hunter, with feathery crest
and wampum belt. Many of this strange company
wore fools-caps, and had little bells appended to their
garments, tinkling with a silvery sound, responsive to
the inaudible music of their gleesome spirits. Some
youths and maidens were of soberer garb, yet well
maintained their places in the irregular throng, by the
expression of wild revelry upon their features. Such
were the colonists of Merry Mount, as they stood in the
broad smile of sunset, round their venerated Maypole.

Had a wanderer, bewildered in the melancholy forest,
heard their mirth, and stolen a half -affrighted glance, he
might have fancied them the crew of Comus, some
already transformed to brutes, some midway between
man and beast, and the others rioting in the flow of
tipsy jollity that foreran the change. But a band of
Puritans, who watched the scene, invisible themselves,
compared the masques to those devils and ruined souls
with whom their superstition peopled the black wilder-
ness.

Within the ring of monsters, appeared the two airiest
forms that had ever trodden on any more solid footing
than a purple and golden cloud. One wras a youth in
glistening apparel, with a scarf of the rainbow pattern
crosswise on his breast. His right hand held a gilded
staff, the ensign of high dignity among the revellers,
and his left grasped the slender fingers of a fair maiden,
not less gaily decorated than himself. Bright roses
glowed in contrast with the dark and glossy curls of
each, and were scattered round their feet, or had sprung
up spontaneously there. Behind this lightsome couple,
so close to the Maypole that its boughs shaded his
jovial face, stood the figure of an English priest,

22 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

canonically dressed, yet decked with flowers, in
heathen fashion, and wearing a chaplet of the native
vine leaves. By the riot of his rolling eye, and the
pagan decorations of his holy garb, he seemed the
wildest monster there, and the very Comus of the crew.

' Votaries of the Maypole,' ' cried the flower-decked
priest, ' merrily, all day long, have the woods echoed
to your mirth. But be this your merriest hour, my
hearts ! Lo, here stand the Lord and Lady of the
May, whom I, a clerk of Oxford, and high priest of
Merry Mount, am presently to join in holy matrimony.
Up with your nimble spirits, ye morris -dancers, green
men, and glee-maidens, bears and wolves, and horned
gentlemen ! Come ; a chorus now, rich with the old
mirth of Merry England, and the wilder glee of this
fresh forest ; and then a dance, to show the youthful
pair what life is made of, and how airily they should
go through it ! All ye that love the Maypole, lend
your voices to the nuptial song of the Lord and Lady
of the May ! '

This wedlock was more serious than most affairs of
Merry Mount, where jest and delusion, trick and
fantasy, kept up a continual carnival. The Lord and
Lady of the May, though their titles must be laid down
at sunset, were really and truly to be partners for the
dance of life, beginning the measure that same bright
eve. The wreath of roses, that hung from the lowest
green bough of the Maypole, had been twined for them,
and would be thrown over both their heads, in symbol
of their flowery union. When the priest had spoken,
therefore, a riotous uproar burst from the rout of
monstrous figures.

' Begin you the stave, reverend Sir,' cried they all ;
* and never did the woods ring to such a merry peal
as we of the Maypole shall send up ! '

Immediately a prelude of pipe, cithern, and viol,
touched with practised minstrelsy, began to play from
a neighbouring thicket, in such a mirthful cadence,

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 23

that the boughs of the Maypole quivered to the sound.
But the May Lord, he of the gilded staff, chancing to
look into his Lady's eyes, was wonder-struck at the
almost pensive glance that met his own.

' Edith, sweet Lady of the May,' whispered he, re-
proachfully, ' is yon wreath of roses a garland to hang
above our graves, that you look so sad ? Oh, Edith,
this is our golden time ! Tarnish it not by any pensive
shadow of the mind ; for it may be, that nothing of
futurity will be brighter than the mere remembrance
of what is now passing.'

1 That was the very thought that saddened me !
How came it in your mind too ? ' said Edith, in a
still lower tone than he ; for it was high treason to be
sad at Merry Mount. * Therefore do I sigh amid this
festive music. And besides, dear Edgar, I struggle
as with a dream, and fancy that these shapes of our
jovial friends are visionary, and their mirth unreal,
and that we are no true Lord and Lady of the May.
What is the mystery in my heart ? '

Just then, as if a spell had loosened them, down
came a shower of withering rose leaves from the May-
pole. Alas for the young lovers ! No sooner had
their hearts glowed with real passion, than they were
sensible of something vague and unsubstantial in their
former pleasures, and felt a dreary presentiment of
inevitable change. From the moment that they truly
loved, they had subjected themselves to earth's doom
of care and sorrow, and troubled joy, and had no more
a home at Merry Mount. That was Edith's mystery.
Now leave we the priest to marry them, and the
masquers to sport round the Maypole, till the last
sunbeam be withdrawn from its summit, and the
shadows of the forest mingle gloomily in the dance.
Meanwhile, we may discover who these gay people
were.

Two hundred years ago, and more, the old world
and its inhabitants became mutually weary of each

24 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

other. Men voyaged by thousands to the West ; some
to barter glass beads, and such like jewels, for the
furs of the Indian hunter ; some to conquer virgin
empires ; and one stern band to pray. But none of
these motives had much weight with the colonists of
Merry Mount. Their leaders were men who had
sported so long with life, that when Thought and
Wisdom came, even these unwelcome guests were led
astray by the crowd of vanities which they should
have put to flight. Erring Thought and perverted
Wisdom were made to put on masques, and play the
fool. The men of whom we speak, after losing the
heart's fresh gaiety, imagined a wild philosophy of
pleasure, and came hither to act out their latest day-
dream. They gathered followers from all that giddy
tribe, whose whole life is like the festal days of soberer
men. In their train were minstrels, not unknown in
London streets; wandering players, whose theatres
had been the halls of noblemen ; mummers, rope-
dancers, and mountebanks, who would long be missed
at wakes, church ales, and fairs ; in a word, mirth -
makers of every sort, such as abounded in that age,
but now began to be discountenanced by the rapid
growth of Puritanism. Light had their footsteps been
on land, and as lightly they came across the sea. Many
had been maddened by their previous troubles into a
gay despair ; others were as madly gay in the flush of
youth, like the May Lord and his Lady ; but what-
ever might be the quality of their mirth, old and young
were gay at Merry Mount. The young deemed them-
selves happy. The elder spirits, if they knew that
mirth was but the counterfeit of happiness, yet fol-
lowed the false shadow wilfully, because at least her
garments glittered brightest. Sworn triflers of a life-
time, they would not venture among the sober truths
of life, not even to be truly blest.

All the hereditary pastimes of Old England were
transplanted hither. The King of Christmas was duly

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 25

crowned, and the Lord of Misrule bore potent sway.
On the eve of Saint John, they felled whole acres of
the forest to make bonfires, and danced by the blaze
all night, crowned with garlands, and throwing flowers
into the flame. At harvest-time, though their -crop
was of the smallest, they made an image with the
sheaves of Indian corn, and wreathed it with autumnal
garlands, and bore it home triumphantly. But what
chiefly characterized the colonists of Merry Mount,
was their veneration for the Maypole. It has made
their true history a poet's tale. Spring decked the
hallowed emblem with young blossoms and fresh green
boughs ; Summer brought roses of the deepest blush,
and the perfected foliage of the forest ; Autumn en-
riched it with that red and yellow gorgeousness, which
converts each wildwood leaf into a painted flower ;
and Winter silvered it with sleet, and hung it round
with icicles, till it flashed in the cold sunshine, itself a
frozen sunbeam. Thus each alternate season did
homage to the Maypole, and paid it a tribute of its
own richest splendour. Its votaries danced round it,
once, at least, in every month ; sometimes they called
it their religion, or their altar ; but always, it was the
banner-staff of Merry Mount.

Unfortunately, there were men in the new world, of
a sterner faith than these Maypole worshippers. Not
far from Merry Mount was a settlement of Puritans,
most dismal wretches, who said their prayers before
daylight, and then wrought in the forest or the corn-
field, till evening made it prayer-time again. Their
weapons were always at hand to shoot down the
straggling savage. When they met in conclave, it
was never to keep up the old English mirth, but to
hear sermons three hours long, or to proclaim bounties
on the heads of wolves and the scalps of Indians. Their
festivals were fast-days, and their chief pastime the
singing of psalms. Woe to the youth or maiden who
did but dream of a dance ! The selectman nodded to

26 NATHANIEL HAWTHOKNE

the constable ; and there sat the light-heeled reprobate
in the stocks ; or if he danced, it was round the
whipping-post, which might be termed the Puritan
Maypole.

A party of these grim Puritans, toiling through the
difficult woods, each with a horseload of iron armour
to burden his footsteps, would sometimes draw near
the sunny precincts of Merry Mount. There were
the silken colonists, sporting round their Maypole ;
perhaps teaching a bear to dance, or striving to com-
municate their mirth to the grave Indian ; or masquer-
ading in the skins of deer and wolves, which they had
hunted for that especial purpose. Often, the whole
colony were playing at blindman's buff, magistrates
and all with their eyes bandaged, except a single
scape- goat, whom the blinded sinners pursued by the
tinkling of the bella at his garments. Once, it is said,
they were seen following a flower-decked corpse, with
merriment and festive music, to his grave. But did
the dead man laugh ? In their quietest times, they
sang ballads and told tales, for the edification of their
pious visitors ; or perplexed them with juggling
tricks ; or grinned at them through horse-collars ;
and when sport itself grew wearisome, they made
game of their own stupidity, and began a yawning
match. At the very least of these enormities, the
men of iron shook then- heads and frowned so darkly,
that the revellers looked up, imagining that a momen-
tary cloud had overcast the sunshine, which was to be
perpetual there. On the other hand, the Puritans
affirmed, that, when a psalm was pealing from their
place of worship, the echo which the forest sent them
back seemed often like the chorus of a jolly catch,
closing with a roar of laughter. Who but the fiend,
and his bond-slaves, the crew of Merry Mount, had
thus disturbed them ? In due time, a feud arose,
stern and bitter on one side, and as serious on the
other as anything could be among such light spirits

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 27

as had sworn allegiance to the Maypole. The future
complexion of New England was involved in this
important quarrel. Should the grizzly saints estab-
lish their jurisdiction over the gay sinners, then would
their spirits darken all the clime, and make it a land
of clouded visages, of hard toil, of sermon and psalm
for ever. But should the banner-staff of Merry Mount
be fortunate, sunshine would break upon the hills,
and flowers would beautify the forest, and late pos-
terity do homage to the Maypole.

After these authentic passages from history, we
return to the nuptials of the Lord and Lady of the
May. Alas ! we have delayed too long, and must
darken our tale too suddenly. As we glance again
at the Maypole, a solitary sunbeam is fading from the
summit, and leaves only a faint, golden tinge, blended
with the hues of the rainbow banner. Even that dim
light is now withdrawn, relinquishing the whole
domain of Merry Mount to the evening gloom, which
has rushed so instantaneously from the black sur-
rounding woods. But some of these black shadows
have Crushed forth in human shape.

Yes, with the setting sun, the last day of mirth had
passed from Merry Mount. The ring of gay masquers
was disordered and broken ; the stag lowered his
antlers in dismay ; the wolf grew weaker than a
lamb ; the bells of the morris-dancers tinkled with
tremulous affright. The Puritans had played a char-
acteristic part in the Maypole mummeries. Their
darksome figures were intermixed with the wild
shapes of their foes, and made the scene a picture of
the moment, when waking thoughts start up amid
the scattered fantasies of a dream. The leader of the
hostile party stood in the centre of the circle, while the
rout of monsters cowered around him, like evil spirits
in the presence of a dread magician. No fantastic
foolery could look him in the face. So stern was the
energy of his aspect, that the whole man, visage,

28 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

frame, and soul, seemed wrought of iron, gifted with
life and thought, yet all of one substance with his
headpiece and breastplate. It was the Puritan of
Puritans ; it was Endicott himself !

' Stand off, priest of Baal ! ' said he, with a grim
frown, and laying no reverent hand upon the surplice.
4 1 know thee, Blackstone ! Thou art the man, who
couldst not abide the rule even of thine own corrupted
church, and hast come hither to preach iniquity, and
to give example of it in thy life. But now shall it be
seen that the Lord hath sanctified this wilderness for
his peculiar people. Woe unto them that would
defile it ! And first, for this flower-decked abomina-
tion, the altar of thy worship ! '

And with his keen sword Endicott assaulted the
hallowed Maypole. Nor long did it resist his arm. It
groaned with a dismal sound ; it showered leaves and
rosebuds upon the remorseless enthusiast ; and finally,
with all its green boughs, and ribands, and flowers,
symbolic of departed pleasures, down fell the banner-
staff of Merry Mount. As it sank, tradition says, the
evening sky grew darker, and the woods threw forth
a more sombre shadow.

' There,' cried Endicott, looking triumphantly on
his work, ' there lies the only Maypole in New England !
The thought is strong within me, that, by its fall, is
shadowed forth the fate of light and idle mirth-makers,
amongst us and our posterity. Amen, saith John
Endicott.'

4 Amen ! ' echoed his followers.

But the votaries of the Maypole gave one groan for
their idol. At the sound, the Puritan leader glanced
at the crew of Comus, each a figure of broad mirth,
yet, at this moment, strangely expressive of sorrow
and dismay,

' Valiant captain,' quoth Peter Palfrey, the Ancient
of the band, * what order shall be taken with the
prisoners ? '

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 29

' I thought not to repent me of cutting down a May-
pole,' replied Endicott, * yet now I could find in my
heart to plant it again, and give each of these bestial
pagans one other dance round their idol. It would
have served rarely for a whipping-post ! '

' But there are pine-trees enow,' suggested the
lieutenant.

' True, good Ancient,' said the leader. * Wherefore,
bind the heathen crew, and bestow on them a small
matter of stripes apiece, as earnest of our future justice.
Set some of the rogues in the stocks to rest themselves,
so soon as Providence shall bring us to one of our own
well-ordered settlements, where such accommodations
may be found. Further penalties, such as branding
and cropping of ears, shall be thought of hereafter.'

* How many stripes for the priest ? ' inquired
Ancient Palfrey.

' None as yet,' answered Endicott, bending his iron
frown upon the culprit. ' It must be for the Great
and General Court to determine, whether stripes and
long imprisonment, and other grievous penalty, may
atone for his transgressions. Let him look to himself !
For such as violate our civil order, it may be permitted
us to show mercy. But woe to the wretch that
troubleth our religion ! '

' And this dancing bear,' resumed the officer.
' Must he share the stripes of his fellows ? '

' Shoot him through the head ! ' said the energetic
Puritan. ' I suspect witchcraft in the beast.'

' Here be a couple of shining ones,' continued Peter
Palfrey, pointing his weapon at the Lord and Lady of
the May. ' They seem to be of high station among
these misdoers. Methinks their dignity will not be
fitted with less than a double share of stripes.'

Endicott rested on his sword, and closely surveyed
the dress and aspect of the hapless pair. There they
stood, pale, downcast, and apprehensive. Yet there
was an air of mutual support, and of pure affection,

30 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

seeking aid and giving it, that showed them to be man
and wife, with the sanction of a priest upon their love.
The youth, in the peril of the moment, had dropped
his gilded staff, and thrown his arm about the Lady
of the May, who leaned against his breast, too lightly
to burden him, but with weight enough to express that
their destinies were linked together, for good or evil.
They looked first at each other, and then into the grim
captain's face. There they stood, in the first hour
of wedlock, while the idle pleasures, of which their
companions were the emblems, had given place to the
sternest cares of life, personified by the dark Puritans.
But never had their youthful beauty seemed so pure
and high, as when its glow was chastened by adversity.

' Youth,' said Endicott, ' ye stand in an evil case,
thou and thy maiden wife. Make ready presently ;
for I am minded that ye shall both have a token to
remember your wedding-day ! '

* Stern man,' cried the May Lord, ' how can I move
thee ? Were the means at hand, I would resist to the
death. Being powerless, I entreat ! Do with me as
thou wilt, but let Edith go untouched ! '

' Not so,* replied the immitigable zealot. ' We are
not wont to show an idle courtesy to that sex, which
requireth the stricter discipline. What sayest thou,
maid ? Shall thy silken bridegroom suffer thy share
of the penalty, besides his own ? '

1 Be it death,' said Edith, ' and lay it all on me ! '

Truly, as Endicott had said, the poor lovers stood
in a woeful case. Their foes were triumphant, their
friends captive and abased, their home desolate, the
benighted wilderness around them, and a rigorous
destiny, in the shape of the Puritan leader, their only
guide. Yet the deepening twilight could not alto-
gether conceal that the iron man was softened ; he
smiled at the fair spectacle of early love ; he almost
sighed for the inevitable blight of early hopes.

' The troubles of life have come hastily on this young

THE MAYPOLE OF MERRY MOUNT 31

couple,' observed Endicott. ' We will see how they
comport themselves under their present trials, ere we
burden them with greater. If, among the spoil, there
be any garments of a more decent fashion, let them
be put upon this May Lord and his Lady, instead of
their glistening vanities. Look to it, some of you.'

' And shall not the youth's hair be cut ? ' asked
Peter Palfrey, looking with abhorrence at the love-
lock and long glossy curls of the young man.

' Crop it forthwith, and that in the true pumpkin-
shell fashion,' answered the captain. ' Then bring
them along with us, but more gently than their fellows.
There be qualities in the youth, which may make him
valiant to fight, and sober to toil, and pious to pray ;
and in the maiden, that may fit her to become a mother
in our Israel, bringing up babes in better nurture than
her own hath been. Nor think ye, young ones, that
they are the happiest, even in our lifetime of a moment,
who misspend it in dancing round a Maypole ! '

And Endicott, the severest Puritan of all who laid
the rock foundation of New England, lifted the wreath
of roses from the ruin of the Maypole, and threw it,
with his own gauntleted hand, over the heads of the
Lord and Lady of the May. It was a deed of pro-
phecy. -As the moral gloom of the world overpower*
all systematic gaiety, even so was their home of wild
mirth made desolate amid the sad forest. They re-
turned to it no more. But, as their flowery garland
was wreathed of the brightest roses that had grown
there, so, in the tie that united them, were intertwined
all the purest and best of their early joys. They went
heavenward, supporting each other along the difficult
path which it was their lot to tread, and never wasted
one regretful thought on the vanities of Merry Mount.

32 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

THE GREY CHAMPION

THERE was once a time when New England groaned
under the actual pressure of heavier wrongs than those
threatened ones which brought on the Revolution.
James II, the bigoted successor of Charles the Volup-
tuous, had annulled the charters of all the colonies,
and sent a harsh and unprincipled soldier to take away
our liberties and endanger our religion. The adminis-
tration of Sir Edmund Andros lacked scarcely a single
characteristic of tyranny : a Governor and Council,
holding office from the King, and wholly independent
of the country ; laws made and taxes levied without
concurrence of the people, immediate or by their
representatives ; the rights of private citizens violated,
and the titles of all landed property declared void ;
the voice of complaint stifled by restrictions on the
press ; and, finally, disaffection overawed by the first
band of mercenary troops that ever marched on our
free soil. For two years our ancestors were kept in
sullen submission, by that filial love which had invari-
ably secured their allegiance to the mother country,
whether its head chanced to be a Parliament, Pro-
tector, or Popish Monarch. Till these evil times,
however, such allegiance had been merely nominal,
and the colonists had ruled themselves, enjoying far
more freedom than is even yet the privilege of the
native subjects of Great Britain.

At length, a rumour reached our shores that the
Prince of Orange had ventured on an enterprise, the
success of which would be the triumph of civil and
religious rights and the salvation of New England. It
was but a doubtful whisper ; it might be false, or the
attempt might fail ; and, in either case, the man that
stirred against King James would lose his head. Still
the intelligence produced a marked effect. The people
smiled mysteriously in the streets, and threw bold

THE GREY CHAMPION 33

glances at their oppressors ; while, far and wide, there
was a subdued and silent agitation, as if the slightest
signal would rouse the whole land from its sluggish
despondency. Aware of their danger, the rulers re-
solved to avert it by an imposing display of strength,
and perhaps to confirm their despotism by yet harsher
measures. One afternoon in April, 1689, Sir Edmund
Andros and his favourite councillors, being warm with
wine, assembled the red-coats of the Governor's
Guard, and made their appearance in the streets of
Boston. The sun was near setting when the march
commenced.

The roll of the drum, at that unquiet crisis, seemed
to go through the streets, less as the martial music of
the soldiers, than as a muster call to the inhabitants
themselves. A multitude, by various avenues, assem-
bled in King Street, which was destined to be the
scene, nearly a century afterwards, of another encounter
between the troops of Britain and a people struggling
against her tyranny. Though more than sixty years
had elapsed since the Pilgrims came, this crowd of
their descendants still showed the strong and sombre
features of their character, perhaps more strikingly in
such a stern emergency than on happier occasions.
There were the sober garb, the general severity of
mien, the gloomy but undismayed expression, the
scriptural forms of speech, and the confidence in
Heaven's blessing on a righteous cause, which would
have marked a band of the original Puritans, when
threatened by some peril of the wilderness. Indeed,
it was not yet time for the old spirit to be extinct ;
since there were men in the street, that day, who
had worshipped there beneath the trees, before a house
was reared to the God for whom they had become
exiles. Old soldiers of the Parliament were here, too,
smiling grimly at the thought, that their aged arms
might strike another blow against the house of Stuart.
Here, also, were the veterans of King Philip's war,

228 O

34 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

who had burned villages and slaughtered young and
old, with pious fierceness, while the godly souls through-
out the land were helping them with prayer. Several
ministers were scattered among the crowd, which,
unlike all other mobs, regarded them with such rever-
ence, as if there were sanctity in their very garments.
These holy men exerted their influence to quiet the
people, but not to disperse them. Meantime, the
purpose of the Governor, in disturbing the peace of
the town, at a period when the slightest commotion
might throw the country into a ferment, was almost
the universal subject of inquiry, and variously ex-
plained.

4 Satan will strike his master-stroke presently,' cried
some, l because he knoweth that his time is short. All
our godly pastors are to be dragged to prison ! We
shall see them at a Smithfield fire in King Street ! '

Hereupon the people of each parish gathered closer
round their minister, who looked calmly upwards and
assumed a more apostolic dignity, as well befitted a
candidate for the highest honour of his profession, the
crown of martyrdom. It was actually fancied, at that
period, that New England might have a John Rogers
of her own, to take the place of that worthy in the
Primer.

4 The Pope of Rome has given orders for a new St.
Bartholomew ! ' cried others. * We are to be massacred,
man and male child ! '

Neither was this rumour wholly discredited, although
the wiser class believed the Governor's object somewhat
less atrocious. His predecessor under the old charter,
Bradstreet, a venerable companion of the first settlers,
was known to be in town. There were grounds for
conjecturing that Sir Edmund Andros intended, at
once, to strike terror, by a parade of military force,
and to confound the opposite faction, by possessing
himself of their chief.

* Stand firm for the old charter, Governor ! ' shouted

THE GREY CHAMPION 35

the crowd, seizing upon the idea. ' The good old
Governor Bradstreet ! '

While this cry was at the loudest, the people were
surprised by the well-known figure of Governor Brad-
street himself, a patriarch of nearly ninety, who
appeared on the elevated steps of a door, and, with
characteristic mildness, besought them to submit to
the constituted authorities.

' My children,' concluded this venerable person, ' do
nothing rashly. Cry not aloud, but pray for the wel-
fare of New England, and expect patiently what the
Lord will do in this matter ! '

The event was soon to be decided. All this time,
the roll of the drum had been approaching through
Cornhill, louder and deeper, till with reverberations
from house to house, and the regular tramp of martial
footsteps, it burst into the street. A double rank of
soldiers made their appearance, occupying the whole
breadth of the passage, with shouldered matchlocks,
and matches burning, so as to present a row of fires in
the dusk. Their steady march was like the progress
of a machine, that would roll irresistibly over every-
thing in its way. Next, moving slowly, with a con-
fused clatter of hoofs on the pavement, rode a party
of mounted gentlemen, the central figure being Sir
Edmund Andros, elderly, but erect and soldier-like.
Those arpund him were his favourite councillors, and
the bitterest foes of New England. At his right hand
rode Edward Randolph, our arch-enemy, that * blasted
wretch,' as Cotton Mather calls him, who achieved the
downfall of our ancient government, and was followed
with a sensible curse, through life and to his grave.
On the other side was Bullivant, scattering jests and
mockery as he rode along. Dudley came behind, with
a downcast look, dreading, as well he might, to meet
the indignant gaze of the people, who beheld him, their
only countryman by birth, among the oppressors of
his native land. The captain of a frigate in the har-

36 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

bour, and two or three civil officers under the Crown,
were also there. But the figure which most attracted
the public eye, and stirred up the deepest feeling, was
the Episcopal clergyman of King's Chapel, riding
haughtily among the magistrates in his priestly vest-
ments, the fitting representative of prelacy and perse-
cution, the union of church and state, and all those
abominations which had driven the Puritans to the
wilderness. Another guard of soldiers, in double rank,
brought up the rear.

The whole scene was a picture of the condition of
New England, and its moral, the deformity of any
government that does not grow out of the nature of
things and the character of the people. On one side
the religious multitude, with their sad visages and
dark attire, and on the other, the group of despotic
rulers, with the High Churchman in the midst, and
here and there a crucifix at their bosoms, all mag-
nificently clad, flushed with wine, proud of unjust
authority, and scoffing at the universal groan. And
the mercenary soldiers, waiting but the word to deluge
the street with blood, showed the only means by which
obedience could be secured.

' 0 Lord of Hosts,' cried a voice among the crowd,
' provide a Champion for Thy people ! '

This ejaculation was loudly uttered, and served as
a herald's cry, to introduce a remarkable personage.
The crowd had rolled back, and were now huddled
together nearly at the extremity of the street, while
the soldiers had advanced no more than a third of its
length. The intervening space was empty — a paved
solitude, between lofty edifices, which threw almost a
twilight shadow over it. Suddenly, there was seen
the figure of an ancient man, who seemed to have
emerged from among the people, and was walking by
himself along the centre of the street, to confront the
armed band. He wore the old Puritan dress, a dark
cloak and a steeple-crowned hat, in the fashion of at

THE GREY CHAMPION 37

least fifty years before, with a heavy sword upon his
thigh, but a staff in his hand to assist the tremulous
gait of age.

When at some distance from the multitude, the old
man turned slowly round, displaying a face of antique
majesty, rendered doubly venerable by the hoary
beard that descended on his breast. He made a ges-
ture at once of encouragement and warning, then
turned again, and resumed his way.

' Who is this grey patriarch ? ' asked the young
men of their sires.

' Who is this venerable brother ? ' asked the old
men among themselves.

But none could make reply. The fathers of the
people, those of fourscore years and upwards, were
disturbed, deeming it strange that they should forget
one of such evident authority, whom they must have
known in their early days, the associates of Winthrop,
and all the old councillors, giving laws, and making
prayers, and leading them against the savage. The
elderly men ought to have remembered him, too, with
locks as grey in their youth, as their own were now.
And the young ! How could he have passed so utterly
from their memories — that hoary sire, the relic of
long-departed times, whose awful benediction had
surely been bestowed on their uncovered heads in
childhood ?

' Whence did he come ? What is his purpose ? Who
can this old man be ? ' whispered the wondering crowd.

Meanwhile, the venerable stranger, staff in hand,
was pursuing his solitary walk along the centre of the
street. As he drew near the advancing soldiers, and
as the roll of the drum came full upon his ear, the old
man raised himself to a loftier mien, while the de-
crepitude of age seemed to fall from his shoulders,
leaving him in grey but unbroken dignity. Now, he
marched onward with a warrior's step, keeping time to
the military music, Thus the aged form advanced on

38 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

one side, and the whole parade of soldiers and magis-
trates on the other, till, when scarcely twenty yards
remained between, the old man grasped his staff by the
middle, and held it before him like a leader's truncheon.

' Stand ! ' cried he.

The eye, the face, and attitude of command ; the
solemn, yet warlike peal of that voice, fit either to rule
a host in the battle field or be raised to God in prayer,
were irresistible. At the old man's word and out-
stretched arm, the roll of the drum was hushed at once,
and the advancing line stood still. A tremulous
enthusiasm seized upon the multitude. That stately
form, combining the leader and the saint, so grey, so
dimly seen, in such an ancient garb, could only belong
to some old champion of the righteous cause, whom
the oppressor's drum had summoned from his grave.
They raised a shout of awe and exultation, and looked
for the deliverance of New England.

The Governor, and the gentlemen of his party, per-
ceiving themselves brought to an unexpected stand,
rode hastily forward, as if they would have pressed
their snorting and affrighted horses right against the
hoary apparition. He, however, blenched not a step,
but glancing his severe eye round the group, which
half encompassed him, at last bent it sternly on Sir
Edmund Andros. One would have thought that the
dark old man was chief ruler there, and that the
Governor and Council, with soldiers at their back,
representing the whole power and authority of the
Crown, had no alternative but obedience.

' What does this old fellow here ? ' cried Edward
Randolph, fiercely. ' On, Sir Edmund ! Bid the
soldiers forward, and give the dotard the same choice
that you give all his countrymen — to stand aside or
be trampled on ! '

4 Nay, nay, let us show respect to the good grand -
sire,' said Bullivant, laughing. ' See you not, he is
some old round-headed dignitary, who hath lain asleep

THE GREY CHAMPION 39

these thirty years, and knows nothing of the change
of times ? Doubtless, he thinks to put us down with
a proclamation in Old Noll's name ! '

' Are you mad, old man ? ' demanded Sir Edmund
Andros, in loud and harsh tones. ' How dare you
stay the march of King James's Governor ? '

' I have stayed the march of a King himself, ere
now,' replied the grey figure, with stern composure.
' I am here, Sir Governor, because the cry of an
oppressed people hath disturbed me in my secret
place ; and beseeching this favour earnestly of the
Lord, it was vouchsafed me to appear once again on
earth, in the good old cause of His saints. And what
speak ye of James ? There is no longer a Popish
tyrant on the throne of England, and by to-morrow
noon, his name shall be a byword in this very street,
where ye would make it a word of terror. Back, thou
that wast a Governor, back ! With this night thy
power is ended — to-morrow the prison ! — back lest I
foretell the scaffold ! '

The people had been drawing nearer and nearer,
and drinking in the words of their champion, who
spoke in accents long disused, like one unaccustomed
to converse, except with the dead of many years ago.
But his voice stirred their souls. They confronted
the soldiers, not wholly without arms, and ready to
convert the very stones of the street into deadly
weapons. Sir Edmund Andros looked at the old man ;
then he cast his hard and cruel eye over the multitude,
and beheld them burning with that lurid wrath, so
difficult to kindle or to quench ; and again he fixed his
gaze on the aged form, which stood obscurely in an
open space, where neither friend nor foe had thrust
himself. What were his thoughts, he uttered no word
which might discover. But whether the oppressor
were overawed by the Grey Champion's look, or per-
ceived his peril in the threatening attitude of the people,
it is certain that he gave back, and ordered his soldiers

40 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

to commence a slow and guarded retreat. Before
another sunset, the Governor, and all that rode so
proudly with him, were prisoners, and long ere it was
known that James had abdicated, King William was
proclaimed throughout New England.

But where was the Grey Champion ? Some re-
ported, that when the troops had gone from King
Street, and the people were thronging tumultuously in
their rear, Bradstreet, the aged Governor, was seen to
embrace a form more aged than his own. Others
soberly affirmed, that while they marvelled at the
venerable grandeur of his aspect, the old man had
faded from their eyes, melting slowly into the hues of
twilight, till, where he stood, there was an empty space.
But all agreed that the hoary shape was gone. The
men of that generation watched for his reappearance,
in sunshine and in twilight, but never saw him more,
nor knew when his funeral passed, nor where his grave-
stone was.

And who was the Grey Champion ? Perhaps his
name might be found in the records of that stern Court
of Justice which passed a sentence, too mighty for the
age, but glorious in all after times, for its humbling
lesson to the monarch and its high example to the
subject. I have heard, that whenever the descendants
of the Puritans are to show the spirit of their sires,
the old man appears again. When eighty years had
passed, he walked once more in King Street. . Five
years later, in the twilight of an April morning, he
stood on the green, beside the meeting-house, at
Lexington, where now the obelisk of granite, with a
slab of slate inlaid, commemorates the first fallen of
the Revolution. And when our fathers were toiling
at the breastwork on Bunker's Hill, all through that
night the old warrior walked his rounds. Long, long
may it be ere he comes again ! His hour is one of
darkness, and adversity, and peril. But should
domestic tyranny oppress us, or the invader's step

THE GREY CHAMPION 41

pollute our soil, still may the Grey Champion come ;
for he is the type of New England's hereditary spirit :
and his shadowy march, on the eve of danger, must
ever be the pledge that New England's sons will
vindicate their ancestry.

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL

ONE of the few incidents of Indian warfare naturally
Susceptible of the moonlight of romance was that
expedition Undertaken for the defence of the frontiers
in the ydar 1725, which resulted in the well-remembered
* Lo veil's Fight.' Imagination, by casting certain cir-
cumstances judicially into the shade, may see much to
admire in the heroism of a little band who gave battle
to twice their number in the heart of the enemy's
country. The open bravery displayed by both parties
was in accordance with civilized ideas of valour ; and
chivalry itself might not blush to record the deeds of
one or two individuals. The battle, though so fatal
to those who fought, was not unfortunate in its conse-
quences to the country ; for it broke the strength of a
tribe and conduced to the peace which subsisted during
several ensuing years. History and tradition are un-
. usually minute in their memorials of this affair ; and
the captain of a scouting party of frontier men has
acquired as actual a military renown as many a vic-
torious leader of thousands. Some of the incidents
contained in the following pages will be recognized,
notwithstanding the substitution of fictitious names,
by such as have heard, from old men's lips, the fate of
the few combatants who were in a condition to retreat
after ' Lovell's Fight.'

The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the
tree-tops, beneath which two weary and wounded men
had stretched their limbs the night before. Their bed

42 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

of withered oak-leaves was strewn upon the small
level space, at the foot of a rock, situated near the
summit of one of the gentle swells by which the face
of the country is there diversified. The mass of granite,
rearing its smooth, flat surface fifteen or twenty feet
above their heads, was not unlike a gigantic grave-
stone, upon which the veins seemed to form an in-
scription in forgotten characters. On a tract of several
acres around this rock, oaks and other hard-wood
trees had supplied the place of the pines, which were
the usual growth of the land ; and a young and vigorous
sapling stood close beside the travellers.

The severe wound of the elder man had probably
deprived him of sleep ; for, so soon as the first ray of
sunshine rested on the top of the highest tree, he reared
himself painfully from his recumbent posture and sat
erect. The deep lines of his countenance and the
scattered grey of his hair marked him as past the
middle age ; but his muscular frame would, but for
the effects of his wound, have been as capable of sus-
taining fatigue as in the early vigour of life. Languor
and exhaustion now sat upon his haggard features ;
and the despairing glance which he sent forward
through the depths of the forest proved his own con-
viction that his pilgrimage was at an end. He next
turned his eyes to the companion who reclined by his
side. The youth — for he had scarcely Attained the
years of manhood — lay, with his head upon his arm,
in the embrace of an unquiet sleep, which a thrill of
pain from his wounds seemed each moment on the
point of breaking. His right hand grasped a musket ;
and, to judge from the violent action of his features,
his slumbers were bringing back a vision of the conflict
of which he was one of the few survivors. A shout —
deep and loud in his dreaming fancy — found its way
in an imperfect murmur to his lips ; and, starting even
at the slight sound of his own voice, he suddenly
awoke. The first act of reviving recollection was to

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 43

make anxious inquiries respecting the condition of his
wounded fellow traveller. The latter shook his head.

' Reuben, my boy,' said he, ' this rock beneath
which we sit will serve for an old hunter's gravestone.
There is many and many a long mile of howling wilder-
ness before us yet ; nor would it avail me anything
if the smoke of my own chimney were but on the
other side of that swell of land.* The Indian bullet
was deadlier than I thought.'

' You are weary with our three days' travel,' replied
the youth, ' and a little longer rest will recruit you.
Sit you here while I search the woods for the herbs
and roots that must be our sustenance ; and, having
eaten, you shall lean on me, and we will turn our faces
homeward. I doubt not that, with my help, you can
attain to some* one of the frontier garrisons.'

' There is not two days' life in me, Reuben,' said the
other, calmly, ' and I will no longer burden you with
my useless body, when you can scarcely support your
own. Your wounds are deep and your strength is
failing fast ; yet, if you hasten onward alone, you may
be preserved. For me there is no hope, and I will
await death here.'

' If it must be so, I will remain and watch by you,'
said Reuben, resolutely.

' No, my son, no,' rejoined his companion. ' Let
the wish of a dying man have weight with you ; give
me one grasp of your hand, and get you hence.
Think you that my last moments will be eased by the
thought that I leave you to die a more lingering
death ? I have loved you like a father, Reuben ;
and at a time like this I should have something of a
father's authority. I charge you to be gone, that I
may die in peace.'

' And because you have been a father to me, should
I therefore leave you to perish and to lie unburied
in the wilderness ? ' exclaimed the youth. ' No ; if
your end be in truth approaching, I will watch bv

44 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

you and receive your parting words. I will dig a
grave here by the rock, in which, if my weakness
overcome me, we will rest together ; or, if Heaven
gives me strength, I will seek my way home.'

' In the cities and wherever men dwell,' replied the
other, ' they bury their dead in the earth ; they hide
them from the sight of the living ; but here, where
no step may pass perhaps for a hundred years, where-
fore should I not rest beneath the open sky, covered
only by the oak-leaves when the autumn winds shall
strew them ? And for a monument, here is this grey
rock, on which my dying hand shall carve the name
of Roger Marvin ; and the traveller in days to come
will know that here sleeps a hunter and a warrior.
Tarry not, then, for a folly like this, but hasten away,
if not for your own sake, for hers who will else be
desolate.'

Malvin spoke the last few words in a faltering voice,
and their effect upon his companion was strongly
visible.

They reminded him that there were other and less
questionable duties than that of sharing the fate of
a man whom his death could not benefit. Nor can it
be affirmed that no selfish feeling strove to enter
Reuben's heart, though the consciousness made him
more earnestly resist his companion's entreaties.

* How terrible ta wait the slow approach of death
in this solitude ! ' exclaimed he. ' A brave man does
not shrink in the battle ; and, when friends stand
round the bed, even women may die composedly ;
but here '

' I shall not shrink even here, Reuben Bourne,' in-
terrupted Malvin. ' I am a man of no weak heart ;
and, if I were, there is a surer support than that of
earthly friends. You are young, and life is dear to
you. Your last moments will need comfort far more
than mine ; and when you have laid me in the earth,
and are alone, and night is settling on the forest,

ROGER MALVIN' S BURIAL 45

you will feel all the bitterness of the death that may
now be escaped. But I will urge no selfish motive
to your generous nature. Leave me for my sake, that,
having said a prayer for your safety, I may have space
to settle my account undisturbed by worldly sorrows.'

' And your daughter, — how shall I dare to meet her
eye ? ' exclaimed Reuben. ' She will ask the fate of
her father, whose life I vowed to defend with my own.
Must I tell her that he travelled three days' march
with me from the field of battle, and that then I left
him to perish in the wilderness ? Were it not better
to lie down and die by your side than to return safe
and say this to Dorcas ? '

* Tell my daughter,' said Roger Malvin, ' that, though
yourself sore wounded, and weak, and weary, you led
my tottering footsteps many a mile, and left me only
at my earnest entreaty, because I would not have your
blood upon my soul. Tell her that through pain and
danger you were faithful, and that, if your lifeblood
could have saved me, it would have flowed to its last
drop ; and tell her that you will be something dearer
than a father, and that my blessing is with you both,
and that my dying eyes can see a long and pleasant path
in which you will journey together.'

As Malvin spoke he almost raised himself from the
ground, and the energy of his concluding words seemed
to fill the wild and lonely forest with a vision of happi-
ness; but, when he sank exhausted upon his bed of oak-
leaves, the light which had kindled in Reuben's eye was
quenched. He felt as if it were both sin and folly to
think of happiness at* such a moment. His companion
watched his changing countenance, and sought with
generous art to wile him to his own good.

' Perhaps I deceive myself in regard to the time J
have to live,' he resumed. ' It may be that, with
speedy assistance, I might recover of my wound. The
foremost fugitives must, ere this, have carried tidings of
our fatal battle to the frontiers, and parties will be out

46 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

to succour those in like condition with ourselves.
Should you meet one of these and guide them hither,
who can tell but that I may sit by my own fireside
again ? '

A mournful smile strayed across the features of the
dying man as he insinuated that unfounded hope ;
which, however, was not without its effect on Reuben.
No merely selfish motive, nor even the desolate con-
dition of Dorcas could have induced him to desert his
companion at such a moment — but his wishes seized
upon the thought that Mai vin's life might be preserved,
and his sanguine nature heightened almost to certainty
the remote possibility of procuring human aid.

; Surely there is reason, weighty reason, to hope that
friends are not far distant,' he said, half aloud. ' There
fled one coward, unwounded, in the beginning of the
fight, and most probably he made good speed. Every
true man on the frontier would shoulder his musket at
the news ; and, though no party may range so far into
the woods as this, I shall perhaps encounter them in one
day's march. Counsel me faithfully,' he added, turning
to Malvin, in distrust of his own motives. ' Were your
situation mine, would you desert me while life re-
mained ? '

' It is now twenty years,' replied Roger Malvin, sigh-
ing, however, as he secretly acknowledged the wide
dissimilarity between the two cases, — ' it is now twenty
years since I escaped with one dear friend from Indian
captivity near Montreal. We journeyed many days
through the woods till at length, overcome with hunger
and weariness, my friend lay down and besought me to
leave him ; for he knew that, if I remained, we both
must perish ; and, with but little hope of obtaining
succour, I heaped a pillow of dry leaves beneath his
head and hastened on.'

4 And did 'you return in time to save him ? ' asked
Reuben, hanging on Malvin' s words as if they were to be
prophetic of his own success.

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 47

' I did,' answered the other. ' I came upon the camp
of a hunting party before sunset of the same day. I
guided them to the spot where my comrade was expect-
ing death ; and he is now a hale and hearty man upon
his own farm, far, within the frontiers, while I lie
wounded here in the depths of the wilderness.'

This example, powerful in effecting Reuben's de-
cision, was aided, unconsciously to himself, by the
hidden strength of many another motive. Roger Mai-
vin perceived that the victory was nearly won.

' Now, go, my son, and Heaven prosper you ! ' he
said. ' Turn not back with your friends when you
meet them, lest your wounds and weariness overcome
you ; but send hitherward two or three, that may be
spared, to search for me ; and believe me, Reuben, my
heart will be lighter with every step you take towards
home.' Yet there was, perhaps, a change both in his
countenance and voice as he spoke thus ; for, after all,
it was a ghastly fate to be left expiring in the wilderness.
Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was act-
ing rightly, at length raised himself from the ground and
prepared himself for his departure. And first, though
contrary to Mai vin' s wishes, he collected a stock of roots
and herbs, which had been their only food during the
last two days. This useless supply he placed Avithin
reach of the dying man, for whom, also, he swept to-
gether a fresh bed of dry oak leaves. Then climbing to
the summit of the rock, which on one side was rough
and broken, he bent the oak sapling downward, and
bound his handkerchief to the topmost branch. This
precaution was not unnecessary to direct any who
might come in search of Malvin ; for every part of the
rock, except its broad, smooth front, was concealed at a
little distance by the dense undergrowth of the forest.
The handkerchief had been the bandage of a wound
upon Reuben's arm ; and, as he bound it to the tree, he
vowed by the blood that stained it that he would return,
either to save his companion's life, or to lay his body in

48 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNS

the grave. He then descended, and stood, with down-
cast eyes, to receive Roger Malvin's parting words.

The experience of the latter suggested much and
minute advice respecting the youth's journey through
the trackless forest. Upon this subject he spoke with
calm earnestness, as if he were sending Reuben to the
battle or the chase while he himself remained secure at
home, and not as if the human countenance that was
about to leave him were the last he would ever behold.
But his firmness was shaken before he concluded.

' Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my last
prayer shall be for her and you. Bid her to have no
hard thoughts because you left me here,' — Reuben's
heart smote him, — ' for that your life would not have
weighed with you if its sacrifice could have done me
good. She will marry you after she has mourned a
little while for her father ; and Heaven grant you long
and happy days, and may your children's children stand
round your deatttbed ! And, Reuben,' he added, as the
weakness of mortality made its way at last, ' return,
when your wounds are healed and your weariness
refreshed, — return to this wild rock, and lay my bones
in the grave, and say a prayer over them.'

An almost superstitious regard, arising perhaps from
the customs of the Indians, whose war was with the
dead as well as the living, was paid by the frontier
inhabitants to the rites of sepulture ; and there are
many instances of the sacrifice of life in the attempt to
bury those who had fallen by the ' sword of the wilder-
ness.' Reuben, therefore, felt the full importance of
the promise which he most solemnly made to return
and perform Roger Malvin's obsequies. It was remark-
able that the latter, speaking his whole heart in his
parting words, no longer endeavoured to persuade the
youth that even the speediest succour might avail to the
preservation of his life. Reuben was internally con-
vinced that he should see Malvin's living face no more.
His generous nature would fain have delayed him, at

&OGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 49

whatever risk, till the dying scene were past ; but the
desire of existence and the hope of happiness had
strengthened in his heart, and he was unable to resist
them.

' It is enough,' said Roger Malvin, having listened to
Reuben's promise. ' Go, and God speed you ! '

The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, and
was departing. His slow and faltering steps, however,
had borne him but a little way before Malvin's voice
recalled him.

' Reuben, Reuben,' said he, faintly ; and Reuben
returned and knelt down by the dying man.

' Raise me, and let me lean against the rock,' was his
last request. ' My face will be turned towards home,
and I shall see you a moment longer as you pass among
the trees.'

Reuben, having made the desired alteration in his
companion's posture, again began his solitary
pilgrimage. He walked more hastily at first than was
consistent with his strength ; for a sort of guilty feeling,
which sometimes torments men in their most justifiable
acts, caused him to seek concealment from Malvin's
eyes ; but after he had trodden far upon the rustling
forest leaves he crept back, impelled by a wild and pain-
ful curiosity, and, sheltered by the earthy roots of an
uptorn tree, gazed.earnestly at the desolate man. The
morning sun was unclouded, and the trees and shrubs
imbibed the sweet air of the month of May ; yet there
seemed a gloom on Nature's face, as if she sympathized
with mortal pain and sorrow. Roger Malvin's hands
were uplifted in a fervent prayer, some of the words of
which stole through the stillness of the woods and
entered Reuben's heart, torturing it with an unutter-
able pang. They were the broken accents of a petition
for his own happiness and that of Dorcas ; and, as the
youth listened, conscience, or something in its similitude,
pleaded strongly with him to return and lie down again
by the rock. He felt how hard was the doom of the

50 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

kind and generous being whom he had deserted in his
extremity. Death would come like the slow approach
of a corpse, stealing gradually towards him through the
forest, and showing its ghastly and motionless features
from behind a nearer and yet a nearer tree. But such
must have been Reuben's own fate had he tarried
another sunset ; and who shall impute blame to him if
he shrank from so useless a sacrifice ? As he gave a
parting look, a breeze waved the little banner upon the
sapling oak and reminded Reuben of his vow.

Many circumstances contributed to retard the
wounded traveller in his way to the frontiers. On the
second day the clouds, gathering densely over the sky,
precluded the possibility of regulating his course by the
position of the sun ; and he knew not but that every
effort of his almost exhausted strength was removing
him farther from the home he sought. His scanty
sustenance was supplied by the berries and other spon-
taneous products of the forest. Herds of deer, it is true,
sometimes bounded past him, and partridges frequently
whirred up before his footsteps ; but his ammunition
had been expended in the fight, and he had no means of
slaying them. His wounds, irritated by the constant
exertion in which lay the only hope of life, wore away
his strength and at intervals confused his reason. But,
even in the wanderings of intellect, Reuben's young
heart clung strongly to existence ; " and it was only
through absolute incapacity of motion that he at last
sank down beneath a tree, compelled there to await
death.

In this situation he was discovered by a party who,
upon the first intelligence of the fight, had been dis-
patched to the relief of the survivors. They conveyed
him to the nearest settlement, which chanced to be that
of his own residence.

Dorcas", in the simplicity of the olden time, watched
by the bedside of her wounded lover and administered

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 51

all those comforts that are in the sole gift of woman's
heart and hand. During several days Reuben's recol-
lection strayed drowsily among the perils and hard-
ships through which he had passed, and he was in-
capable of returning definite answers to the inquiries
with which many were eager to harass him. - No
authentic particulars of the battle had yet been circu-
lated ; nor could mothers, wives, and children tell
whether their loved ones were detained by captivity
or by the stronger chain of death. Dorcas nourished
her apprehensions in silence till one afternoon when
Reuben awoke from an unquiet sleep and seemed to
recognize her more perfectly than at any previous time.
She saw that his intellect had become composed, and she
could no longer restrain her filial anxiety.

' My father, Reuben ? ' she began ; but the change in
her lover's countenance made her pause.

The youth shrank as if with a bitter pain, and the
blood gushed vividly into his wan and hollow cheeks.
His first impulse was to cover his face ; but, apparently
with a desperate effort, he half raised himself and spoke
vehemently, defending himself against an imaginary
accusation.

4 Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dorcas ;
and he bade me not burden myself with him, but only
to lead him to the lakeside, that he might quench his
thirst and die. But I would not desert the old man in
his extremity, and, though bleeding myself, I supported
him ; I gave him half my strength, and led him away
with me. For three days we journeyed on together,
and your father was sustained beyond my hopes ; but,
awaking at sunrise on the fourth daj% I found him faint
and exhausted ; he was unable to proceed ; his life had
ebbed away fast ; and

' He died ! ' exclaimed Dorcas, faintly.

Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his
selfish love of life had hurried him away before her
father's fate was decided. He spoke not ; he only

52 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

bowed his head ; and, between shame and exhaustion,
sank back and hid his face in the pillow. Dorcas wept
when her fears were thus confirmed ; but the shock, as
it had been long anticipated, was on that account the
less violent.

' You dug a grave for my poor father in the wilder-
ness, Reuben ? ' was the question by which her filial
piety manifested itself.

' My hands were weak ; but I did what I could,'
replied the youth in a smothered tone. ' There stands
a noble tombstone above his head ; and I would to
Heaven I slept as soundly as he ! '

Dorcas, perceiving the wildness of his latter words,
inquired no further at the time ; but her heart found
ease in the thought that Roger Malvin had not lacked
such funeral rites as it was possible to bestow. The
tale of Reuben's courage and fidelity lost nothing
when she communicated it to her friends ; and the
poor youth, tottering from his sick chamber to breathe
the sunny air, experienced from every tongue the
miserable and humiliating torture of unmerited praise.
All acknowledged that he might worthily demand the
hand of the fair maiden to whose father he had been
' faithful unto death ' ; and, as my tale is not of love,
it shall suffice to say that in the space of a few months
Reuben became the husband of Dorcas Malvin. During
the marriage ceremony the bride was covered with
blushes ; but the bridegroom's face was pale.

There was now in the breast of Reuben Bourne an
incommunicable thought — something which he wras to
conceal most heedfulty from her whom he most loved
and trusted. He regretted, deeply and bitterly, the
moral cowardice that had restrained his words when he
was about to disclose the truth to Dorcas ; but pride,
the fear of losing her affection, the dread of universal
scorn, forbade him to rectify this falsehood. He felt
that for leaving Roger Malvin he deserved no censure.
His presence, the gratuitous sacrifice of his own life,

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 53

would have added only another and a needless agony
to the last moments of the dying man ; but conceal-
ment had imparted to a justifiable act much of the
secret effect of guilt ; and Reuben, while reason told *
him that he had done right, experienced in no small
degree the mental horrors which punish the perpe-
trator of undiscovered crime. By a certain association
of ideas, he at times almost imagined himself a mur-
derer. For years, also, a thought would occasionally
recur, which, though he perceived all its folly and
extravagance, he had not power to banish from his
mind. It was a haunting and torturing fancy that
his father-in-law was yet sitting at the foot of the
rock, on the withered forest leaves, alive, and awaiting
his pledged assistance. These mental deceptions,
however, came and went, nor did he ever mistake them
for realities ; but in the calmest and clearest moods of
his mind he was conscious that he had a deep vow
unredeemed, and that an unburied corpse was calling
to him out of the wilderness. Yet such was the con-
sequence of his prevarication that he could not obey
the call. It was now too late to require the assistance
of Roger Malvin's friends in performing his long-
deferred sepulture ; and superstitious fears, of which
none were more susceptible than the people of the
outward settlements, forbade Reuben to go alone.
Neither did he know where in the pathless and illimit-
able forest to seek that smooth and lettered rock at the
base of which the body lay ; his remembrance of
every portion of his travel thence was indistinct, and
the latter part had left no impression upon his mind.
There was, however, a continual impulse, a voice
audible only to himself, commanding him to go forth
and redeem his vow ; and he had a strange impression
that, were he to make the trial, he would be led
straight to Malvin's bones. But year after year that
summons, unheard but felt, was disobeyed. His one
secret thought became like a chain binding down his

54 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

spirit and like a serpent gnawing into his heart ; and
he was transformed into a sad and downcast yet
irritable man.

In the course of a few years after their marriage
changes began to be visible in the external prosperity
of Reuben and Dorcas. The only riches of the former
had been his stout heart and strong arm ; but the
latter, her father's sole heiress, had made her husband
master of a farm, under older cultivation, larger, and
better stocked than most of the frontier establishments.
Reuben Bourne, however, was a neglectful husband-
man ; and, while the lands of the other settlers became
annually more fruitful, his deteriorated in the same
proportion. The discouragements to agriculture were
greatly lessened by the cessation of Indian war, during
which men held the plough in one hand and the musket
in the other, and were fortunate if the products of
their dangerous labour were not destroyed, either in
the field or in the barn, by the savage enemy. But
Reuben did not profit by the altered condition of the
country ; nor can it be denied that his intervals of
industrious attention to his affairs were but scantily
rewarded with success. The irritability by which ho
had recently become distinguished was another cause
of his declining prosperity, as it occasioned frequent
quarrels in his unavoidable intercourse with the neigh-
bouring settlers. The results of these were innumer-
able lawsuits ; for the people of New England, in the
earliest stages and wildest circumstances of the country,
adopted, whenever attainable, the legal mode of decid-
ing their differences. To be brief, the world did not
go well with Reuben Bourne ; and, though not till
many years after his marriage, he was finally a ruined
man, with but one remaining expedient against the
evil fate that had pursued him. He was to throw
sunlight into some deep recess of the forest, and seek
subsistence from the virgin bosom of the wilderness.

The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son,

PvOGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 55

now arrived at the age of fifteen years, beautiful in
youth, and giving promise of a glorious manhood.
He was peculiarly qualified for, and already began to
excel in, the wild accomplishments of frontier life.
His foot was fleet, his aim true, his apprehension quick,
his heart glad and high ; and all who anticipated the
return of Indian war spoke of Cyrus Bourne as a future
leader in the land. The boy was loved by his father
with a deep and silent strength, as if whatever was
good and happy in his own nature had been transferred
to his child, carrying his affections with it. Even
Dorcas, though loving and beloved, was far less dear
to him ; for Reuben's secret thoughts and insulated
emotions had gradually made him a selfish man, and
he could no longer love deeply except where he saw or
imagined some reflection or likeness of his own mind.
In Cyrus he recognized what he had himself been in
other days ; and at intervals he seemed to partake of
the boy's spirit and to be revived with a fresh and
happy life. Reuben was accompanied by his son in
the expedition, for the purpose of selecting a tract of
land and felling and burning the timber, which neces-
sarily preceded the removal of the household gods.
Two months of autumn were thus occupied ; after
which Reuben Bourne and his young hunter returned
to spend their last winter in the settlements.

It was early in the month of May that the little
family snapped asunder whatever tendrils of affections
had clung to inanimate objects, and bade farewell to
the few who, in the blight of fortune, called themselves
their friends. The sadness of the parting moment
had, to each of the pilgrims, its peculiar alleviations.
Reuben, a moody man, and misanthropic because un-
happy, strode onward with his usual stern brow and
downcast eye, feeling few regrets and disdaining to
acknowledge any. Dorcas, while she wept abundantly
over the broken ties by which her simple and affec-

56 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

tionate nature had bound itself to everything, felt
that the inhabitants of her inmost heart moved on
with her, and that all else would be supplied wherever
she might go. And the boy dashed one teardrop
from his eye, and thought of the adventurous plea-
sures of the untrodden forest.

Oh ! who, in the enthusiasm of a daydream, has not
wished that he were a wanderer in a world of summer
wilderness, with one fair and gentle being hanging
lightly on his arm ? In youth his free and exulting
step would know no barrier but the rolling ocean or
the snow-topped mountains ; calmer manhood would
choose a home where Nature had strewn a double1
Wealth in the Vale of some transparent stream ; and
when hoary age, after long, long years of that pure
life, stole on and found him there, it would find him the
father of a race, the patriarch of a people, the founder
of a mighty nation yet to be. When death, like the
sweet sleep which we welcome after a day of happi-
ness, came over him, his far descendants would mourn
over the venerated dust. Enveloped by tradition in
mysterious attributes, the men of future generations
would call him godlike ; and remote posterity would
see him standing dimly glorious, far up the valley of
a hundred centuries.

The tangled and gloomy forest through which the
personages of my tale were wandering differed widely
from the dreamer's land of fantasy ; yet there was
something in their way of life that Nature asserted as
her own, and the gnawing cares which went with them
from the world were all that now obstructed their
happiness. One stout and shaggy steed, the bearer
of all their wealth, did not shrink from the added weight
of Dorcas ; although her hardy breeding sustained
her, during the latter part of each day's journey, by
her husband's side. Reuben and his son, their muskets
on their shoulders and their axes slung behind them,
kept an unwearied pace, each watching with a hunter'3

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 57

eye for the game that supplied their food. When
hunger bade, they halted and prepared their meal on
the bank of some unpolluted forest brook, which, as
they knelt down with thirsty lips to drink, murmured
a sweet unwillingness, like a maiden at love's first kiss.
They slept beneath a hut of branches, and awoke at
peep of light refreshed for the toils of another day.
Dorcas and the boy went on joyously, and even
Reuben's spirit shone at intervals with an outward
gladness ; but inwardly there was a cold, cold sorrow,
which he compared to the snow-drifts lying deep in
the glens and hollows of the rivulets while the leaves
were brightly green above.

Cyrus Bourne was sufficiently skilled in the travel of
the woods to observe that his father did not adhere to
the course they had pursued in their expedition of the
preceding autumn. They were now keeping farther
to the north, striking out more directly from the settle-
ments, and into a region of which savage beasts and
savage men were as yet the sole possessors. The boy
sometimes hinted his opinions upon the subject, and
Reuben listened attentively, and once or twice altered
the direction of "their march in accordance with his
eon's counsel ; but, having so done, he seemed ill at
ease. His quick and wandering glances were sent
forward, ^apparently in search of enemies lurking
behind the tree-trunks ; and, seeing nothing there, he
would cast his eyes backwards as if in fear of some
pursuer. Cyrus, perceiving that his father gradually
resumed the old direction, forbore to interfere ; nor,
though something began to weigh upon his heart, did
his adventurous nature permit him to regret the in-
creased length and the mystery of their way.

On the afternoon of the fifth day they halted, and
made their simple encampment nearly an hour before
sunset. The face of the country, for the last few
miles, had been diversified by swells of land resembling
huge waves of a petrified sea ; and in one of the corre-

58 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Hponding hollows, a wild and romantic spot, had the
family reared their hut and kindled their fire. There
is something chilling, and yet heart- warming, in the
thought of these three, united by strong bands of love
and insulated from all that breathe beside. The dark
and gloomy pines looked down upon them, and, as the
wind swept through their tops, a pitying sound was
heard in the forest ; or did those old trees groan in
fear that men were come to lay the axe to their roots
at last ? Reuben and his son, while Dorcas made
ready their meal, proposed to wander out in search of
game, of which that day's march had afforded no
supply. The boy, promising not to quit the vicinity
of the encampment, bounded off with a step as light
and elastic as that of the deer he hoped to slay ; while
his father, feeling a transient happiness as he gazed
after him, was about to pursue an opposite direction.
Dorcas, in the meanwhile, had seated herself near
their fire of fallen branches, upon the mossgrown and
mouldering trunk of a tree uprooted years before.
Her employment, diversified by an occasional glance
at the pot, now beginning to simmer over the blaze,
was the perusal of the current year's Massachusetts
Almanac, which, with the exception of an old black-
letter Bible, comprised all the literary wealth of the
family. None pay a greater regard to arbitrary divi-
sions of time than those who are excluded from society ;
and Dorcas mentipned, as if the information were of
importance, that it was now the twelfth of May. Her
husband started.

' The twelfth of May ! I should remember it well,'
muttered he, while many thoughts occasioned a
momentary confusion in his mind. ' Where am I ?
Whither am I wandering ? Where d^d I leave
him?'

Dorcas, too well accustomed to her husband's way-
ward moods to note any peculiarity of demeanour,
now laid aside the almanac and addressed him in that

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 59

mournful tone which the tender-hearted appropriate
to griefs long cold and dead.

' It was near this time of the month, eighteen years
ago, that my poor father left this world for a better.
He had a kind arm to hold his head and a kind voice
to cheer him, Reuben, in his last moments ; and the
thought of the faithful care you took of him has com-
forted me many a time since. Oh, death would have
been awful to a solitary man in a wild place like this ! '

' Pray Heaven, Dorcas,' said Reuben, in a broken
voice, — ' pray Heaven that neither of us three dies
solitary and lies unburied in this howling wilderness ! '
And he hastened away, leaving her to watch the fire
beneath the gloomy pines.

Reuben Bourne's rapid pace gradually slackened as
the pang, unintentionally inflicted by the words of
Dorcas, became less acute. Many strange reflections,
however, thronged upon him ; and, straying onward
rather like a sleep-walker than a hunter, it was attri-
butable to no care of his own that his devious course
kept him in the vicinity of the encampment. His
steps were imperceptibly led almost in a circle ; nor
did he observe that he was on the verge of a tract of
land heavily timbered, but not with pine-trees. The
place of the latter was here supplied by oaks and other
of 1 he 'larder woods ; and around their roots clustered
a dense and bushy undergrowth, leaving, however,
barren spaces between the trees, thick-strewn with
withered leaves. Whenever the rustling of the branches
or the creaking of the trunks made a sound, as if the
forest were waking from slumber, Reuben instinctively
raised the musket that rested on his arm, and cast a
quick, sharp glance on every side ; but, convinced by
a partial observation that no animal was near, he
would again give himself up to his thoughts. He was
musing on the strange influence that had led him
away from his premeditated course and so far into the
depths of the wilderness. Unable to penetrate to the

60 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

secret place of his soul where his motives lay hidden,
he believed that a supernatural voice had called him
onward and that a supernatural p&wer had obstructed
his retreat. He trusted that it was Heaven's intent
to afford him an opportunity of expiating his sin ;
he hoped that he might find the bones so long nnburied ;
and that, having laid the earth over them, peace
would throw its sunlight into the sepulchre of his
heart. From these thoughts he was aroused by a
rustling in the forest at some • distance from the spot
to which he had wandered. Perceiving the motion
of some object behind a thick veil of undergrowth, he
fired, with the. instinct of a hunter and the aim of a
practised marksman. A low moan, which told his
success, and by which even animals can express their
dying agony, was unheeded by Reuben Bourne. What
were the recollections now breaking upon him ?

The thicket into which Reuben had fired was near
the summit of a swell of land, and was clustered around
the base of a rock, which, in the shape and smoothness
of one of its surfaces, was not unlike a gigantic grave-
stone. As if reflected in a mirror, its likeness was in
Reuben's memory. He even recognized the veins
which seemed to form an inscription in forgotten
characters : everything remained the same, except
that a thick covert of bushes shrouded the lower part
of the rock, and would have hidden Roger Malvin had
he still been sitting there. Yet in the next moment
R/euben's eye was caught by another change that time
had effected since he last stood where he was now
standing again behind the earthy roots of the uptorn
tree. The sapling to which he had bound the blood-
stained symbol of his vow had increased and streng-
thened into an oak, far indeed from its maturity, but
with no mean spread of shadowy branches. There
was one singularity observable in this tree which made
Reuben tremble. The middle and lower branches
were in luxuriant life, and an excess of vegetation had

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL 61

fringed the trunk almost to the ground ; but a blight
had apparently stricken the upper part of the oak,
and the very topmost bough was withered, sapless, and
utterly dead. Reuben remembered how the little
banner had fluttered on that topmost bough, when it
was green and lovely, eighteen years before. Whose
guilt had blasted it ?

Dorcas, after the departure of the two hunters, con-
tinued her preparations for their evening repast. Her
sylvan table was the moss-covered trunk of a large
fallen tree, on the broadest part of which • she had
spread a snow-white cloth and arranged what were left
of the bright pewter vessels that had been her pride
in the settlements. It had a strange aspect, that one
little spot of homely comfort in the desolate heart of
Nature. The sunshine yet lingered upon the higher
branches of the trees that grew on rising ground ; but
the shadows of evening had deepened into the hollow
where the encampment was made, and the firelight
began to redden as it gleamed up the tall trunks of the
pines or hovered on the dense and obscure mass of
foliage that circled round the spot. The heart of
Dorcas was not sad ; for she felt that it was better to
journey in the wilderness with two whom she loved
than to be a lonely woman in a crowd that cared not
for her. As she busied herself in arranging seats of
mouldering wood, covered with leaves, for Reuben
and her son, her voice danced through the gloomy
forest in the measure of a song that she had learned in
youth. The rude melody, the production of a bard
who won no name, was descriptive of a winter evening
in a frontier cottage, when, secured from savage inroad
by the high-piled snow-drifts, the family rejoiced by
their own fireside. The whole song possessed the
nameless charm peculiar to unborrowed thought ; but
four continually-recurring lines shone out from the
rest like the blaze of the hearth whose joys they cele-

62 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

biated. Into them, working magic with a few simple
words, the poet had instilled the very essence of
domestic love and household happiness, and they were
poetry and picture joined in one. As Dorcas sang, the
walls of her forsaken home seemed to encircle her ;
she no longer saw the gloomy pines, nor heard the
wind, which still, as she began each verse, sent a heavy
breath through the branches and died away in a
hollow moan from the burden of the song. She was
aroused by the report of a gun in the vicinity of the
encampment ; and either the sudden sound or her
loneliness by the glowing fire caused her to tremble
violently. The next moment she laughed in the pride
of a mother's heart.

' My beautiful young hunter ! My boy has slain a
deer ! ' she exclaimed, recollecting that in the direc-
tion whence the shot proceeded Cyrus had gone to the
chase.

She waited a reasonable time to hear her son's light
step bounding over the rustling leaves to tell of his
success. But he did not immediately appear ; and
she sent her cheerful voice among the trees in search
of him.

' Cyrus ! Cyrus ! '

His coming was still delayed ; and she determined,
as the report had apparently been very near, to seek
for him in person. Her assistance, also, might be
necessary in bringing home the venison which she
flattered herself he had obtained. She therefore set
forward, directing her steps by the long-past sound,
and singing as she went, in order that the boy might
be aware of her approach and run to meet her. From
behind the trunk of every tree and from every hiding-
place in the thick foliage of the undergrowth she hoped
to discover the countenance of her son, laughing with
the sportive mischief that is born of affection. The
sun was now beneath the horizon, and the light that
came down among the trees was sufficiently dim to

ROGER MALVIN'S BURIAL * 63

create many illusions in her expecting fancy. Several
times she seemed indistinctly to .see his face gazing
out from among the leaves ; and once she imagined
that he stood beckoning to her at the base of a craggy
rock. Keeping her eyes on this object, however, it
proved to be no more than the trunk of an oak, fringed
to the very ground with little branches, one of which,
thrust out farther than the rest, was shaken by the
breeze. Making her way round the foot of the rock,
she suddenly found herself close to her husband, who
had approached in another direction. Leaning upon
the butt of his gun, the muzzle of which rested upon
the withered leaves, he was apparently absorbed in
the contemplation of some object at his feet.

' How is this, Reuben ? Have you slain the deer
and fallen asleep over him ? ' exclaimed Dorcas, laugh-
ing cheerfully, on her first slight observation of his
posture and appearance.

He stirred not, neither did he turn his eyes towards
her ; and a cold, shuddering fear, indefinite in its
source and object, began to creep into her blood. She
now perceived that her husband's face was ghastly
pale, and his features were rigid, as if incapable of
assuming any other expression than the strong despair
which had hardened upon them. He gave not the
slightest evidence that he was aware of her approach.

' For the love of Heaven, Reuben, speak to me ! '
cried Dorcas ; and the strange sound of her own voice
affrighted her even more than the dead silence.

Her husband started, stared into her face, drew her
to the front of the rock, and pointed with his finger.

Oh, there lay the boy, asleep, but dreamless, upon
the fallen forest leaves ! His cheek rested upon his
arm — his curled locks were thrown back from his
brow — his limbs were slightly relaxed. Had a sudden
weariness overcome the youthful hunter ? Would his
mother's voice arouse him ? She knew that it was
death.

64 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

' This broad rock is the gravestone of your near
kindred, Dorcas,' said her husband. ' Your tears will
fall at once over your father and your son.'

She heard him not. With one wild shriek, that
seemed to force its way from the sufferer's inmost soul,
she sank insensible by the side of her dead boy. At
that moment the withered topmost bough of the oak
loosened itself in the stilly air, and fell in soft, light
fragments upon the rock, upon the leaves, upon Reuben,
upon his wife and child, and upon Roger Malvin's
bones. Then Reuben's heart was stricken, and the
tears gushed out like water from a rock. The vow
that the wounded youth had made the blighted man
had come to redeem. His sin was expiated — the curse
was gone from him ; and in the hour, when he had
shed blood dearer to him than his own, a prayer, the
first for years, went up to Heaven from the lips of
Reuben Bourne.

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY

OUR host having resumed the chair, he, as well as
Mr. Tiffany and myself, expressed much eagerness to
be made acquainted with the story to which the
loyalist had alluded. That venerable man first of all
saw fit to moisten his throat with another glass of
wine, and then, turning his face towards our coal fire,
looked steadfastly for a few moments into the depths
of its cheerful glow. Finally, he poured forth a great
fluency of speech. The generous liquid that he had
imbibed, while it warmed his age-chilled blood, like-
wise took off the chill from his heart and mind, and
gave him an energy to think and feel, which we could
hardly have expected to find beneath the snows of
fourscore winters. His feelings, indeed, appeared to
me more excitable than those of a younger man ; or,
at least, the same degree of feeling manifested itself

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 65

by more visible effects, than if his judgement and will
had possessed the potency of meridian life. At the
pathetic passages of his narrative, he readily melted
into tears. When a breath of indignation swept across
his spirit, the blood flushed his withered visage even
to the roots of his white hair ; and he shook his
clinched fist at the trio of peaceful auditors, seeming
to fancy enemies in those who felt very kindly towards
the desolate old soul. But ever and anon, sometimes
in the midst of his most earnest talk, this ancient
person's intellect would wander vaguely, losing its
hold of the matter in hand, and groping for it amid
misty shadows. Then would he cackle forth a feeble
laugh, and express a doubt whether his wits — for by
that phrase it pleased our ancient friend to signify his
mental powers — were not getting a little the worse for
wear.

Under these disadvantages, the old loyalist's story
required more revision to render it fit for the public
eye, than those of the series which have preceded it ;
nor should it be concealed, that the sentiment and
tone of the affair may have undergone some slight, or
perchance more than slight metamorphosis, in its
transmission to the reader through the medium of a
thorough-going democrat. The tale itself is a mere
sketch, with no involution of plot, nor any great
interest of events, yet possessing, if I have rehearsed
it aright, that pensive influence over the mind, which
the shadow of the old Province House flings upon the
loiterer in its courtyard.

The hour had come — the hour of defeat and humilia-
tion— when Sir William Howe was to pass over the
threshold of the Province House, and embark with no
such triumphal ceremonies as he once promised him-
self, on board the British fleet. He bade his servants
and military attendants go before him, and lingered a
moment in the loneliness of the mansion, to quell tho

228 -n

66 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

fierce emotions that struggled in his bosom as with a
death-throb. Preferable, then, would he have deemed
his fate, had a warrior's death left him a claim to the
narrow territory of a grave, within the soil which the
King had given him to defend. With an ominous
perception that, as his departing footsteps echoed
adown the staircase, the sway of Britain was passing
for ever from New England, he smote his clinched hand
on his brow, and cursed the destiny that had flung the
shame of a dismembered empire upon him.

' Would to God,' cried he, hardly repressing his tears
of rage, ' that the rebels were even now at the door-
step ! A blood-stain upon the floor should then bear
testimony that the last British ruler was faithful to
his trust.'

The tremulous voice of a woman replied to his
exclamation.

' Heaven's cause and the King's are one,' it said.
' Go forth, Sir William Howe, and trust in Heaven to
bring back a Royal Governor in triumph.'

Subduing at once the passion to which he had yielded
only in the faith that it was unwitnessed, Sir William
Howe became conscious that an aged woman, leaning
on a gold-headed staff, was standing betwixt him and
the door. It was old Esther Dudley, who had dwelt
almost immemorial years in this mansion until her
presence seemed as inseparable from it as the recol-
lections of its history. She was the daughter of an
ancient and once eminent family, which had fallen
into poverty and decay, and left its last descendant no
resource save the bounty of the King, nor any shelter
except within the walls of the Province House. An
office in the household, with merely nominal duties,
had been assigned to her as a pretext for the payment
of a small pension, the greater part of which she ex-
pended in adorning herself with an antique magnifi-
cence of attire. The claims of Esther Dudley's gentle
blood were acknowledged by all the successive Gover-

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 67

nors ; and they treated her with the punctilious
courtesy which it was her foible to demand, not always
with success, from a neglectful world. The only actual
share which she assumed in the business of the man-
sion, was to glide through its passages and public
chambers late at night, to see that the servants had
dropped no fire from their flaring torches, nor left
embers crackling and blazing on the hearths; Perhaps
it was this invariable custom of walking her rounds in
the hush of midnight, that caused the superstition of
the times to invest the old woman with attributes of
awe and mystery ; fabling that she had entered the
portal of the Province House, none knew whence, in
the train of the first Royal Governor, and that it was
her fate to dwell there till the last should have departed.
But Sir William Howe, if he ever heard this legend,
had forgotten it.

' Mistress Dudley, why are you loitering here ? '
asked he, with some severity of tone. ' It is my
pleasure to be the last in this mansion of the King.'

' Not so, if it please your Excellency,' answered the
time-stricken woman. ' This roof has sheltered me
long. I will not pass from it until they bear me to the
tomb of my forefathers. What other shelter is there
for old Esther Dudley, save the Province House or the
grave ? '

4 Now Heaven forgive me ! ' said Sir William Howe
to himself. ' I was about to leave this wretched old
creature to starve or beg. Take this, good Mistress
Dudley,' he added, putting a purse into her hands,
' King George's head on these golden guineas is sterling
yet, and will continue so, I warrant you, even should
the rebels crown John Hancock their king. That purse
will buy a better shelter than the Province House can
now afford.'

' While the burden of life remains upon me, I will
have no other shelter than this roof,' persisted Esther
Dudley, striking her staff upon the floor, with a gesture

68 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

that expressed immovable resolve. ' And when your
Excellency returns in triumph, I will totter into the
porch to welcome you.'

' My poor old friend ! ' answered the British General,
• — and all his manly and martial pride could no longer
restrain a gush of bitter tears. ' This is an evil hour
for you and me. The province which the King in-
trusted to my charge is lost. I go hence in misfortune
— perchance in disgrace — to return no more. And you,
whose present being is incorporated with the past — •
who have seen Governor after Governor in stately
pageantry ascend these steps — whose whole life has
been an observance of majestic ceremonies, and a wor-
ship of the King — how will you endure the change ?
Come with us ! Bid farewell to a land that has shaken
oS its allegiance, and live still under a Royal govern-
ment at Halifax.'

* Never, never ! ' said the pertinacious old dame.
' Here will I abide ; and King George shall still have
one true subject in his disloyal province.'

' Beshrew the old fool ! ' muttered Sir William Howe,
growing impatient of her obstinacy, and ashamed of
the emotion into which he had been betrayed. ' She
is the very moral of old-fashioned prejudice, and could
exist nowhere but in this musty edifice. Well, then,
Mistress Dudley, since you will needs tarry, I give the
Province House in charge to you. Take this key, and
keep it safe until myself, or some other Royal Governor,
shall demand it of you.'

Smiling bitterly at himself and her, he took the heavy
key of the Province House, and delivering it into the old
lady's hands, drew his cloak around him for departure.
As the General glanced back at Esther Dudley's antique
figure, he deemed her well -fitted for such a charge, as
being so perfect a representative of the decayed past —
of an age gone by, with its manners, opinions, faith, and
feelings, all fallen into oblivion or scorn — of what had
once been a reality, but was now merely a vision of

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 69

faded magnificence. Then Sir William Howe strode
forth, smiting his clinched hands together, in the fierce
anguish of his spirit ; and old Esther Dudley was left to
keep watch in the lonely Province House, dwelling there
with memory ; and if Hope ever seemed to flit around
her, still it was Memory in disguise.

The total change of affairs that ensued on the de-
parture of the British troops did not drive the venerable
lady from her stronghold. There was not, for many
years afterwards, a Governor of Massachusetts ; and
the magistrates, who had charge of such matters, saw no
objection to Esther Dudley's residence in the Province
House, especially as they must otherwise have paid a
hireling for taking care of the premises, which with her
was a labour of love. And so they left her the undis-
turbed mistress of the old historic edifice. Many and
strange were the fables which the gossips whispered
about her, in all the chimney-corners of the town.
Among the time-worn articles of furniture that had
been left in the mansion, there was a tall, antique
mirror, which was well worthy of a tale by itself, and
perhaps may hereafter be the theme of one. The gold
of its heavily- wrought frame was tarnished, and its
surface was so Blurred, that the old woman's figure,
whenever she passed before it, looked indistinct and
ghost-like. But it was the general belief that Esther
could cause the Governors of the overthrown dynasty,
with the beautiful ladies who had once adorned their
festivals, the Indian chiefs who had come up to the
Province House to hold council or swear allegiance, the
grim Provincial warriors, the severe clergyman — in
short, all the pageantry of gone days — all the figures
that ever swept across the broad plate of glass in
former times — she could cause the whole to reappear,
and people the inner world of the mirror with shadows
of old life. Such legends as these, together with the
singularity of her isolated existence, her age, and the
infirmity that each added winter flung upon her, made

70 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

Mistress Dudley the object both of fear and pity ; and
it was partly the result of either sentiment, that, amid
all the angry licence of the times, neither wrong nor
insult ever fell upon her unprotected head. Indeed,
there was so much haughtiness in her demeanour
towards intruders, among whom she reckoned all
persons acting under the new authorities, that it was
really an affair of no small nerve to look her in the face.
And to do the people justice, stern republicans as they
had now become, they were well content that the old
gentlewoman, in her hoop petticoat and faded em-
broidery, should still haunt the palace of ruined pride
and overthrown power, the symbol of a departed
system, embodying a history in her person. So Esther
Dudley dwelt, year after year, in the Province House,
still reverencing all that others had flung aside, still
faithful to her King, who, so long as the venerable dame
yet held her post, might be said to retain one true
subject in New England, and one spot of the empire
that had been wrested from him.

And did she dwell there in utter loneliness ? Rumour
said, not so. Whenever her chill and withered heart
desired warmth, she was wont to summon a black slave
of Governor Shirley's from the blurred mirror, and send
him in search of guests who had long ago been familiar
in those deserted chambers. Forth went the sable
messenger, with the starlight or the moonshine gleam-
ing through him, and did his errand in the burial
ground, knocking at the iron doors of tombs, or upon
the marble slabs that covered them, and whispering to
those within : ' My mistress, old Esther Dudley, bids
you to the Province House at midnight.' And punc-
tually as the clock of the Old South told twelve, came
the shadows of the Olivers, the Hutchinsons, the
Dudleys, all the grandees of a by-gone generation,
gliding beneath the portal into the well-known mansion,
where Esther mingled with them as if she likewise were
a shade. Without vouching for the truth of such

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 71

traditions, it is certain that Mistress Dudley sometimes
assembled a few of the stanch, though crestfallen old
Tories, who had lingered in the rebel town during those
days of wrath and tribulation. Out of a cobwebbed
bottle, containing liquor that a Royal Governor might
have smacked his lips over, they quaffed healths to the
King, and babbled treason to the Republic, feeling as
if the protecting shadow of the throne were still flung
around them. But, draining the last drops of their
liquor, they stole timorously homeward, and answered
not again, if the rude mob reviled them in th'e street.

Yet Esther Dudley's most frequent and favoured
guests were the children of the town. Towards them
she was never stern. A kindly and loving nature,
hindered elsewhere from its free course by a thousand
rocky prejudices, lavished itself upon these little ones.
By bribes of gingerbread of her own making, stamped
with a royal crown, she tempted their sunny sportive-
ness beneath the gloomy portal of the Province House,
and would often beguile them to spend a whole play day
there, sitting in a circle round the verge of her hoop
petticoat, greedily attentive to her stories of a dead
world. And when these little boys and girls stole forth
again from the dark mysterious mansion, they went
bewildered, full of old feelings that graver people had
long ago forgotten, rubbing their eyes at the world
around them as if they had gone astray into ancient
times, and become children of the past. At home,
when their parents asked where they had loitered such
a weary while, and with whom they had been at play,
the children would talk of all the departed worthies of
the Province, as far back as Governor Belcher, and the
haughty dame of Sir William Phipps. It would seem
as though they had been sitting on the knees of these
famous personages, whom the grave had hidden for
half a century, and had toyed with the embroidery of
their rich waistcoats, or roguishly pulled the long curls
of their flowing wigs. ' But Governor Belcher has been

72 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

dead this many a year,' would the mother say to her
little boy. ' And did you really see him at the Province
House ? ' * Oh yes, dear mother ! yes ! ' the half-
dreaming child would answer. * But when old Esther
had done speaking about him he faded away out of his
chair.' Thus, without affrighting her little guests, she
led them by the hand into the chambers of her own
desolate heart, and made childhood's fancy discern the
ghosts that haunted there.

Living so continually in her own circle of ideas, and
never regulating her mind by a proper reference to
present things, Esther Dudley appears to have grown
partially crazed. It was found that she had no right
sense of the progress and true state of the Revolutionary
war, but held a constant faith that the armies of Britain
were victorious on every field, and destined to be
ultimately triumphant. Whenever the town rejoiced
for a battle won by Washington, or Gates, or Morgan,
or Greene, the news, in passing through the door of the
Province House, as through the ivory gate of dreams,
became metamorphosed into a strange tale of the
prowess of Howe, Clinton, or Cornwallis. Sooner or
later, it was her invincible belief, the colonies would be
prostrate at the footstool of the King. Sometimes she
seemed to take for granted that such was already the
case. On one occasion, she startled the town's people
by a brilliant illumination of the Province House, with
candles at every pane of glass, and a transparency of
the King's initials and a crown of light, in the great
balcony window. The figure of the aged woman, in the
most gorgeous of her mildewed velvets and brocades,
was seen passing from casement to casement, until she
paused before the balcony, and flourished a huge key
above her head. Her wrinkled visage actually gleamed
with triumph, as if the soul within her were a festal
lamp.

' What means this blaze of light ? What does old
Esther's joy portend ? ' whispered a spectator. ' It

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 73

is frightful to see her gliding about the chambers, and
rejoicing there without a soul to bear her company.'

4 It is as if she were making merry in a tomb,' said
another.

' Pshaw ! It is no such mystery,' observed an old
man, after some brief exercise of memory. ' Mistress
Dudley is keeping jubilee for the King of England's
birthday.'

Then the people laughed aloud, and would have
thrown mud against the blazing transparency of the
King's crown and initials, only that they pitied the
poor old dame, who was so dismally triumphant amid
the wreck and ruin of the system to which she apper-
tained.

Oftentimes it was her custom to climb the weary
staircase that wound upward to the cupola, and thence
strain her dimmed eyesight seaward and countryward,
watching for a British fleet, or for the march of a grand
procession, with the King's banner floating over it.
The passengers in the street below would discern her
anxious visage, and send up a shout — * When the golden
Indian on the Province House shall shoot his arrow,
and when the cock on the Old South spire shall crow,
then look for a Royal Governor again ! ' — for this had
grown a byword through the town. And at last,
after long, long years, old Esther Dudley knew, or per-
chance she only dreamed, that a Royal Governor was
on the eve of returning to the Province House, to
receive the heavy key which Sir William Howe had
committed to her charge. Now it was the fact, that
intelligence bearing some faint analogy to Esther's
version of it, was current among the town's people.
She set the mansion in the best order that her means
allowed, and arraying herself in silks and tarnished
gold, stood long before the blurred mirror to admire her
own magnificence. As she gazed, the grey and with-
ered lady moved her ashen lips, murmuring half aloud,
talking to shapes that she saw within the mirror, to

D*

74 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

shadows of her own fantasies, to the household friends
of memory, and bidding them rejoice with her, and coine
forth to meet the Governor. And while absorbed in
this communion, Mistress Dudley heard the tramp of
many footsteps in the street, and looking out of the
window, beheld what she construed as the Royal
Governor's arrival.

' 0 happy day ! O blessed, blessed hour ! ' she
exclaimed. ' Let me but bid him welcome within the
portal, and my task in the Province House, and on
earth, is done ! '

Then with tottering feet, which age and tremulous
joy caused to tread amiss, she hurried down the grand
staircase, her silks sweeping and rustling as she went,
so that the sound was as if a train of spectral courtiers
were thronging from the dim mirror. And Esther
Dudley fancied, that as soon as the wide door should
be flung open, all the pomp and splendour of bygone
times would pace majestically into the Province House,
and the gilded tapestry of the past would be brightened
by the sunshine of the present. She turned the key —
withdrew it from the lock — unclosed the door — and
stepped across the threshold. Advancing up the court-
yard appeared a person of most dignified mien, with
tokens, as Esther interpreted them, of gentle blood,
high rank, and long- accustomed authority, even in his
walk and every gesture. He was richly dressed, but
wore a gouty shoe, which, however, did not lessen the
stateliness of his gait. Around and behind him were
people in plain civic dresses, and two or three war-worn
veterans, evidently officers of rank, arrayed in a uniform
of blue and buff. But Esther Dudley, firm in the belief
that had fastened its roots about her heart, beheld only
the principal personage, and never doubted that this
was the long-looked-for Governor, to whom she was to
surrender up her charge. As he approached, she invol-
untarily sank down on her knees, and tremblingly held
forth the heavy key.

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 75

' Receive my trust ! take it quickly ! ' cried she ;
' for methinks Death is striving to snatch away my
triumph. But he comes too late. Thank Heaven for
this blessed hour ! God save King George ! '

' That, Madam, is a strange prayer to be offered up
at such a moment,' replied the unknown guest of the
Province House, and courteously removing his hat, he
offered his arm to raise the aged woman. ' Yet, in
reverence for your grey hairs and long-kept faith,
Heaven forbid that any here should say you nay.
Over the realms which still acknowledge his sceptre,
God save King George ! '

Esther Dudley started to her feet, and hastily
clutching back the key, gazed with fearful earnestness
at the stranger ; and dimly and doubtfully, as if sud-
denly awakened from a dream, her bewildered eyes
half recognized his face. Years ago, she had known
him among the gentry of the province. But the ban
of the King had fallen upon him ! How, then, came
the doomed victim here ? Proscribed, excluded from
mercy, the monarch's most dreaded and hated foe,
this New England merchant had stood triumphantly
against a kingdom's strength ; and his foot now trod
upon humbled Royalty, as he ascended the steps of
the Province House, the people's chosen Governor of
Massachusetts.

' Wretch, wretch that I am ! ' muttered the old
woman, with such a heart-broken expression, that the
tears gushed from the stranger's eyes. ' Have I bidden
a traitor welcome ? Come, Death ! come quickly ! '

' Alas, venerable lady ! ' said Governor Hancock,
lending her his support with all the reverence that a
courtier would have shown to a queen. ' Your life
has been prolonged until the world has changed
around you. You have treasured up all that time has
rendered worthless — the principles, feelings, manners,
modes of being and acting, which another generation
has flung aside — and you are a symbol of the past.

76 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE

And I, and these around me — we represent a new race
of men — living no longer in the past, scarcely in the
present — but projecting our lives forward into the
future. Ceasing to model ourselves on ancestral super-
stitions, it is our faith and principle to press onward,
onward ! Yet,' continued he, turning to his atten-
dants, ' let us reverence, for the last time, the stately
and gorgeous prejudices of the tottering Past ! '

While the Republican Governor spoke, he had con-
tinued to support the helpless form of Esther Dudley ;
her weight grew heavier against his arm ; but at last,
with a sudden effort to free herself, the ancient woman
sank down beside one of the pillars of the portal.
The key of the Province House fell from her grasp,
and clanked against the stone.

' I have been faithful unto death,' murmured she.

* God save the King ! '

1 She hath done her office ! ' said Hancock, solemnly.

* We will follow her reverently to the tomb of her
ancestors ; and then, my fellow- citizens, onwrard — •
onward ! We are no longer children of the Past ! '

As the old loyalist concluded his narrative, the
enthusiasm which had been fitfully flashing within his
sunken eyes, and quivering across his wrinkled visage,
faded away, as if all the lingering fire of his soul were
extinguished. Just then, too, a lamp upon the
mantelpiece threw out a dying gleam, which vanished
as speedily as it shot upward, compelling our eyes to
grope for one another's features by the dim glow of
the hearth. With such a lingering fire, methought,
with such a dying gleam, had the glory of the ancient
system vanished from the Province House, when the
spirit of old Esther Dudley took its flight. And now,
again, the clock of the Old South threw its voice of
ages on the breeze, knolling the hourly knell of the
Past, crying out far and wide through the multitudin-
ous city, and filling our ears, as we sat in the dusky

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY 77

chamber, with its reverberating depth of tone. In
that same mansion — in that very chamber — what a
volume of history had been told off into hours, by the
same voice that was now trembling in the air. Many
a Governor had heard those midnight accents, and
longed to exchange his stately cares for slumber.
And as for mine host, and Mr. Bela Tiffany, and the
old loyalist, and me, we had babbled about dreams
of the past, until we almost fancied that the clock was
still striking in a bygone century. Neither of us
would have wondered, had a hoop-petticoated phan-
tom of Esther Dudley tottered into the chamber,
walking her rounds in the hush of midnight, as of
yore, and motioned us to quench the fading embers of
the fire, and leave the historic precincts to herself and
her kindred shades. But as no such vision was
vouchsafed, I retired unbidden, and would advise
Mr. Tiffany to lay hold of another auditor, being
resolved not to show my face in the Province House
for a good while hence — if ever.

EDGAR ALLAN FOE

1809—1849

THE PURLOINED LETTER

4 Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio.' — .SENECA.

AT Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the
autumn of 18 — , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of
meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my
friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library
or book-closet, au troisieme, No. 33 Rue Dunot, Fau-
bourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had
maintained a profound silence ; while each, to any
casual observer, might have seemed intently and
exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke
that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For
myself, however, I was mentally discussing certain
topics which had formed matter for conversation
between us at an earlier period of the evening ; I mean
the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attend-
ing the murder of Marie Roget. I looked upon it,
therefore, as something of a coincidence, when the
door of our apartment was thrown open and admitted

our old acquaintance, Monsieur G , the Prefect of

the Parisian police.

We gave him a hearty welcome ; for there was
nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the con-
temptible about the man, and we had not seen him
for several years. We had been sitting in the dark,
and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a
lamp, but sat down again, without doing so, upon G.'s
saying that he had called to consult us, or rather to

78

THE PURLOINED LETTER 79

ask the opinion of my friend, about some official
business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble.

' If it is any point requiring reflection,' observed
Dupin, as he forbore to enkindle the wick, ' we shall
examine it to better purpose in the dark.'

' That is another of your odd notions,' said the
Prefect, who had a fashion of calling everything ' odd '
that was beyond his comprehension, and thus lived
amid an absolute legion of ' oddities.'

' Very true,' said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor
with a pipe, and rolled towards him a" comfortable
chair.

* And what is the difficulty now ? ' I asked.
6 Nothing more in the assassination way, I hope ? '

' Oh, no ; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the
business is very simple indeed, and I make no doubt
that we can manage it sufficiently well ourselves ; but
then I thought Dupin would like to hear the details
of it, because it is so excessively odd?

' Simple and odd,' said Dupin.

' Why, yes ; and not exactly that, either. The
fact is, we have all been a good deal puzzled because
the affair is so simple, and yet baffles us altogether.'

' Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing
which puts you at fault,' said my friend.

' What nonsense you do talk ! ' replied the Prefect,
laughing heartily.

' Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain,' said Dupin.

' Oh, good heavens ! who ever heard of such an
idea ? '

' A little too self-evident.'

' Ha ! ha ! ha ! — ha ! ha ! ha ! — ho ! ho ! ho ! ' roared
our visitor, profoundly amused ; ' O Dupin, you
will be the death of me yet ! '

' And what, after all, is the matter on hand ? ' I
asked.

' Why, I will tell you,' replied the Prefect, as he
gave a long, steady, and contemplative puff, and

80 EDGAR ALLAN POE

settled himself in his chair. ' I will tell you in a few
words ; but, before I begin, let me caution you that
this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and
that I should most probably lose the position I now
hold, were it known that I confided it to any one.'

* Proceed,' said I.

1 Or not,' said Dupin.

* Well, then ; I have received personal information,
from a very high quarter, that a certain document of
the last importance has been purloined from the royal
apartments. ' The individual who purloined it is
known ; this beyond a doubt ; he was seen to take
it. It is known, also, that it still remains in his
possession.'

1 How is this known ? ' asked Dupin.

* It is clearly inferred,' replied the Prefect, ' from
the nature of the document, and from the non-appear-
a<nce of certain results which would at once arise from
its passing out of the robber's possession — that is to
say, from his employing it as he must design in the
end to employ it.'

' Be a little more explicit,' I said.

* Well, I may venture so far as to say that the
paper gives its holder a certain power in a certain
quarter where such power is immensely valuable.'
The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplomacy.

' Still I do not quite understand,' said Dupin.

' No ? Well ; the disclosure of the document to a
third person, who shall be nameless, would bring in
question the honour of a personage of most exalted
station ; and this fact gives the holder of the docu-
ment an ascendancy over the illustrious personage
whose honour and peace are so jeopardized.'

4 But this ascendancy,' I interposed, * would depend
upon the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge
of the robber. Who would dare

' The thief,' said G., 'is the Minister D , who

dares all things, those unbecoming as well as those

THE PURLOINED LETTER 81

becoming a man. The method of the theft was not
less ingenious than bold. The document in question
• — a letter, to be frank — had been received by the
personage robbed while alone in the royal boudoir,
During its perusal she was suddenly interrupted by
the entrance of the other exalted personage from
whom especially it wras her wish to conceal it. After a
hurried and vain endeavour to thrust it into a drawer,
she was forced to place it, open as it was, upon a
table. The address, however, was uppermost, and,
the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped

notice. At this juncture enters the Minister D .

His lynx eye immediately perceives the paper, recog-
nizes the handwriting of the address, observes the
confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms
her secret. After some business transactions, hurried
through in his ordinary manner, he produces a letter
somewhat similar to the one in question, opens it,
pretends to read it, and then places it in close juxta-
position to the other. Again he converses, for some
fifteen minutes, upon the public affairs. At length,
in taking leave, he takes also from the table the letter
to which he had no claim. Its rightful owner saw,
but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in
the presence of the third personage who stood at her
elbow. The Minister decamped, leaving his own
letter — one of no importance — upon the table.'

' Here, then,' said Dupin to me, ' you have pre-
cisely what you demand to make the ascendancy com-
plete— the robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge
of the robber.'

' Yes,' replied the Prefect ; * and the power thus
attained has, for some months past, been wielded, for
political purposes, to a very dangerous extent. The
personage robbed is more thoroughly convinced, every
day, of the iiec^Bsity of reclaiming her letter. But
this, of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven
to despair, she has committed the matter to me.'

82 EDGAR ALLAN POE

' Than whom,' said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind
of smoke, ' no more sagacious agent could, I suppose,
be desired, or even imagined.'

' You flatter me,' replied the Prefect ; ' but it is
possible that some such opinion may have been
entertained.'

* It is clear,' said I, ' as you observe, that the letter
is still in the possession of the Minister ; since it is
this possession, and not any employment of the letter,
which bestows the power. With the employment the
power departs.'

4 True,' said G. ; ' and upon this conviction I pro-
ceeded. My first care was to make thorough search
of the Minister's hotel ; and here my chief embarrass-
ment lay in the necessity of searching without his
knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned
of the danger which would result from giving him
reason to suspect our design.'

' But,' said I, ' you are quite au fait in these in-
vestigations. The Parisian police have done this
thing often before.'

' Oh yes ; and for this reason I did not despair.
The habits of the Minister gave me, too, a great advan-
tage. He is frequently absent from home all night.
His servants are by no means numerous. They sleep
at a distance from their master's apartment, and,
being chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I
have keys, as you know, with which I can open any
chamber or cabinet in Paris. For three months a
night has not passed, during the greater part of which
I have not been engaged, personally, in ransacking

the D Hotel. My honour is interested, and, to

mention a great secret, the reward is enormous. So I
did not abandon the search until I had become fully
satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than
myself. I fancy that I have investigated every nook
and corner of the premises in which it is possible that
the paper can be concealed.'

THE PURLOINED LETTER 83

' But is it not possible,' I suggested, ' that although
the letter may be in possession of the Minister, as it
unquestionably is, he may have concealed it elsewhere
than upon his own premises ? '

' This is barely possible,' said Dupin. * The present
peculiar condition of affairs at court, and especially of
those intrigues in which D is known to be in-
volved, would render the instant availability of the
document — its susceptibility of being produced at a
moment's notice — a point of nearly equal importance
with its possession.'

' Its susceptibility of being produced ? ' said I.

' That is to say, of being destroyed,' said Dupin.

' True,' I observed ; ' the paper is clearly then
upon the premises. As for its being upon the person
of the Minister, we may consider that as out of the
question.'

' Entirely,' said the Prefect. ' He has been twice
waylaid, as if by footpads, and his person rigorously
searched under my own inspection.'

' You might have spared yourself this trouble,' said

Dupin. ' D , I presume, is not altogether a fool,

and, if not, must have anticipated these waylayings,
as a matter of course.'

' Not altogether a fool,' said G. ; ' but then he's a
poet, which I take to be only one remove from a fool.'

' True,' said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful
whiff from his meerschaum, ' although I have been
guilty of certain doggerel myself*'

' Suppose you detail,' said I, ' the particulars of
your search.'

' Why, the fact is we took our time, and we searched
everywhere. I have had long experience in these
affairs. I took the entire building, room by room ;
devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We
examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We
opened every possible drawer ; and I presume you
know that, to a properly trained police agent, such a

84 EDGAR ALLAN POE

thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any man is a
dolt who permits a " secret " drawer to escape him in
a search of this kind. The thing is so plain. There
is a certain amount of bulk — of space — to be accounted
for in every cabinet. Then we have accurate rules.
The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. After
the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we
probed with the fine long needles you have seen me
employ. From the tables we removed the tops.'

' Why so ? '

' Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly
arranged piece of furniture, is removed by the person
wishing to conceal an article ; then the leg is exca-
vated, the article deposited within the cavity, and
the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bedposts
are employed in the same way.'

1 But could not the cavity be detected by sound-
ing ? ' I asked.

' By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a
sufficient wadding of cotton be placed around it.
Besides, in our case, we were obliged to proceed with-
out noise.'

' But you could not have removed — you could not
have taken to pieces all articles of furniture in which
it would have been possible to make a deposit in the
manner you mention. A letter may be compressed
into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or
bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it
might be inserted into the rung of a chair, for example.
You did not take to pieces all the chairs ? '

* Certainly not ; but we did better — we examined
the rungs of every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the
jointings of every description of furniture, by the aid
of a most powerful microscope. Had there been any
traces of recent disturbance we should not have
failed to detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-
dust, for example, wrould have been as obvious as an
apple. Any disorder in the glueing — any unusual

THE PURLOINED LETTER 85

gaping in the joints — would have sufficed to ensure
detection.'

' I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the
boards and the plates, and you probed the beds and
the bedclothes, as well as the curtains and carpets.'

' That of course ; and when we had absolutely
completed every particle of the furniture in this way,
then we examined the house itself. We divided its
entire surface into compartments, which we numbered,
so that none might be missed ; then we scrutinized
each individual square inch throughout the premises,
including the two houses immediately adjoining, with
the microscope, as before.'

' The two houses adjoining ! ' I exclaimed ; ' you
must have had a great deal of trouble.'

' We had ; but the reward offered is prodigious.'

* You include the grounds about the houses ? '

1 All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave
us comparatively little trouble. We examined the
moss between the bricks, and found it undisturbed.'

' You looked among D 's papers, of course, and

into the books of the library ? '

' Certainly ; we opened every package and parcel ;
we not only opened every book, but we .turned over
every leaf in each volume, not contenting ourselves
with a mere shake, according to the fashion of some
of our police officers. We also measured the thickness
of every book-cover, with the most accurate admeasure-
ment, and applied to each the most jealous scrutiny
of the microscope. Had any of the bindings been
recently meddled with, it would have been utterly
impossible that the fact should have escaped obser-
vation. Some five or six volumes, just from the
hands of the binder, we carefully probed longitudinally,
with the needles.'

' You explored the floors beneath the carpets ? '

' Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and
examined the boards with the microscope.'

80 EDGAR ALLAN POE

' And the paper on the walls ? '

4 Yes.'

4 You looked into the cellars ? '

4 We did.'

4 Then,' I said, ' you have been making a miscal-
culation, and the letter is not upon the premises, as
you suppose.'

' I fear you are right there,' said the Prefect. ' And
now, Dupin, what would you advise me to do ? '

4 To make a thorough research of the premises.'

4 That is absolutely needless,' replied G . 4 1

am not more sure that I breathe than I am that the
letter is not at the hotel.'

4 1 have no better advice to give you,' said Dupin.
' You have, of course, an accurate description of the
letter ? '

4 Oh yes ! ' And here the Prefect, producing a
memorandum -book, proceeded to read aloud a minute
account of the internal, and especially of the external
appearance of the missing document. Soon after
finishing the perusal of this description, he took his
departure more entirely depressed in spirits than I
had ever known the good gentleman before.

In about a month afterwards he paid us another
visit, and found us occupied very nearly as before.
He took a pipe and a chair and entered into some
ordinary conversation. At length I said —

4 Well, but G , what of the purloined letter ?

I presume you have at last made up your mind that
there is no such thing as overreaching the Minister ? '

* Confound him, say I — yes ; I made the re- examina-
tion, however, as Dupin suggested — but it was all
labour lost, as I knew it would be.'

4 How much was the reward offered, did you say ? '
asked Dupin.

4 Why, a very great deal — a very liberal reward — I
don't like to say how much, precisely ; but I will say,
that I wouldn't mind giving my individual cheque for

THE PURLOINED LETTER 87

fifty thousand francs to any one who could obtain me
that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more and
more importance every day ; and the reward has been
lately doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could
do no more than I have done.'

' Why, yes,' said Dupin drawlingly, between the

whiffs of his meerschaum, ' I really — think, G •,

you have not exerted yourself — to the utmost. — in
this matter. You might — do a little more, I think,
eh?'

' How ? — in wrhat way ? '

' Why — puff, puff — you might — puff, puff — employ
counsel in the matter, eh ? — puff, puff, puff. Do you
remember the story they tell of Abernethy ? '

' No ; hang Abernethy ! '

' To be sure ! hang him and welcome. But once
upon a time, a certain rich miser conceived the design
of sponging upon this Abernethy for a medical opinion.
Getting up, for this purpose, an ordinary conversation
in a private company, he insinuated his case to the
physician, as that of an imaginary individual.

' " We will suppose," said the miser, " that his
symptoms are such and such ; now, doctor, what
would you have directed him to take ? "

' " Take ! " said Abernethy, " why, take advice, to
be sure." '

' But,' said the Prefect, a little discomposed, ' I
am perfectly willing to take advice, and to pay for it.
I would really give fifty thousand francs to any one
who would aid me in the matter.'

1 In that case,' replied Dupin, opening a drawer,
and producing a cheque-book, ' you may as well fill
me up a cheque for the amount mentioned. When
you have signed it, I will hand you the letter.'

I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely
thunderstricken. For some minutes he remained
speechless and motionless, looking incredulously at my
friend with open mouth, and eyes that seemed starting

88 EDGAR ALLAN POE

from their sockets ; then, apparently recovering
himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and after
several pauses and vacant stares, finally filled up and
signed a cheque for fifty thousand francs, and handed
it across the table to Dupin. The latter examined it
carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book ; then,
unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave
it to the Prefect. This functionary grasped it in a
perfect agony of joy, opened it with a trembling hand,
cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, scrambling
and struggling to the door, rushed at length uncere-
moniously from the room and from the house, without
having uttered a syllable since Dupin had requested
him to fill up the cheque.

When he had gone, my friend entered into some
explanations.

' The Parisian police,' he said, ; are exceedingly able
in their way. They are persevering, ingenious, cun-
ning, and thoroughly versed in the knowledge which
their duties seem chiefly to demand. Thus, when

G detailed to us his mode of searching the premises

at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his

having made a satisfactory investigation — so far as
his labours extended.'

' So far as his labours extended ? ' said I.

* Yes,' said Dupin. ' The measures adopted were
not only the best of their kind, but carried out to
absolute perfection. Had the letter been deposited
within the range of their search, these fellows would,
beyond a question, have found it.'

I merely laughed — but he seemed quite serious in
all that he said.

' The measures, then,' he continued, * were good in
their kind, and well executed ; their defect lay in
their being inapplicable to the case, and to the man.
A certain set of highly ingenious resources are, with
the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he
forcibly adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs

THE PURLOINED LETTER 89

by being too deep or too shallow for the matter in
hand ; and many a schoolboy is a better reasoner
than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose
success at guessing in the game of " even and odd "
attracted universal admiration. This game is simple,
and is played with marbles. One player holds in his
hand a number of these toys, and demands of another
whether that number is even or odd. If the guess
is right, the guesser wins one ; if wrong, he loses
one. The boy to whom I allude won all the marbles
of the school. Of course he had some principle of
guessing ; and this lay in mere observation and ad-
measurement of the astuteness of his opponents. For
example, an arrant simpleton is his opponent, and,
holding up his closed hand, asks, " Are they even or
odd ? " Our schoolboy replies, " Odd," and loses ;
but upon the second trial he wins, for he then says to
himself, " The simpleton had them even upon the
first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient
to make him have them odd upon the second ; I will
therefore guess odd " — he guesses odd, and wins.
Now, with a simpleton a degree above the first, he
would have reasoned thus : " This fellow finds that
in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second,
he will propose to himself, upon the first impulse, a
simple variation from even to odd, as did the first
simpleton ; but then a second thought will suggest
that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will
decide upon putting it even as before. I will there-
fore guess even " — he guesses even, and wins. Now
this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom his
. fellows termed " lucky " — what, in its last analysis,
is it ? "

1 It is merely,' I said, ' an identification of the
reasoner' s intellect with that of his opponent.'

' It is,' said Dupin ; ' and upon inquiring of the
boy by what means he effected the thorough identifica-
tion in which his success consisted, I received answer

90 EDGAR ALLAN POE

as follows : " When I wish to find out how wise, or
how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is anyone,
or what are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the
expression of my face, as accurately as possible, in
accordance with the expression of his, and then wait
to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind
or heart, as if to match or correspond with the expres-
sion." This response of the schoolboy lies at the
bottom of all the spurious profundity which has been
attributed to Rochefoucauld, to La Bougive, to
Machiavelli, and to Campanella.'

' And the identification,' I said, ' of the reasoners
intellect with that of his opponent, depends, if I under-
stand you aright, upon the accuracy with which the
opponent's intellect is admeasured.'

' For its practical value it depends upon this,' re-
plied Dupin ; * and the Prefect and his cohort fail so
frequently, first, by default of his identification, and,
secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather through
non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they
are engaged. They consider only their own ideas of
ingenuity ; and, in searching for anything hidden,
advert only to the modes in which they would have
hidden it. They are right in this much — that their
own ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of
the mass ; but when the cunning of the individual
felon is diverse in character from their own, the felon
foils them, of course. This always happens when it is
above their own, and very usually when it is below.
They have no variation of principle in their investiga-
tions ; at best, when urged by some unusual emer-
gency— by some extraordinary reward — they extend
or exaggerate their old modes of practice, without
touching their principles. What, for example, in this

case of D , has been done to vary the principle of

action ? What is all this boring, and probing, and
sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and
dividing the surface of the building into registered

THE PURLOINED LETTER 91

square inches — what is it all but an exaggeration of
flie application of the one principle or set of principles
of search, which are based upon the one set of notions
regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in
the long routine of his duty, has been accustomed ?
Do you not see he has taken it for granted that all
men proceed to conceal a letter — not exactly in a
gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg — but, at least, in some
out-of-the-way hole or corner suggested by the same
tenor of thought which would urge a man to secrete
a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg ? And
do you not see also, that such recherches nooks for con-
cealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and
would be adopted only by ordinary intellects ; for,
in all cases of concealment, a disposal of the article
concealed — a disposal of it in this recherche manner —
is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed ;
and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the
acumen, but altogether upon the mere care, patience,
and determination of the seekers ; and where the case
is of importance — or, what amounts to the same thing
in the policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude
— the qualities in question have never been known to
fail. You will now understand what I meant in sug-
gesting that, had the purloined letter been hidden
anywhere within the limits of the Prefect's examina-
tion— in other words, had the principle of its conceal-
ment been comprehended within the principles of the
Prefect — its discovery would have been a matter alto-
gether beyond question. This functionary, however,
has been thoroughly mystified ; and the remote source
of his defeat lies in the supposition 'that the Minister
is a fool, because he has acquired renown as a poet.
All fools are poets — this the Prefect feels ; and he is
merely guilty of a non distributio medii in thence in-
ferring that alPpoets are fools.'

* But is this really the poet ? ' I asked. ' There
are two brothers, I know ; and both have attained

92 EDGAR ALLAN POE

reputation in letters. The Minister, I believe, has
written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is
a mathematician, and no poet.'

' You are mistaken ; I know him well ; he is both.
As poet and mathematician, he would reason well ; as
mere mathematician, he could not have reasoned at
all, and thus would have been at the mercy of the
Prefect/

' You surprise me,' I said, ' by these opinions, which
have been contradicted by the voice of the world.
You do not mean to set at naught the well-digested
idea of centuries. The mathematical reason has long
been regarded as the reason par excellence'

4 " II y a a parier," ' replied Dupin, quoting from
Chamfort, ' " que toute idee publique, toute convention
reQue, est une sottise, car elle a convenue au plus grand
nombre" The mathematicians, I grant you, have done
their best to promulgate the popular error to which
you allude, and which is none the less an error for its
promulgation as truth. With an art worthy a better
cause, for example, they have insinuated the term
" analysis " into application to algebra. The French
are the originators of this particular deception ; but
if a term is of any importance — if words derive any
value from applicability — then " analysis " conveys
" algebra " about as much as, in Latin, " ambitus "
implies " ambition," " religio " " religion," or " homines
honesti " a set of honourable men.'

' You have a quarrel on hand, I see,' said I, ' with
some of the algebraists of Paris ; but proceed.'

' I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of
that reason which is cultivated in any especial form
other than the abstractly logical. I dispute, in par-
ticular, the reason educed by mathematical study.
The mathematics are the science of form and quantity ;
mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to
observation upon form and quantity. The great error
lies in supposing that even the truths of what is called

THE PURLOINED LETTER 93

pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. And this
error is so egregious that I am confounded at the
universality with which it has been received. Mathe-
matical axioms are not axioms of general truth. What
is true of relation — of form and quantity — is often
grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In
this latter science it is very usually untrue that the
aggregated parts are equal to the whole. In chemistry
also the axiom fails. In the consideration of motive
it fails ; for two motives, each of a given value, have
not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the
sum of their values apart. There are numerous other
mathematical truths which are only truths within the
limits of relation. But the mathematician argues,
from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of
an absolutely general applicability — as the world indeed
imagines them to be. Bryant, in his very learned
Mythology, mentions an analogous source of error,
when he says that " although the Pagan fables are not
believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make
inferences from them as existing realities." With the
algebraists, however, who are Pagans themselves, the
" Pagan fables " are believed, and the inferences are
made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through
an unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I
never yet encountered the mere mathematician who
could be trusted out of equal roots, or one who did not
clandestinely hold it as a point of his faith that x2 -j- px
was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. Say
to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if
you please, that you believe occasions may occur where
x2 + px is not altogether equal to q, and, having made
him understand what you mean, get out of .his reach
as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will
endeavour to knock you down.

' I mean to say,' continued Dupin, while I merely
laughed at his last observations, ' that if the Minister
had been no more than a mathematician, the Prefect

94 EDGAR ALLAN POE

would have been under no necessity of giving me this
cheque. I knew him, however, as both mathematician
and poet, and my measures were adapted to his capacity,
with reference to the circumstances by which he was
surrounded. I knew him as a courtier, too, and as a
bold intriguant. Such a man, I considered, could not
fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes of
action. He could not have failed to anticipate — and
events have proved that he did not fail to anticipate —
the way layings to which he was subjected. He must
have foreseen, I reflected, the secret investigations of
his premises. His frequent absences from home at
night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids
to his success, I regarded only as ruses, to afford
opportunity for thorough search to the police, and
thus the sooner to impress them with the conviction
to which G , -in fact, did finally arrive — the con-
viction that the letter was not upon the premises. I
felt, also, that the whole train of thought, which I was
at some pains in detailing to you just now, concerning
the invariable principle of policial action in searches
for articles concealed — I felt that this whole train of
thought would necessarily pass through the mind of
the Minister. It would imperatively lead him to
despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He
could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that
the most intricate and remote recess of his hotel would
be as open as his commonest closets to the eyes, to the
probes, to the gimlets, and to the microscopes of the
Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as a
matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately in-
duced to it as a matter of choice. You will remember,
perhaps, .how desperately the Prefect laughed when I
suggested, upon our first interview, that it was just
possible this mystery troubled him so much on account
of its being so very self-evident.'

' Yes,' said I, ' I remember his merriment well. I
really thought he would have fallen into convulsions.'

THE PURLOINED LETTER 95

* The material world,' continued Dupin, * abounds
with very strict analogies to the immaterial ; and thus
some colour of truth has been given to the rhetorical
dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be made to
strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a
description. The principle of the vis inertice, for
example, seems to be identical in physics and meta-
physics. It is not more true in the former, that a
large body, is with more difficulty set in motion than a
smaller one, and that its subsequent momentum is
commensurate with this difficulty, than it is, in the
latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, while
more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in
their movements than those of inferior grade, are yet
the less readily moved, and more embarrassed and full
of hesitation in the first few steps of their progress.
Again, have you ever noticed which of the street signs
over the shop-doors are the most attractive of atten-
tion ? '

' I have never given the matter a thought,' I said.

' There is a game of puzzles,' he resumed, ' which
is played upon a map. One party playing requires
another to find a given word — the name of town, river,
state or empire — any word, in short, upon the motley
and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the
game generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by
giving them the most minutely lettered names ; but
the adept selects such words as stretch, in large
characters, from one end of the chart to the other.
These, like the over-largely lettered signs and placards
of the street, escape observation by dint of being
excessively obvious ; and here the physical oversight
is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension
by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those
considerations which are too obtrusively and too
palpably self-evident. But this is a point, it appears,
somewhat above or beneath the understanding of the
Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or pos-

96 EDGAR ALLAN POE

sible, that the Minister had deposited the letter immedi-
ately beneath the nose of the whole world, by way
of best preventing any portion of that world from
perceiving it.

' But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing,

and discriminating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact

that the document must always have been at hand, if
he intended to use it to good purpose ; and upon the
decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, that it was
not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary
search — the more satisfied I became that, to conceal
this letter, the Minister had resorted to the compre-
hensive and sagacious expedient of not attempting to
conceal it at all.

' Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of
green spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite

by accident, at the Ministerial hotel. I found D

at home, yawning, lounging, and dawdling, as usual,
and pretending to be in the last extremity of ennui.
He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being
now alive — but that is only when nobody sees him.

' To be even with him, I complained of my weak
eyes, and lamented the necessity of the spectacles,
under cover of which I cautiously and thoroughly
surveyed the whole apartment, while seemingly intent
only upon the conversation of my host.

' I paid especial attention to a large writing-table
near which he sat, and upon which lay confusedly
some miscellaneous letters and other papers, with one
or two musical instruments and a few books. Here,
however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I
saw nothing to excite particular suspicion.

' At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the
room, fell upon a trumpery filigree card-rack of paste-
board, that hung dangling by a dirty blue ribbon, from
a little brass knob just beneath the middle of the
mantelpiece. In this rack, which had three or four
compartments, were five or six visiting cards and a

THE PURLOINED LETTER 97

solitary letter. This last was much soiled and crumpled.
It was torn nearly in two, across the middle — as if a
design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely up as
worthless, had been altered, or staj^ed, in the second.

It had a large black seal, bearing the D cipher

very conspicuously, and was addressed, in a diminutive

female hand, to D , the Minister, himself. It was

thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptu-
ously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack.

' No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I
concluded it to be that of which I was in search. To
be sure, it was, to all appearance, radically different
from the one of which the Prefect had read us so
minute a description. Here the seal was large and

black, with the I) cipher ; there it was small and

red, with the ducal arms of the S family. Here,

the address, to the Minister, was diminutive and
feminine ; there the superscription, to a certain royal
personage, was markedly bold and decided ; the
size alone formed a point of correspondence. But
then the radicalness of these differences, which was
excessive ; the dirt ; the soiled and torn condition of
the paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical
habits of D — — , and so suggestive of a design to de-
lude the beholder into an idea of the worthlessness of
the document ; these things, together with the hyper-
obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view
of every visitor, and thus exactly in accordance with
the conclusions to which I had previously arrived ;
these things, I say, were strongly corroborative of sus-
picion, in one who came with the intention to suspect.

* I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while
I maintained a most animated discussion with the
Minister, upon a topic which I knew well had never
failed to interest and excite him, I kept my attention
really riveted upon the letter. In this examination,
I committed to memory its external appearance and
arrangement in the rack ; and also fell, at length, upon

228 B

98 EDGAR ALLAN POE

a discovery, which set at rest whatever trivial doubt
I might have entertained. In scrutinizing the edges
of the paper, I observed them to be more cliafed than
seemed necessary. They presented the broken appear-
ance which is manifested when a stiff paper, having been
once folded and pressed with a folder, is refolded in a
reverse direction, in the same creases or edges which had
formed the original fold. This discovery wa# sufficient.
It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a
glove, inside out, redirected and resealed. I bade the
Minister good-morning, and took my departure at once,
leaving a gold snuff-box upon the table.

' The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when
we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversation of the
preceding day. While thus engaged, however, a loud
report, as if of a pistol, was heard immediately beneath
the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a series
of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob.

D rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked

out. In the meantime, I stepped to the card-rack, took
the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced it by a fac-
simile (so far as regards externals) which I had carefully

prepared at my lodgings — imitating the D cipher,

very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread.

* The disturbance in the street had been occasioned
by the frantic behaviour of a man with a musket. He
had fired it among a crowd of women and children. It
proved, however, to have been without ball, and the
fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a

drunkard. When he had gone, D came from the

window, whither I had followed him immediately upon
securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade
him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my
own pay.'

4 But what purpose had 3rou,' I asked, ' in replacing
the letter by a fac-simile ? Would it" not have been
better, at the first visit, to have seized it openly, and
departed ? '

THE PURLOINED LETTER 99

' D ,' replied Dupin, ' is a desperate man, and a

man of nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants
devoted to his interests. Had I made the wild attempt
you suggest, I might never have left the Ministerial
presence alive. The good people of Paris might have
heard of me no more. But I had an object apart from
these considerations. You know my political pre-
possessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of the
lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister has
had her in his power. She has now him in hers — since,
being unaware that the letter is not in his possession, he
will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will
he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political
destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more
precipitate than awkward. It is all very well to talk
about the facilis descensus Averni ; but in all kinds of
climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy
to get up than to come down. In the present instance
I have no sympathy — at least no pity — for him who
descends. He is that monstrum horrendum, an un-
principled man of genius. I confess, however, that I
should like very well to know the precise character of
his thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the
Prefect terms "a certain personage," he is reduced to
opening the letter which I left for him in the card -rack.'
' How ? did you put anything particular in it ? '
' Why — it did not seem altogether right to leave the

interior blank — that would have been insulting. D ,

at Vienna once, did me an evil turn, which I told him,
quite good-humouredly, that I should remember. So,
as I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the
identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought
it a pity not to give him a clue. He is well acquainted
with my MS., and I just copied into the middle of the
blank sheet the words : —

' " Un dessein si funeste,

S'il n'est digne d'Atree, est digne de Thyeste."
They are to be found in Crebillon's " Atree." '

100 EDGAR ALLAN POE

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO

THE thousand injuries of Fortunate I had borne as
I best could ; but when he ventured upon insult, I
vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of
my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utter-
ance to a threat. At length I would be avenged ; this
was a point definitely settled — but the very definitive-
ness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of
risk. I must not only punish, but punish with im-
punity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution
overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when
the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him
who has done the wrong.

It must be understood, that neither by word nor
deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good-
will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face,
and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the
thought of his immolation.

He had a weak point — this Fortunato — although in
other regards he was a man to be respected and even
feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in
wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For
the most part their enthusiasm is adapted to suit the
time and opportunity — to practise imposture upon the
British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and
gernmary Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack
— but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In
this respect I did not differ from him materially : I was
skilful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely
whenever I could.

It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme
madness of the Carnival season, that I encountered my
friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he
had been drinking much. The man wore motley.
He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his
head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 101

was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never
have done wringing his hand.

I said to him, ' My dear Fortunate, you are luckily
met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day !
But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontil-
lado, and I have my doubts.'

' How ? ' said he ; ' Amontillado ? A pipe ? Im-
possible ! And in the middle of the Carnival ! '

' I have my doubts,' I replied ; ' and I was silly
enough to pay the full Amontillado price without con-
sulting you in the matter. You were not to be found,
and I was fearful of losing a bargain.'

' Amontillado ! '

I 1 have my doubts.'
' Amontillado ! '

4 And I must satisfy them.'

' Amontillado ! '

' As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi.
If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell
me '

' Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry.'

' And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a
match for your own.'

' Come, let us go.'

1 Whither ? s

' To your vaults.'

' My friend, no ; I will not impose upon your good-
nature. I perceive you have an engagement.
Luchesi '

' I have no engagement ; come.'

' My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the
severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted.
The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted
with nitre.'

' Let us go nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.
Amontillado ! You have been imposed upon. And
as for Luchesi — he cannot distinguish Sherry from
Amontillado.'

102" EDGAR ALLAN POE

Thus speaking, Fortunate possessed himself of my
arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a
roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to
hurry me to my palazzo.

There were no attendants at home ; they had ab-
sconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had
told them that I should not return until the morning,
and had given them explicit orders not to stir from
the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew,
to ensure their immediate disappearance, one and all,
as soon as my back was turned.

I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving
one to Fortunate, bowed him through several suites of
rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed
down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to
be cautious as he followed. We came at length to
the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp
ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.

The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells
upon his cap jingled as he strode.

' The pipe,' said he.

4 It is farther on,' said I ; c but observe the white
webwork which gleams from these cavern walls.'

He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes
with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of in-
toxication.

' Nitre ? ' he asked, at length.

' Nitre,' I replied. ' How long have you had that
cough ? '

' Ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! — ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! — ugh ! ugh !
ugh ! — ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! — ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! '

My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many
minutes.

' It is nothing,' he said at last.

' Come,5 I said, with decision, ' we will go back ;
your health is precious. You are rich, respected,
admired, beloved ; you are happy, as once I was. You
are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 103

will go back ; you will be ill, and I cannot be respon-
sible. Besides, there is Luchesi '

' Enough,' he said, ' the cough is a mere nothing ; it
will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.'

' True — true,' I replied ; ' and, indeed, I had no
intention of alarming you unnecessarily — but you
should use all proper caution. A draught of this Me'doc
will defend us from the damps.'

Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew
from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the
mould.

' Drink,' I said, presenting him the wine.

He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and
nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.

' I drink,' he said, ' to the buried that repose around
us.'

' And I to your long life.'

He again took my arm, and we proceeded.

' These vaults,' he said, ' are extensive.'

* The Montresors,' I replied, ' were a great and
numerous family.'

' I forget your arms.'

' A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure ; the foot
crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are embedded
in the heel.'

' And the motto ? '

' Nemo me impune lacessit.'

' Good ! ' he said.

The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled.
My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had
passed through walls with piled bones, with casks and
puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses
of the catacombs. I paused again, and this time I
made bold to seize Fortunate by an arm above the
elbow.

' The nitre ! ' I said ; ' see, it increases. It hangs
like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's
bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones.

104 EDGAR ALLAN POE

Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your
cough '

' It is nothing,' he said ; ' let us go on. But first,
another draught of the Medoc.'

I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with
a gesticulation I did not understand.

I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the move-
ment— a grotesque one.

4 You do not comprehend ? ' he said.

1 Not I,' I replied.

1 Then you are not of the brotherhood.'

* How ? '

' You are not of the masons.'

' Yes, yes,' I said ; ' yes, yes.'

' You ? Impossible ! A mason ? '

' A mason,' I replied.

' A sign,' he said.

1 It is this,' I answered, producing a trowel from
beneath the folds of my roquelaire.

' You jest,' he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces.
' But let us proceed to the Amontillado.'

4 Be it so,' I said, replacing the tool beneath the
cloak, and again offering him my arm. He leaned
upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of
the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low
arches, descended, passed on, and descending again,
arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the
air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.

At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared
another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with
human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the
fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides
of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this
manner. From the fourth the bones had been thrown
down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming
at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 105

thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we per-
ceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet,
in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to
have been constructed for no especial use within itself,
but formed merely the interval between two of the
colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was
backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid
granite.

It was in vain that Fortunate, uplifting his dull
torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess.
Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.

' Proceed,' I said ; ' herein is the Amontillado. As
for Luchesi '

' He is an ignoramus,' interrupted my friend, as he
stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immedi-
ately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the
extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested
by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment
more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its
surface were two iron staples, distant from each other
about two feet, horizontally. From one of these
depended a short chain, from the other a padlock.
Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the
work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much
astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key, I stepped
back from the recess.

' Pass your hand,' I said, ' over the wall ; you cannot
help feeling the nitre. Indeed it is very 'damp. Once
more let me implore you to return. No? Then I
must positively leave you. But I must first render
you all the little attentions in my power.'

* The Amontillado ! ' ejaculated my friend, not yet
recovered from his astonishment.

' True,' I replied, ' the Amontillado.'

As I said these words I busied myself among the pile
of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing
them aside, I soon, uncovered a quantity of building
stone aiid mortar. With these materials, and with the

106 EDGAR ALLAN POE

aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the
entrance of the niche.

I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when
I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in
a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I
had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of
the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man.
There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid
the second tier, and the third, and the fourth ; and
then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The
noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I
might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased
my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at
last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and
finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and
the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a
level with my breast. I again paused, and holding
the flambeaux over the mason- work, threw a few feeble
rays upon the figure within.

A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting
suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed
to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I
hesitated — I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I
began to grope with it about the recess ; but the
thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand
upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied.
I reapproached the wall. I replied to the yells of him
who clamoured. I re-echoed — I aided — I surpassed
them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the
clamourer grew still.

It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a
close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the
tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the
eleventh ; there remained but a single stone to be fitted
and plastered in. I struggled with its weight ; I
placed it partially in its destined position. But now
there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected
the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad

THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 107

voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of
the noble Fortunato. The voice said —

' Ha ! ha ! ha ! — he ! he ! — a very good joke indeed
— an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh
about it at the palazzo — he ! he ! he ! — over our wine-
he ! he ! he ! '

4 The Amontillado ! ' I said.

' He ! he ! he ! — he ! he ! he ! — yes, the Amontillado.
But is it not getting late ? Will not they be awaiting us
at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest ? Let
us be gone.'

' Yes,' I said, ' let us be gone.'

4 For the love of God, Montresor ! '

4 Yes,' I said, ' for the love of God ! '

But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply.
I grew impatient. I called aloud —

4 Fortunato ! '

No answer. I called again — •

4 Fortunato ! '

No answer still. I thrust a torch through the re-
maining aperture and let it fall within. There came
forth in return only a jingling of the bells. My heart
grew sick — on account of the dampness of the cata-
combs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I
forced the last stone into its position ; I plastered it
up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old
rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal
has disturbed them. In pace requiescat !

CHARLES DICKENS

1812-1870

THE HOLLY-TREE
THREE BRANCHES
FIRST BRANCH

MYSELF

I HAVE kept one secret in the course of my life. I
am a bashful man. Nobody would suppose it, no-
body ever does suppose it, nobody ever did suppose
it, but I am naturally a bashful man. This is the
secret which I have never breathed until now.

I might greatly move the reader by some account
of the innumerable places I have not been to, the
innumerable people I have not called upon or received,
the innumerable social evasions I have been guilty of,
solely because I am by original constitution and
character a bashful man. But I will leave the reader
unmoved, and proceed with the object before rne.

That object is to give a plain account of my travels
and discoveries in the Holly-Tree Inn ; in which place
of good entertainment for man and beast I was once
snowed up.

It happened in the memorable year when I parted
for ever from Angela Leath, whom I was shortly to
have married, on making the discovery that she pre-
ferred my bosom friend. From our school-days I
had freely admitted Edwin, in my own mind, to be
far superior to myself ; and, though I was grievously

108

THE HOLLY-TREE 109

wounded at heart, I felt the preference to be natural,
and tried to forgive them both. It was under these
circumstances that I resolved to go to America — on
my way to the Devil.

Communicating my discovery neither to Angela nor
to Edwin, but resolving to write each of them an
affecting letter conveying my blessing and forgiveness,
which the steam-tender for shore should carry to the
post when I myself should be bound for the New
World, far beyond recall, — I say, locking up my grief
in my own breast, and consoling myself as I could with
the prospect of being generous, I quietly left all I held
dear, and started on the desolate journey I have men-
tioned.

The dead winter-time was in full dreariness when I
left my chambers for ever, at five o'clock in the morn-
ing. I had shaved by candle-light, of course, and was
miserably cold, and experienced that general all-
pervading sensation of getting up to be hanged which
I have usually found inseparable from untimely rising
under such circumstances.

How well I remember the forlorn aspect of Fleet-
street when I came out of the Temple ! The street-
lamps flickering in the gusty north-east wind, as if the
very gas were contorted with cold ; the white-topped
houses ; the bleak, star-lighted sky ; the market
people and other early stragglers, trotting to circulate
their almost frozen blood ; the hospitable light and
warmth of the few coffee-shops and public-houses that
were open for such customers ; the hard, dry, frosty
rime with which the air was charged (the wind had
already beaten it into every crevice), and which lashed
my face like a steel whip.

It wanted nine days to the end of the month, and
end of the year. The Post-office packet for the United
States was to depart from Liverpool, weather permit-
ting, on the first of the ensuing month, and I had the
intervening time on my hands. I had taken this into

110 CHARLES DICKENS

consideration, and had resolved to make a visit to a
certain spot (which I need not name) on the farther
borders of Yorkshire. It was endeared to me by my
having first seen Angela at a farmhouse in that place,
and my melancholy was gratified by the idea of taking
a wintry leave of it before my expatriation. I ought
to explain, that, to avoid being sought out before my
resolution should have been rendered irrevocable by
being carried into full effect, I had written to Angela
overnight, in my usual manner, lamenting that urgent
business, of which she should know all particulars by-
and-by — took me unexpectedly away from her for a
week or ten days.

There was no Northern Railway at that time, and
in its place there were stage-coaches ; which I occa-
sionally find myself, in common with some other
people, affecting to lament now, but which everybody
dreaded as a very serious penance then. I had secured
the box-seat on the fastest of these, and my business
in Fleet- street was to get into a cab with my port-
manteau, so to make the best of my way to the Peacock
at Islington, where I was to join this coach. But
when one of our Temple watchmen, who carried my
portmanteau into Fleet- street for me, told me about
the huge blocks of ice that had for some days past
been floating in the river, having closed up in the
night, and made a walk from the Temple Gardens
over to the Surrey shore, I began to ask myself the
question, whether the box-seat would not be likely
to put a sudden and a frosty end to my unhappiness.
I was heart-broken, it is true, and yet I was not quite
so far gone as to wish to be frozen to death.

When I got up to the Peacock, — where I found
everybody drinking hot purl, in self-preservation, — I
asked if there were an inside seat to spare. I then
discovered that, inside or out, I was the only passenger.
This gave me a still livelier idea of the great inclemency
of the weather, since that coach always loaded par-

THE HOLLY-TREE 111

ticularly well. However, I took a little purl (which I
found uncommonly good), and got into the coach.
When I was seated, they built me up with straw to
the waist, and, conscious of making a rather ridiculous
appearance, I began my journey.

It was still dark when we left the Peacock. For a
little while, pale, uncertain ghosts of houses and trees
appeared and vanished, and then it was hard, black,
frozen day. People were lighting their fires ; smoke
was mounting straight up high into the rarefied air ;
and we were rattling for Highgate Archway over the
hardest ground I have ever heard the ring of iron
shoes on. As we got into the country, everything
seemed to have grown old and grey. The roads, the
trees, thatched roofs of cottages and homesteads, the
ricks in farmers' yards. Out-door work was aban-
doned, horse-troughs at roadside inns were frozen hard,
no stragglers lounged about, doors were close shut,
little turnpike houses had blazing fires inside, and
children (even turnpike people have children, and
seem to like them) rubbed the frost from the little
panes of glass with their chubby arms, that their bright
eyes might catch a glimpse of the solitary coach going
' by. I don't know when the snow began to set in ;
but I know that we were changing horses somewhere
when I heard the guard remark, ' That the old lady up
in the sky was picking her geese pretty hard to-day.'
Then, indeed, I found the white down falling fast and
thick.

The lonely day wore on, and I dozed it out, as a
lonely traveller does. I was warm and valiant after
eating and drinking, — particularly after dinner ; cold
and depressed at all other times. I was always bewil-
dered as to time and place, and always more or less
out of my senses. The coach and horses seemed to
execute in chorus Auld Lang Syne, without a moment's
intermission. They kept the time and tune with the
greatest regularity, and rose into the swell at the

112 CHARLES DICKENS

beginning of the Refrain, with a precision that worried
me to death. While we changed horses, the guard
and coachman went stumping up and down the road,
printing off their shoes in the snow, and poured so
much liquid consolation into themselves without being
any the worse for it, that I began to confound them,
as it darkened again, with two great white casks
standing on end. Our horses tumbled down in soli-
tary places, and we got them up, — which was the
pleasantest variety / had, for it warmed me. And it
snowed and snowed, and still it snowed, and never
left off snowing. All night long we went on in this
manner. Thus we came round the clock, upon the
Great North Road, to the performance of Auld Lang
Syne all day again. And it snowed and snowed, and
still it snowed, and never left off snowing.

I forget now where we were at noon on the second
day, and where we ought to have been ; but I know
that we were scores of miles behindhand, and that
our case was growing worse every hour. The drift
was becoming prodigiously deep ; landmarks were
getting snowed out ; the road and the fields were all
one ; instead of having fences and hedge-rows to
guide us, we went crunching on over an unbroken
surface of ghastly white that might sink beneath us
at any moment and drop us down a whole hillside.
Still the coachman and guard — who kept together on
the box, always in council, and looking well about
them — made out the track with astonishing sagacity.

When we came in sight of a town, it looked, to my
fancy, like a large drawing on a slate, with abundance
of slate-pencil expended on the churches and houses
where the snow lay thickest. When we came within
a town, and found the church clocks all stopped, the
dial-faces choked with snow, and the inn-signs blotted
out, it seemed as if the whole place were overgrown
with white moss. As to the coach, it was a mere
snowball ; similarly, the men and 'boys who ran along

THE HOLLY-TREE 113

beside us to the town's end, turning our clogged
wheels and encouraging our horses, were men and
boys of snow ; and the bleak wild solitude to which
they at last dismissed us was a snowy Sahara. One
would have thought this enough : notwithstanding
which, I pledge my word that it snowed and snowed,
and still it snowed, and never left off snowing.

We performed Auld Lang Syne the whole day ;
seeing nothing, out of towns and villages, but the
track of stoats, hares, and foxes, and sometimes of
birds. At nine o'clock at night, on a Yorkshire moor,
a cheerful burst from our horn, and a welcome sound
of talking, with a glimmering and moving about of
lanterns, roused me from my drowsy state. I found
that we were going to change.

They helped me out, and I said to a waiter, whose
bare head became as white as King Lear's in a single
minute, ' What Inn is this ? '

4 The Holly-Tree, Sir,' said he.

' Upon my word, I believe,' said I, apologetically,
to the guard and coachman, ' that I must stop here.'

Now the landlord, and the landlady, and the ostler,
and the postboy, and all the stable authorities, had
already asked the coachman, to the wide-eyed interest
of all the rest of the establishment, if he meant to go
on. The coachman had already replied, ' Yes, he'd
take her through it,' — meaning by Her the coach, —
' if so be as George would stand by him.' George was
the guard, and he had already sworn that he tvould
stand by him. So the helpers were already getting
the horses out.

My declaring myself beaten, after this parley, was
not an announcement without preparation. Indeed,
but for the way to the announcement being smoothed
by the parley, I more 'than doubt whether, as an
innately bashful man, I should have had the confidence
to make it. As it was, it received the approval even
of the guard and coachman. Therefore, w^th many

114 CHARLES DICKENS

confirmations of my inclining, and many remarks from
one bystander to another, that the gentleman could
go for'ard by the mail to-morrow, whereas to-night
he would only be froze, and where was the good of a
gentleman being froze ? — ah ! let alone buried alive
(which latter clause was added by a humorous helper
as a joke at my expense, and was extremely well re-
ceived), I saw my portmanteau got out stiff, like a
frozen body ; did the handsome thing by the guard
and coachman ; wished them good-night and a pros-
perous journey ; and, a little ashamed of myself, after
all, for leaving them to fight it out alone, followed the
landlord, landlady, and waiter of the Holly-Tree
upstairs.

I thought I had never seen such a large room as that
into which they showed me. It had five windows,
with dark red curtains that would have absorbed the
light of a general illumination ; and there were com-
plications of drapery at the top of the curtains, that
went wandering about the wall in a most extraordinary
manner. I asked for a smaller room, and they told
me there was no smaller room. They could screen
me in, however, the landlord said. They brought a
great old japanned screen, with natives (Japanese, I
suppose) engaged in a variety of idiotic pursuits all
over it ; and left me roasting whole before an immense
fire.

My bedroom was some quarter of a mile off, up a
great staircase at the end of a long gallery ; and
nobody knows what a misery, this is to a bashful man
who would rather not meet people on the stairs. It
was the grimmest room I have ever had the nightmare
in ; and all the furniture, from the four posts of the
bed to the two old silver candlesticks, was tall, high-
shouldered, and spindle- waisted. Below, in my sitting-
room, if I looked round my screen, the wind rushed
at me like a mad bull ; if I stuck to my armchair, the
fire scorcled me to the colour of a new brick. The

THE HOLLY-TREE 115

chimney-piece was very high, and there was a bad glass
— what I may call a wavy glass — above it, which, when
I stood up, just showed me my anterior phrenological
developments, — and these never look well, in any
subject, cut short off at the eyebrow. If I stood with
my back to the fire, a gloomy vault of darkness above
and beyond the screen insisted on being looked at ;
and, in its dim remoteness, the drapery of the ten
curtains of the five windows went twisting and creep-
ing about, like a nest of gigantic worms.

I suppose that what I observe in myself must be
observed by some other men of similar character in
themselves ; therefore I am emboldened to mention,
that, when I travel, I never arrive at a place but I
immediately want to go away from it. Before I had
finished my supper of broiled fowl and /nulled port, I
had impressed upon the waiter in detail my arrange-
ments for departure in the morning. Breakfast and
bill at eight. Fly at nine. Two horses, or, if needful,
even four.

Tired though I was, the night appeared about a
week long. In oases of nightmare, I thought of
Angela, and felt more depressed than ever by the re-
flection that I was on the shortest road to Gretna
Green. What had I to do with Gretna Green ? I was
not going that way to the Devil, but by the American
route, I remarked in my bitterness.

In the morning I found that it was snowing still,
that it had snowed all night, and that I was snowed
up. Nothing could get out of that spot on the moor,
or could come at it, until the road had been cut out
by labourers from the market-town. When they
might cut their way to the Holly-Tree nobody could
tell me.

It was now Christmas-eve. I should have had a
dismal Christmas-time of it anywhere, and conse-
quently that did not so much matter ; still, being
snowed up was like dying of frost, a thing I had not

116 CHARLES DICKENS

bargained for. I felt very lonely. Yet I could no more
have proposed to the landlord and landlady to admit
me to their society (though I should have liked it
7ery much) than I could have asked them to present
me with a piece of plate. Here my great secret, the
real bashfulness of my character, is to be observed.
Like most bashful men, I judge of other people as if
they were bashful too. Besides being far too shame-
faced to make the proposal myself, I really had a
delicate misgiving that it would be in the last degree
disconcerting to them.

Trying to settle down, therefore, in my solitude, I
first of all asked what books there were in the house.
The waiter brought me a Book of Road,s, two or three
old Newspapers, a little Song-Book, terminating in a
collection of Toasts and Sentiments, a little Jest- Book,
an odd volume of Peregrine Pickle, and the Sentimental
Journey. I knew every word of the two last already,
but I read them through again, then tried to hum all
the songs (Auld Lang Syne was among them) ; went
entirely through the jokes, — in which I found a fund
of melancholy adapted to my state of mind ; proposed
all the toasts, enunciated all the sentiments, and
mastered the papers. The latter had nothing in
them but stock advertisements, a meeting about a
county rate, and a highway robbery. As I am a
greedy reader, I could not make this supply hold out
until night ; it was exhausted by tea-time. Being
then entirely cast upon my own resources, I got
through an hour in considering what to do next.
Ultimately, it came into my head (from which I was
anxious by any means to exclude Angela and Edwin),
that I would endeavour to recall my experience of
Inns, and would try how long it lasted me. I stirred
the fire, moved my chair a little to one side of the
screen, — not daring to go far, for I knew the wind
was waiting to make a rush at me, I could hear it
growling, — and began.

THE HOLLY-TREE 117

My first impressions of an Inn dated from the Nur-
sery ; consequently I went back to the Nursery for a
starting-point, and found myself at the knee of a
sallow woman with a fishy eye, an aquiline nose, and
a green gown, whose speciality was a dismal narrative
of a landlord by the roadside, whose visitors un-
accountably disappeared for many years, until it was
discovered that the pursuit of his life had been to
convert them into pies. For the better devotion of
himself to this branch of industry, he had constructed
a secret door behind the head of the bed ; and when
the visitor (oppressed with pie) had fallen asleep, this
wicked landlord would look softly in with a lamp in
one hand and a knife in the other, would cut his throat,
and would make him into pies ; for which purpose he
had coppers, underneath a trap-door, always boiling ;
and rolled out his pastry in the dead of the night. Yet
even he was not insensible to the stings of conscience,
for he never went to sleep without being heard to
mutter, ' Too much pepper ! ' which was eventually
the cause of his being brought to justice. I had no
sooner disposed of this criminal than there started up
another of the same period, whose profession was
originally housebreaking ; in the pursuit of which art
he had had his right ear chopped off one night, as he
was burglariously getting in at a window, by a brave
and lovely servant-maid (whom the aquiline-nosed
woman, though not at all answering the description,
always mysteriously implied to be herself). After
several years, this brave and lovely servant-maid was
married to the landlord of a country Inn ; which
landlord had this remarkable characteristic, that he
always wore a silk nightcap, and never would on any
consideration take it off. At last, one night, when he
was fast asleep, the brave and lovely woman lifted up
his silk nightcap on the right side, and found that he
had no ear there ; upon which she sagaciously per-
ceived that he was the clipped housebreaker, who had

118 CHARLES DICKENS

married her with the intention of putting her to death.
She immediately heated the poker and terminated
his career, for which she was taken to King George
upon his throne, and received the compliments of
royalty on her great discretion and valour. This same
narrator, who had a Ghoulish pleasure, I have long
been persuaded, in terrifying me to the utmost con-
fines of my reason, had another authentic anecdote
within her own experience, founded, I now believe,
upon Raymond and Agnes, or the Bleeding Nun. She
said it happened to her brother-in-law, who was
immensely rich, — which my father was not ; and
immensely tall, — which my father was not. It was
always a point with this Ghoul to present my dearest
relations and friends to my youthful mind under cir-
cumstances of disparaging contrast. The brother-in-
law was riding once through a forest on a magnificent
horse (we had no magnificent horse at our house),
attended by a favourite and valuable Newfoundland
dog (we had no dog), when he found himself benighted,
and came to an Inn. A dark woman opened the
door, and he asked her if he could have a bed there.
She answered yes, and put his horse in the stable, and
took him into a room where there were two dark
men. While he was at supper, a parrot in the room
began to talk, saying, ' Blood, blood ! Wipe up the
blood ! ' Upon which one of the dark men wrung the
parrot's neck, and said he was fond of roasted parrots,
and he meant to have this one for breakfast in the
morning. After eating and drinking heartily, the
immensely rich, tall brother-in-law went up to bed ;
but he was rather vexed, because they had shut his
dog in the stable, saying that they never allowed dogs
in the house. He sat very quiet for more than an
hour, thinking and thinking, when, just as his candle
was burning out, he heard a scratch at the door. He
opened the door, and there was the Newfoundland
dog ! The dog came softly in, smelt about him, went

THE HOLLY-TREE 119

straight to some straw in the corner which the dark
men had said covered apples, tore the straw away,
and disclosed two sheets steeped in blood. Just at
that moment the candle went out, and the brother-in-
law, looking through a chink in the door, saw the two
dark men stealing upstairs ; one armed with a dagger
that long (about five feet) ; the other carrying a
chopper, a sack, and a spade. Having no remem-
brance of the close of this adventure, I suppose my
faculties to have been always so frozen with terror
at this stage of it, that the power of listening stag-
nated within me for some quarter of an hour.

These barbarous stories carried me, sitting there
on the Holly-Tree hearth, to the Roadside Inn, re-
nowned in my time in a sixpenny book with a folding
plate, representing in a central compartment of oval
form the portrait of Jonathan Bradford, and in four
corner compartments four incidents of the tragedy
with which the name is associated, — coloured with a
hand at once so free and economical, that the bloom
of Jonathan's complexion passed without any pause
into the breeches of the ostler, and, smearing itself off
into the next division, became rum in a bottle. Then
I remembered how the landlord was found at the
murdered traveller's bedside, with his own knife at
his feet, and blood upon his hand ; how he was hanged
for the murder, notwithstanding his protestation that
he had indeed come there to kill the traveller for his
saddle-bags, but had been stricken motionless on
finding him already slain ; but how the ostler, years
afterwards, owned the deed. By this time I had
made myself quite uncomfortable. I stirred the fire,
and stood with my back to it as long as I could bear
the heat, looking up at the darkness beyond the screen,
and at the wormy curtains creeping in and creeping
out, like the worms in the ballad of Alonzo the Brave
and the Fair Imogene.

There was an Inn in the cathedral town where I

120 CHARLES DICKENS

went to school, which had pleasanter recollections
about it than any of these. I took it next. It was
the Inn where friends used to put up, and where we
used to go to see parents, and to have salmon and
fowls, and be tipped. It had an ecclesiastical sign, —
the Mitre, — and a bar that seemed to be the next best
thing to a bishopric, it was so snug. I loved the land-
lord's youngest daughter to distraction, — but let that
pass. It was in this Inn that I was cried over by my
rosy little sister, because I had acquired a black eye
in a fight. And though she had been, that Holly-Tree
night, for many a long year where all tears are dried,
the Mitre softened me yet.

' To be continued to-morrow,' said I, when I took
my candle to go to bed. But my bed took it upon
itself to continue the train of thought that night. It
carried me away, like the enchanted carpet, to a dis-
tant place (though still in England), and there, alight-
ing from a stage-coach at another Inn in the snow, as
I had actually done some years before, I repeated in
my sleep a curious experience I had really had here.
More than a year before I made the journey in the
course of which I put up at that Inn, I had lost a
very near and dear friend by death. Every night
since, at home or away from home, I had dreamed of
that friend ; sometimes as still living ; sometimes as
returning from the world of shadows to comfort me ;
always as being beautiful, placid, and happy, never
in association with any approach to fear or distress.
It was at a lonely Inn in a wide moorland place, that
I halted to pass the night. When I had looked from
my bedroom window over the waste of snow on which
the moon was shining, I sat down by my fire to write
a letter. I had always, until that hour, kept it within
my own breast that I dreamed every night of the dear
lost one. But in the letter that I wrote I recorded
the circumstance, and added that I felt much interested
in proving whether the subject of my dream would

THE HOLLY-TREE 121

still be faithful to me, travel-tired, and in that remote
place. No. I lost the beloved figure of my vision in
parting with the secret. My sleep has never looked
upon it since, in sixteen years, but once. I was in
Italy, and awoke (or seemed to awake), the well-
remembered voice distinctly in my ears, conversing
with it. I entreated it, as it rose above my bed and
soared up to the vaulted roof of the old room, to
answer me a question I had asked touching the Future
Life. My hands were still outstretched towards it as
it vanished, when I heard a bell ringing by the garden
wall, and a voice in the deep stillness of the night
calling on all good Christians to pray for the souls of
the dead ; it being All Souls' Eve.

To return to the Holly-Tree. When I awoke next
day, it was freezing hard, and the lowering sky threat-
ened more snow. My breakfast cleared away, I
drew my chair into its former place, and, with the fire
getting so much the better of the landscape that I sat
in twilight, resumed my Inn remembrances.

That was a good Inn down in Wiltshire where I
put up once, in the days of the hard Wiltshire ale,
and before all beer was bitterness. It was on the
skirts of Salisbury Plain, and the midnight wind that
rattled my lattice window came moaning at me from
Stonehenge. There was a hanger-on at that establish-
ment (a supernaturally preserved Druid I believe him
to have been, and to be still), with long white hair, and
a flinty blue eye always looking afar off ; who claimed
to have been a shepherd, and who seemed to be ever
watching fo^ the reappearance, on the verge of the
horizon, of some ghostly flock of sheep that had been
mutton for many ages. He was a man with a weird
belief in him that no one could count the stones of
Stonehenge twice, and make the same number of
them ; likewise, that any one who counted them
three times nine times, and then stood in the centre
and said, ' I dare ! ' would behold a tremendous

122 CHARLES DICKENS

apparition, and be stricken dead. He pretended to
have seen a bustard (I suspect him to have been
familiar with the dodo), in manner following : He was
out upon the plain at the close of a late autumn day,
when he dimly discerned, going on before him at a
curious fitfully bounding pace, what he at first sup-
posed to be a gig-umbrella that had been blown from
some conveyance, but what he presently believed to
be a lean dwarf man upon a little pony. Having
followed this object for some distance without gaining
on it, and having called to it many times without
receiving any answer, he pursued it for miles and
miles, when, at length coming up with it, he dis-
covered it to be the last bustard in Great Britain,
degenerated into a wingless state, and running along
the ground. Resolved to capture him or perish in the
attempt, he closed with the bustard ; but the bustard,
who had formed a counter-resolution that he should
do neither, threw him, stunned him, and was last seen
making off due west. This weird man, at that stage
of metempsychosis, may have been a sleep-walker or
an enthusiast or a robber ; but I awoke one night to
find him in the dark at my bedside, repeating the
Athanasian Creed in a terrific voice. I paid my bill
next day, and retired from the county with all pos-
sible precipitation.

That was not a commonplace story which worked
itself out at a little Inn in Switzerland, while I was
staying there. It was a very homely place, in a village
of one narrow zigzag street, among mountains, and you
went in at the main door through the cow-house, and
among the mules and the dogs and the fowls, before
ascending a great bare staircase to the rooms ; which
were all of unpainted wood, without plastering or
papering, — like rough packing-cases. Outside there
was nothing but the straggling street, a little toy church
with a copper-coloured steeple, a pine forest, a torrent,
mists, and mountain sides. A young man belonging

THE HOLLY-TREE 123

to this Inn had disappeared eight weeks before (it
was winter-time), and was supposed to have had some
undiscovered love affair, and to have gone for a soldier.
He had got up in the night, and dropped into the
village street from the loft in which he slept with
another man ; and he had done it so quietly, that his
companion and fellow-labourer had heard no movement
when he was awakened in the morning, and they said,
' Louis, where is Henri ? ' They looked for him high
and low, in vain, and gave him up. Now, outside this
Inn, there stood, as there stood outside every dwelling
in the village, a stack of firewood ; but the stack
belonging to the Inn was higher than any of the rest,
because the Inn was the richest house, and burnt the
most fuel. It began to be noticed, while they were
looking high and low, that a Bantam cock, part of the
live stock of the Inn, put himself wonderfully out of his
way to get to the top of this wood- stack ; and that he
would stay there for hours and hours, crowing, until
he appeared in danger of splitting himself. Five weeks
went on, — six weeks, — and still this terrible Bantam,
neglecting his domestic affairs, was always on the top
of the wood-stack, crowing the very eyes out of his
head. By this time it was perceived that Louis had
become inspired with a violent animosity towards the
terrible Bantam, and one morning he was seen by a
woman, who sat nursing her goitre at a little window
in a gleam of sun, to catch up a rough billet of wood,
with a great oath, hurl it at the terrible Bantam crowing
on the wood-stack, and bring him down dead. Here-
upon the woman, with a sudden light in her mind, stole
round to the back of the wood-stack, and, being a good
climber, as all those women are, climbed up, and soon
was seen upon the summit, screaming, looking down the
hollow within, and crying, ' Seize Louis, the murderer !
Ring the church bell ! Here is the body ! ' I saw the
murderer that day, and I saw him as I sat by my fire at
the Holly-Tree Inn, and I see him now, lying sha,ckled

124 CHARLES DICKENS

with cords on the stable litter, among the mild eyes and
the smoking breath of the cows, waiting to be taken
away by the police, and stared at by the fearful village.
A heavy animal, — the dullest animal in the stables, —
with a stupid head, and a lumpish face devoid of any
trace of sensibility, who had been, within the knowledge
of the murdered youth, an embezzler of certain small
moneys belonging to his master, and who had taken
this hopeful mode of putting a possible accuser out of
his way. All of which he confessed next day, like a
sulky wretch who couldn't be troubled any more,
now that they had got hold of him, and meant to
make an end of him. I saw him once again, on the
day of my departure from the Inn. In that Canton
the headsman still does his office with a sword ; and
I came upon this murderer sitting bound to a chair,
with his eyes bandaged, on a scaffold in a little market-
place. In that instant, a great sword (loaded with
quicksilver in the thick part of the blade) swept round
him like a gust of wind or fire, and there was no such
creature in the world. My wonder was, not that he
was so suddenly dispatched, but that any head was left
unreaped, within a radius of fifty yards of that tre-
mendous sickle.

That wras a good Inn, too, with the kind, cheerful
landlady and the honest landlord, where I lived in the
shadow of Mont Blanc, and where one of the apart-
ments has a zoological papering on the walls, not so
accurately joined but that the elephant occasionally
rejoices in a tiger's hind legs and tail, while the lion puts
on a trunk and tusks, and the bear, moulting as it were,
appears as to portions of himself like a leopard. I made
several American friends at that Inn, who all called
Mont Blanc Mount Blank, — except one good-humoured
gentleman, of a very sociable nature, who became on
such intimate terms with it that he spoke of it familiarly
as * Blank ' ; observing, at breakfast, ' Blank looks
pretty tall this morning ' ; or considerably doubting in

THE HOLLY-TREE 125

the courtyard in the evening, whether there warn't
some go-ahead naters in our country, Sir, that would
make out the top of Blank in a couple of hours from the
first start — now !

Once I passed a fortnight at an Inn in the North of
England, where I was haunted by the ghost of a tre-
mendous pie. It was a Yorkshire pie, like a fort, — an
abandoned fort with nothing in it ; but the waiter had
a fixed idea that it was a point of ceremony at every
meal to put the pie on the table. After some days I
tried to hint, in several delicate ways, that I considered
the pie done with ; as, for example, by emptying fag-
ends of glasses of wine into it ; putting cheese-plates
and spoons into it, as into a basket ; putting wine-
bottles into it, as into a cooler ; but always in vain,
the pie being invariably cleaned out again and brought
up as before. At last, beginning to be doubtful
whether I was not the victim of a spectral illusion, and
whether my health and spirits might not sink under
the horrors of an imaginary pie, I cut a triangle out of
it, fully as large as the musical instrument of that name
in a powerful orchestra. Human prevision could not
have foreseen the result — but the waiter mended the
pie. With some effectual species of cement, he adroitly
fitted the triangle in again, and I paid my reckoning
and fled.

The Holly-Tree was getting rather dismal. I made
an overland expedition beyond the screen, and pene-
trated as far as the fourth window. Here I was driven
back by stress of weather. Arrived at my winter-
quarters once more, I made up the fire, and took
another Inn.

It was in the remotest part of Cornwall. A great
annual Miners' Feast was being holden at the Inn, when
I and my travelling companions presented ourselves at
night among the wild crowd that were dancing before
it by torchlight. We had had a break-down in the
dark, on a stony morass some miles away ; and I had

126 CHARLES DICKENS

the honour of leading one of the unharnessed post-
horses. If any lady or gentleman, on perusal of the
present lines, will take any very tall post-horse with his
traces hanging about his legs, and will conduct him by
the bearing-rein into the heart of a country dance of a
hundred and fifty couples, that lady or gentleman will
then, and only then, form an adequate idea of the extent
to which that post-horse will tread on his conductor's
toes. Over and above which, the post-horse, finding
three hundred people whirling about him, will probably
rear, and also lash out with his hind legs, in a manner
incompatible with dignity or self-respect on his con-
ductor's part. With such little drawbacks on my
usually impressive aspect, I appeared at this Cornish
Inn, to the unutterable wonder of the Cornish Miners.
It was full, and twenty times full, and nobody could be
received but the post-horse, — though to get rid of that
noble animal was something. While my fellow-
travellers and I were discussing how to pass the night
and so much of the next day as must intervene before
the jovial blacksmith and the jovial wheelwright would
be in a condition to go out on the morass and mend the
coach, an honest man stepped forth from the crowd
and proposed his unlet floor of two rooms, with supper
of eggs and bacon, ale and punch. We joyfully
accompanied him home to the strangest of clean houses,
where we were well entertained to the satisfaction of
all parties. But the novel feature of the entertainment
was, that our host was a chairmaker, and that the chairs
assigned to us were mere frames, altogether without
bottoms of any sort ; so that we passed the evening
on perches. Nor was this the absurdest consequence ;
for when we unbent at supper, and any one of us
gave way to laughter, he forgot the peculiarity of
his position, and instantly disappeared. I myself,
doubled up into an attitude from which self -extrication
was impossible, was taken out of my frame, like a
clown in a comic pantomime who has tumbled into a

THE HOLLY-TREE 127

tub, five times by the taper's light during the eggs
and bacon.

The Holly-Tree was fast reviving within me a sense
of loneliness. I began to feel conscious that my subject
would never carry on until I was dug out. I might be
a week here, — weeks !

There was a story with a single idea in it, connected
with an Inn I once passed a night at in a picturesque
old town on the Welsh border. In a large double-
bedded room of this Inn there had been a suicide com-
mitted by poison, in one bed, while a tired traveller
slept unconscious in the other. After that time, the
suicide bed was never used, but the other constantly
was ; the disused bedstead remaining in the room
empty, though as to all other respects in its old state.
The story ran, that whosoever slept in this room,
though never so entire a stranger, from never so far off,
was invariably observed to come down in the morning
with an impression that he smelt Laudanum, and that
his mind always turned upon the subject of suicide ;
to which, whatever kind of man he might be, he was
certain to make some reference if he conversed with
anyone. This went on for years, until it at length
induced the landlord to take the disused bedstead down,
and bodily burn it, — bed, hangings, and all. The
strange influence (this was the story) now changed to a
fainter one, but never changed afterwards. The
occupant of that room, with occasional but very rare
exceptions, would come down in the morning, trying to
recall a forgotten dream he had had in the night. The
landlord, on his mentioning his perplexity, would
suggest various commonplace subjects, not one of
which, as he very well knew, was the true subject.
But the moment the landlord suggested ' Poison,' the
traveller started, and cried, * Yes ! ' He never failed
to accept that suggestion, and he never recalled any
more of his dream.

This reminiscence brought the Welsh Inns in general

128 CHARLES DICKENS

before me ; with the women in their round hats, and
the harpers with their white beards (venerable, but
humbugs, I am afraid), playing outside the door while
I took my dinner. The transition was natural to the
Highland Inns, with the oatmeal bannocks, the honey,
the venison steaks, the trout from the loch, the whisky,
and perhaps (having the materials so temptingly at
hand) the Athol brose. Once was I coming south from
the Scottish Highlands in hot haste, hoping to change
quickly at the station at the bottom of a certain wild
historical glen, when these eyes did with mortification
see the landlord come out with a telescope and sweep
the whole prospect for the horses ; which horses were
away picking up their own living, and did not heave in
sight under four hours. Having thought of the loch-
trout, I was taken by quick association to the Anglers'
Inns of England (I have assisted at innumerable feats
of angling by lying in the bottom of the boat, whole
summer days, doing nothing with the greatest perse-
verance ; which I have generally found to be as effectual
towards the taking of fish as the finest tackle and the
utmost science), and to the pleasant white, clean,
flower- pot- decorated bedrooms of those inns, overlook-
ing the river, and the ferry, and the green ait, and the
church- spire, and the country bridge ; and to the
peerless Emma with the bright eyes and the pretty
smile, who waited, bless her ! with a natural grace that
would have converted Blue- Beard. Casting my eyes
upon my Holly-Tree fire, I next discerned among the
glowing coals the pictures of a score or more of those
wonderful English posting-inns which we are all so
sorry to have lost, which were so large and so comfort-
able, and which were such monuments of British
submission to rapacity and extortion. He who would
see these houses pining away, let him walk from Basing-
stoke, or even Windsor, to London, by way of
Hounslow, and moralize on their perishing remains ;
the stables crumbling to dust ; unsettled labourers and

THE HOLLY-TREE 129

wanderers bivouacking in the outhouses ; grass growing
in the yards ; the rooms, where erst so many hundred
beds of down were made up, let off to Irish lodgers at
eighteenpence a week ; a little ill-looking beer- shop
shrinking in the tap of former days, burning coach-
house gates for firewood, having one of its two windows
bunged up, as if it had received punishment in a fight
with the Railroad ; a low, bandy-legged, brick-making
bulldog standing in the doorway. What could I next
see in my fire so naturally as the new railway-house of
these times near the dismal country station ; with
nothing particular on draught but cold air and damp,
nothing worth mentioning in the larder but new mortar,
and no business doing beyond a conceited affectation of
luggage in the hall ? Then I came to the Inns of Paris,
with the pretty apartment of four pieces up one hundred
and seventy -five waxed stairs, the privilege of ringing
the bell all day long without influencing anybody's
mind or body but your own, and the not-too-much-for-
dinner, considering the price. Next, to the provincial
Inns of France, with the great church-tower rising
above the courtyard, the horse-bells jingling merrily up
and down the street beyond, and the clocks of all
descriptions in all the rooms, which are never right,
unless taken at the precise minute when, by getting
exactly twelve hours too fast or too slow, they uninten-
tionally become so. Away I went, next, to the lesser
roadside Inns of Italy ; where all the dirty clothes in
the house (not in wear) are always lying in your ante-
room ; where the mosquitoes make a raisin pudding of
your face in summer, and the cold bites it blue in winter ;
where you get what you can, and forget what you can't ;
where I should again like to be boiling my tea in a
pocket-handkerchief dumpling, for want of a teapot.
So to the old palace Inns and old monastery Inns, in
towns and cities of the same bright country ; with
their massive quadrangular staircases, whence you may
look from among clustering pillars high into the blue

228 v

130 CHARLES DICKENS

vault of heaven ; with their stately banqueting-rooms,
and vast refectories ; with their labyrinths of ghostly
bedchambers, and their glimpses into gorgeous streets
that have no appearance of reality or possibility. So
to the close little Inns of the Malaria districts, with their
pale attendants, and their peculiar smell of never letting
in the air. So to the immense, fantastic Inns of Venice,
with the cry of the gondolier below, as he skims the
corner ; the grip of the watery odours on one particular
little bit of the bridge of your nose (which is never
released while you stay there) ; and the great bell of
St. Mark's Cathedral tolling midnight. Next I put up
for a minute at the restless Inns upon the Rhine, where
your going to bed, no matter at what hour, appears to
be the tocsin for everybody else's getting up ; and
where, in the table-d'hote room at the end of the long
table (with several Towers of Babel on it at the other
end, all made of white plates), one«knot of stoutish men,
entirely dressed in jewels and dirt, and having nothing
else upon them, will remain all night, clinking glasses,
and singing about the river that flows, and the grape
that grows, and Rhine wine that beguiles, and Rhine
woman that smiles and hi drink drink my friend and ho
drink drink my brother, and all the rest of it. I
departed thence, as a matter of course, to other German
Inns, where all the eatables are sodden down to the
same flavour, and where the mind is disturbed by the
apparition of hot puddings, and boiled cherries, sweet
and slab, at awfully unexpected periods of the repast.
After a draught of sparkling beer from a foaming glass
jug, and a glance of recognition through the windows
of the student beer-houses at Heidelberg and elsewhere,
I put out to sea for the Inns of America, with their four
hundred beds apiece, and their eight or nine hundred
ladies and gentlemen at dinner every day. Again I
stood in the bar-rooms thereof, taking my evening
cobbler, julep, sling, "or cocktail. Again I listened to
my friend the General, — whom I had known for five

THE HOLLY-TREE 131

minutes, in the course of which period he had made me
intimate for life with two Majors, who again had made
me intimate for life with three Colonels, who again had
made me brother to twenty-two civilians, — again, I
say, I listened to my friend the General, leisurely
expounding the resources of the establishment, as to
gentlemen's morning-room, Sir ; ladies' morning-room,
Sir ; gentlemen's evening-room, Sir ; ladies' evening-
room, Sir ; ladies' and gentlemen's evening reuniting-
room, Sir ; music-room, Sir ; reading-room, Sir ; over
four hundred sleeping-rooms, Sir ; and the entire
planned and finished within twelve calendar months
from the first clearing off of the old encumbrances on
the plot, at a cost of five hundred thousand dollars, Sir.
Again I found, as to my individual way of thinking,
that the greater, the more gorgeous, and the more
dollarous the establishment was, the less desirable it
was. Nevertheless, again I drank my cobbler, julep,
sling, or cocktail, in all good-will, to my friend the
General, and my friends the Majors, Colonels, and
civilians all ; full well knowing that, whatever little
motes my beamy eyes may have descried in .theirs, they
belong to a kind, generous, large-hearted, and great
people.

I had been going on lately at a quick pace to keep my
solitude out of my mind ; but here I broke down for
good, and gave up the subject. What was I to do ?
What was to become of me ? Into what extremity was
I submissively to sink ? Supposing that, like Baron
Trenck, I looked out for a mouse or spider, and found
one, and beguiled my imprisonment by training it ?
Even that might be dangerous with a view to the future.
I might be so far gone when the^road did come to be
cut through the snow, that, on my way forth, I might
burst into tears, and beseech, like the prisoner who was
released in his old age from the Bastille, to be taken
back again to the five windows, the ten curtains, and
the sinuous drapery.

132 CHARLES DICKENS

A desperate idea came into my head. Under any
other circumstances I should have rejected it ; but, in
the strait at which I was, I held it fast. Could I so far
overcome the inherent bashfulness which withheld me
from the landlord's table and the company I might find
there, as to call up the Boots, and ask him to take a
chair, — and something in a liquid form, — and talk to
me ? I could. I would. I did.

SECOND BRANCH

THE BOOTS

WHERE had he been in his time ? he repeated, when
I asked him the question. Lord, he had been every-
where ! And what had he been ? Bless you, he had
been everything you could mention a' most !

Seen a good deal ? Why, of course he had. I should
say so, he could assure me, if I only knew about a twen-
tieth part of what had come in his way. Why, it
would be easier for him, he expected, to tell what he
hadn't seen than what he had. Ah ! A deal, it would.

What was the curiousest thing he had seen ? Well !
He didn't know. He couldn't momently name what
was the curiousest thing he had seen, — unless it was a
Unicorn, — and he see him once at a Fair. But sup-
posing a young gentleman not eight year old was to run
away with a fine young woman of seven, might I think
that a queer start ? Certainly. Then that was a start
as he himself had had his blessed eyes on, and he had
cleaned the shoes they run away in — and they was so
little he couldn't get his hands into 'em.

Master Harry Walmers' father, you see, he lived at
the Elmses, down away by Shooter's Hill there, six or
seven miles from Lunnon. He was a gentleman of
spirit, and good-looking, and held his head up when he
walked, and had what you may call Fire about him.
He wrote poetry, and he rode, and he ran, and he

THE HOLLY-TREE 133

cricketed, and he danced, and he acted, and he done it
all equally beautiful. He was uncommon proud . of
Master Harry as was his only child ; but he didn't spoil
him neither. He was a gentleman that had a will of
his own and a eye of his own, and that would be minded.
Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the
fine bright boy, and was delighted to see him so fond
of reading his fairy books, and was never tired of
hearing him say My name is Norval, or hear him sing
his songs about Young May Moons is beaming love,
and When he as adores thee has left but the name, and
that ; still he kept the command over the child, and
the child was a child, and it's to be wished more of 'em
was !

How did Boots happen to know all this ? Why,
through being under-gardener. Of course he couldn't
be under-gardener, and be always about, in the summer-
time, near the windows on the lawn, a-mowing, and
sweeping, and weeding, and pruning, and this and that,
without getting acquainted with the ways of the family.
Even supposing Master Harry hadn't come to him one
morning early, and said, ' Cobbs, how should you spell
Norah, if you was asked ? ' and then began cutting it
in print all over the fence.

He couldn't say he had taken particular notice of
children before that ; but really it was pretty to see
them two mites a-going about the place together, deep
in love. And the courage of the boy ! Bless your
soul, he'd have throwed off his little hat, and tucked
up his little sleeves, and gone in at a Lion, he would,
if they had happened to meet one, and she had been
frightened of him. One day he stops, along with her,
where Boots was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says,
speaking up, ' Cobb,' he says, ' I like you' * Do you,
Sir ? I'm proud to hear it.' ' Yes, I do, Cobbs. Why
do I like you, do you think, Cobbs ? ' ' Don't know,
Master Harry, I am sure.' t Because Norah likes you,
Cobbs.' ' Indeed, Sir ? That's very gratifying.'

134 CHARLES DICKENS

4 Gratifying, Cobbs ? It's better than millions of the
brightest diamonds to be liked by Norah.' ' Certainly,
Sir.' ' You're going away, ain't you, Cobbs ? ' ' Yes,
Sir.' * Would you like another situation, Cobbs ? '
' Well, Sir, I shouldn't object, if it was a good 'un.'
' Then, Cobbs,' says he, ' you shall be our Head
Gardener when we are married.' And he tucks her, in
her little sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks
away.

Boots could assure me that it was better than a picter,
and equal to a play, to see them babies, with their long,
bright, curling hair, their sparkling eyes, and their
beautiful light tread, a rambling about the garden,
deep in love. Boots was of opinion that the birds
\believed they was birds, and kept up with 'em, singing
to please 'em. Sometimes they would creep under
the Tulip-tree, and would sit there with their arms
round one another's necks, and their soft cheeks
touching, a-reading about the Prince and the Dragon,
and the good and bad enchanters, and the king's fair
daughter. Sometimes he would hear them planning
about having a house in a forest, keeping bees and a
cow, and living entirely on milk and honey. Once he
came upon them by the pond, and heard Master Harry
say, ' Adorable Norah, kiss me, and say you love me to
distraction, or I'll jump in head-foremost.' And Boots
made no question he would have done it if she hadn't
complied. On the whole, Boots said it had a tendency
to make him feel as if he was in love himself — only he
didn't exactly know who with.

1 Cobbs,' said Master Harry, one evening, when
Cobbs was watering the flowers, ' I am going on a visit,
this present Midsummer, to my grandmamma's at
York.'

' Are you indeed, Sir ? I hope you'll have a pleasant
time. I am going into Yorkshire myself, when I leave
here.'

' Are you going to your grandmamma's, Cobbs ? '

THE HOLLY-TREE 135

* No, Sir. I haven't got such a thing.'
' Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs ? '

1 No, Sir.'

The boy looked on at the watering of the flowers for
a little while, and then said, ' I shall be very glad
indeed to go, Cobbs, — Norah's going.'

' You'll be all right then, Sir,' says Cobbs, ' with
your beautiful sweetheart by your side.'

' Cobbs,' returned the boy, flushing, ' I never let
anybody joke about it, when I can prevent them.'

' It wasn't a joke, Sir,' says Cobbs, with humility,-—
* wasn't so meant.'

' I am glad of that, Cobbs, because I like you, you
know, and you're going to live with us. — Cobbs ! '

' Sir.'

' What do you think my grandmamma gives me
when I go down there ? '

' I couldn't so much as make a guess, Sir.'

* A Bank of England five-pound note, Cobbs.'

' Whew ! ' says Cobbs, ' that's a spanking sum of
money, Master Harry.'

1 A person could do a good deal with such a sum of
money as that, — couldn't a person, Cobbs ? '

' I believe you, Sir ! '

c Cobbs,' said the boy, * I'll tell you a secret. At
Norah's house, they have been joking her about me,
and pretending to laugh at our being engaged, —
pretending to make game of it, Cobbs ! '

' Such, Sir,' says Cobbs, * is the depravity of human
natur.'

The boy, looking exactly like his father, stood for a
few minutes with his glowing face towards the sunset,
and then departed with, ' Good-night, Cobbs. I'm
going in.'

If I was to ask Boots how it happened that he was
a-going to leave that place just at that present time,
well, he couldn't rightly answer me. He did suppose he
might have stayed there till now if he had been anyways

136 CHARLES DICKENS

inclined: But, you see, he was younger then, and he
wanted change. That's what he wanted, — change.
Mr. Walmers, he said to him when he gave him notice
of his intentions to leave, ' Cobbs,' he says, ' have you
anythink to complain of ? I make the inquiry because
if I find that any of my people really has anythink to
complain of, I wish to make it right if I can.' ' No,
'Sir, says Cobbs ; ' thanking you, Sir, I find myself as
well sitiwated here as I could hope to be anywheres.
The truth is, Sir, that I am a-going to seek my fortun'.'
1 O, indeed, Cobbs ! ' he says ; ' I hope you may find
it.' And Boots could assure me — which he did, touch-
ing his hair with his bootjack, as a salute in the way of
his present calling — that he hadn't found it yet.

Well, Sir ! Boots left the Elmses when his time was
up, and Master Harry, he went down to the old lady's
at York, which old lady would have given that child
the teeth out of her head (if she had had any), she was
so wrapped up in him. What does that Infant do, —
for Infant you may call him and be within the mark, —
but cut away from that old lady's with his Norah, on
a expedition to go to Gretna Green and be married !

Sir, Boots was at this identical Holly- Tree Inn
(having left it several times since to better himself, but
always come back through one thing or another), when,
one summer afternoon, the coach drives up, and out of
the coach gets them two children. The Guard says to
our Governor, ' I don't quite make out these little
passengers, but the young gentleman's words was, that
they was to be brought here.' The young gentleman
gets out ; hands his lady out ; gives the Guard some-
thing for himself ; says to our Governor, ' We're to
stop here to-night, please. Sitting-room and two
bedrooms will be required. Chops and cherry-pudding
for two ! ' and tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle,
under his arm, and walks into the house much bolder
than Brass.

Boots leaves me to judge what the amazement of

THE HOLLY-TREE 137

that establishment was, when these two tiny creatures
all alone by themselves was marched into the Angel, —
much more so, when he, who had seen them without
their seeing him, give the Governor his views of the
expedition they was upon. ' Cobbs,' says the Governor,
' if this is so, I must set off myself to York, and quiet
their friends' minds. In which case you must keep
your eye upon 'em, and humour 'em, till I come back.
But before I take these measures, Cobbs, I should wish
you to find from themselves whether your opinion is
correct. ' Sir, to you,' says Cobbs, ' that shall be done
directly.'

So Boots goes upstairs to the Angel, and there he
finds Master Harry on a e-normous sofa, — immense at
any time, but looking like the Great Bed of Ware,
compared with him, — a-drying the eyes of Miss Norah
with his pocket-hankecher. Their little legs was entirely
off the ground, of course, and it really is not possible for
Boots to express to me how small them children looked.

' It's Cobbs ! It's Cobbs ! ' cried Master Harry, and
comes running to him, and catching hold of his hand.
Miss Norah comes running to him on t'other side and
catching hold of his t'other hand, and tj^ey both jump
for joy.

' I see you a-getting out, Sir,' says Cobbs, ' I
thought it was you. I thought I couldn't be mistaken
in your height and your figure. What's the object of
your journey, Sir ? — Matrimonial ? '

' We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna
Green,' returned the boy. ' We have run away on
purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits, Cobbs ;
but she'll be happy, now we have found you to be our
friend.'

' Thank you, Sir, and thank you, Miss,' says Cobbs,
'for your good opinion. Did you bring any luggage
with you, Sir ? '

If I will believe Boots when he gives me his word and
honour upon it, the lady had got a parasol, a smelling-

138 CHARLES DICKENS

bottle, a round and a half of cold buttered toast, eight
pepper mint drops, and a hair-brush, — seemingly a doll's.
The gentleman had got about half-a-dozen yards of
string, a knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper
folded up surprising small, a orange, and a Chaney mug
with his name upon it.

1 What may be the exact natur' of your plans, Sir ? '
says Cobbs.

* To go on,' replied the boy, — which the courage of
that boy was something wonderful ! — ' in the morning,
and be married to-morrow.'

' Just so, Sir,' says Cobbs. ' Would it meet your
views, Sir, if I was to accompany you ? '

When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy
again, and cried out, ' Oh, yes, yes, Cobbs ! Yes ! '

' Well, Sir,' says Cobbs. ' If you will excuse my
having the freedom to give an opinion, what I should
recommend would be this. I'm acquainted with a
pony, Sir, which, put in a pheayton that I could borrow,
would take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior,
(myself driving, if you approved,) to the end of your
journey in a very short space of time. I am not
altogether sure, Sir, that this pony will be at liberty
to-morrow, but even if you had to wait over to-morrow
for him, it might be worth your while. As to the small
account here, Sir, in case you was to find yourself
running at all short, that don't signify ; because I'm a
part proprietor of this inn, and it could stand over.'

Boots assures me that when they clapped their hands,
and jumped for joy again, and called him ' Good Cobbs ! '
and * Dear Cobbs ! ' and bent across him to kiss one
another in the delight of their confiding hearts, he felt
himself the meanest rascal for deceiving 'em that was
ever born.

1 Is there anything you want just at present, Sir ? '
says Cobbs, mortally ashamed of himself.

' We should like some cakes after dinner,' answered
Master Harry, folding his arms, putting out one leg,

THE HOLLY-TREE 139

and looking straight at him, ' and two apples, — and
jam. With dinner we should like to have toast-and-
water. But Norah has always been accustomed to
half a glass of currant wine at dessert. And so
have I.'

' It shall be ordered at the bar, Sir,' says Cobbs ; and
away he went.

Boots has the feeling as fresh upon him at this minute
of speaking as he had then, that he would far rather
have had it out in half-a-dozen rounds with the
Governor than have combined with him ; and that he
wished with all his heart there was any impossible place
where those two babies could make an impossible
marriage, and live impossibly happy ever afterwards.
However, as it couldn't be, he went into the Governor's
plans, and the Governor set off for York in half-an-hour.

The way in which the women of that house — without
exception — every one of 'em — married and single —
took to that boy when they heard the story, Boots
considers surprising. It was as much as he could do
to keep 'em from dashing into the room and kissing
him. They climbed up all sorts of places, at the risk
of their lives, to look at him through a pane of glass.
They was seven deep at the keyhole. They was out of
their minds about him and his bold spirit.

In the evening, Boots went into the room to see how
the runaway couple was getting on. The gentleman
was on the window-seat, supporting the lady in his
arms. She had tears upon her face, and was lying,
very tired and half asleep, with her head upon his
shoulder.

' Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, fatigued, Sir ? ' says
Cobbs.

' Yes, she is tired, Cobbs ; but she is not used to be
away from home, and she has been in low spirits again.
Cobbs, do you think you could bring a biffin, please ? '

' I ask your pardon, Sir,' says Cobbs. ' What was
it you ? '

140 CHARLES DICKENS

' I think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs.
She is very fond of them.'

Boots withdrew in search of the required restorative,
and, when he brought it in, the gentleman handed it
to the lady, and fed her with a spoon, and took a little
himself ; the lady being heavy with sleep, and rather
cross. ' What should you think, Sir,' says Cobbs, ' of
a chamber candlestick ? ' The gentleman approved ;
the chambermaid went first, up the great staircase ;
the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, followed, gallantly
escorted by the gentleman ; the gentleman embraced
her at her door, and retired to his own apartment,
where Boots softly locked him up.

Boots couldn't but feel with increased acuteness
what a base deceiver he was, when they consulted him
at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-and-water,
and toast and currant jelly, overnight) about the pony.
It really was as much as he could do, he don't mind
confessing to me, to look them two young things in the
face, and think what a wicked old father of lies he had
grown up to be. Howsomever, he went on a-lying like
a Trojan about the pony. He told 'em that it did so
unfort'nately happen that the pony was half clipped,
you see, and that he couldn't be taken out in that state,
for fear it should strike to his inside. But that he'd be
finished clipping in the course of the day, and that to-
morrow morning at eight o'clock the pheayton would be
ready. Boots's view of the whole case, looking back on
it in my room, is, that Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior,
was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair
curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite
up to brushing it herself, and its getting in her eyes put
her out. But nothing put out Master Harry. He sat
behind his breakfast-cup, a-tearing away at the jelly,
as if he had been his own father.

After breakfast, Boots is inclined to consider that
they drawed soldiers, — at least, he knows that many
such was found in the fireplace, all on horseback. In

THE HOLLY-TREE 141

the course of the morning, Master Harry rang the bell, —
it was surprising how that there boy did carry on, — and
said, in a sprightly way, ' Cobbs, is there any good walks
in this neighbourhood ? '

' Yes, Sir,' says Cobbs. ' There's Love-lane.'

' Get out with you, Cobbs ! ' — that was that there
boy's expression, — ' you're joking.'

' Begging your pardon, Sir,' says Cobbs, ' there really
is Love-lane. And a pleasant walk it is, and proud
shall I be to show it to yourself and Mrs. Harry
Walmers, Junior.'

' Norah, dear,' said Master Harry, ' this is curious.
We really ought to see Love-lane. Put on your bonnet,
my sweetest darling, and we will go there with Cobbs.'

Boots leaves me to judge what a Beast he felt himself
to be, when that young pair told him, as they all three
jogged along together, that they had made up their
minds to give him two thousand guineas a year as head-
gardener, on accounts of his being so true a friend to
'em. Boots could have wished at the moment that the
earth would have opened and swallowed him up, he
felt so mean, with their beaming eyes a -looking at him,
and believing him. Well, Sir, he turned the conversa-
tion as well as he could, and he took 'em down Love-
lane to the water-meadows, and there Master Harry
would have drowned himself in half a moment more,
a-getting out a water-lily for her, — but nothing daunted
that boy. Well, Sir, they was tired out. All being so
new and strange to 'em, they was tired as tired could
be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the
children in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell

Boots don't know — perhaps I do, — but never mind,
it don't signify either way — why it made a man fit to
make a fool of himself to see them two pretty babies
a-lying there in the clear still sunny day, not dreaming
half so hard when they was asleep as they done when
they was awake. But Lord ! when you come to think

142 CHARLES DICKENS

of yourself, you know, and what a game you have been
up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what
a poor sort of a chap you are, and how it's always either
Yesterday with you, or else To-morrow, and never
To-day, that's where it is !

Well, Sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing
was getting pretty clear to Boots, namely, that Mrs.
Harry Walrnerses, Junior's, temper was on the move.
When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said
he ' teased her so ' ; and when he says, ' Norah, my
young May Moon, your Harry tease you ? ' she tells
him, ' Yes ; and I want to go home ! '

A biled fowl, and baked bread-and-butter pudding,
brought Mrs. Walmers up a little ; but Boots could
have wished, he must privately own to me, to have seen
her more sensible of the woice of love, and less abandon-
ing of herself to currants. However, Master Harry,
he kept up, and his noble heart was as fond as ever.
Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk, and began
to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as
per yesterday ; and Master Harry ditto repeated.

About eleven or twelve at night comes back the
Governor in a chaise, along with Mr. Walmers and a
elderly lady. Mr. Walmers looks amused and very
serious, both at once, and says to our missis, ' We are
much indebted to you, ma'am, for your kind care of
our little children, which we can never sufficiently
acknowledge. Pray, ma'am, where is my boy ? ' Our
missis says, ' Cobbs has the dear child in charge, Sir.
Cobbs, show Forty ! ' Then he says to Cobbs, ' Ah,
Cobbs, I am glad to see you ! I understood you was
here ! ' And Cobbs says, ' Yes, Sir. Your most
obedient, Sir.'

I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps ; but
Boots assures me that his heart beat like a hammer,
going upstairs. ' I beg your pardon, Sir,' says he,
while unlocking the door ; ' I hope you are not angry
with Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy,

THE HOLLY-TREE 143

Sir, and will do you credit and honour.' And Boots
signifies to me, that, if the fine boy's father had contra-
dicted him in the daring state of mind in which he then
was, he thinks he should have ' fetched him a crack,'
and taken the consequences.

But Mr. Walmers only says, * No, Cobbs. No, my
good fellow. Thank you ! ' And, the door being
opened, goes in.

Boots goes in too, holding the light, and he sees Mr.
Walmers go up to the bedside, bend gently down, and
kiss the little sleeping face. Then he stands looking at
it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it (they do say
he ran away with Mrs. Walmers) ; and then he gently
shakes the little shoulder.

' Harry, my dear boy ! Harry ! '

Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at
Cobbs too. Such is the honour of that mite, that he
looks at Cobbs, to see whether he has brought him into
trouble.

' I am not angry, my child. I only want you to
dress yourself and come home.'

' Yes, pa.'

Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast
begins to swell when he has nearly finished, and it swells
more and more as he stands, at last, a-looking at his
father : his father standing a-looking at him, the quiet
image of him.

1 Please may I ' — the spirit of that little creatur, and
the way he kept his rising tears down ! — * please, dear
pa — may I — kiss Norah before I go ? '

4 You may, my child.'

So he takes Master Harry in his hand, and Boots leads
the way with the candle, and they come to that other
bedroom, where the elderly lady is seated by the bed,
and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fast
asleep. There the father lifts the child up to the pillow,
and he lays his little face down for an instant by the
little warm face of poor unconscious little Mrs. Harry

144 CHARLES DICKENS

Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to him, — a sight
so touching to the chambermaids who are peeping
through the door, that one of them calls out, 'It's a
shame to part 'em ! ' But this chambermaid was
always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not
that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it.

Finally, Boots says, that's all about it. Mr. Walmers
drove away in the chaise, having hold of Master Harry's
hand. The elderly lady and Mrs. Harry Walmers,
Junior, that was never to be (she married a Captain
long afterwards, and died in India), went off next day.
In conclusion, Boots put it to me whether I hold with
him in two opinions : firstly, that there are not many
couples on their way to be married who are half as
innocent of guile as those two children : secondly, that
it would be a jolly good thing for a great many couples
on their way to be married, if they could only be stopped
in time, and brought back separately.

THIRD BRANCH

THE BILL

I HAD been snowed up a whole week. The time had
hung so lightly on my hands, that I should have been
in great doubt of the fact but for a piece of documentary
evidence that lay upon my table.

The road had been dug out of the snow on the
previous day, and the document in question was my
bill. It testified emphatically to my having eaten and
drunk, and warmed myself, and slept among the shelter-
ing branches of the Holly-Tree, seven days and nights.

I had yesterday allowed the road twenty-four hours
to improve itself, finding that I required that additional
margin of time for the completion of my task. I had
ordered my bill to be upon the table, and a chaise to be
at the door, ' at eight o'clock to-morrow evening.' It
was eight o'clock to-morrow evening when I buckled
up my travelling writing-desk in its leather case, paid

THE HOLLY-TREE 145

my bill, and got on my warm coats and wrappers. Of
course, no time now remained for my travelling on to
add a frozen tear to the icicles which were doubtless
hanging plentifully about the farmhouse where I had
first seen Angela. What I had to do was to get across
to Liverpool by the shortest open road, there to meet
my heavy baggage and embark. It was quite enough
to do, and I had not an hour too much time to do it in.

I had taken leave of all my Holly-Tree friends —
almost, for the time being, of my bashfulness too — and
was standing for half a minute at the Inn door watching
the ostler as he took another turn at the cord which
tied my portmanteau on the chaise, when I saw lamps
coming down towards the Holly-Tree. The road was
so padded with snow that no wheels were audible ;
but all of us who were standing at the Inn door saw
lamps coming on, and at a lively rate too, between the
walls of snow that had been heaped up on either side
of the track. The chambermaid instantly divined how
the case stood, and called to the ostler, ' Tom, this is
a Gretna job!' The ostler, knowing that her sex
instinctively scented a marriage, or anything in that
direction, rushed up the yard bawling, * Next four out ! '
and in a moment the whole establishment was thrown
into commotion.

I had a melancholy interest in seeing the happy man
who loved and was beloved ; and therefore, instead of
driving pff at once, I remained at the Inn door when
the fugitives drove up. A bright-eyed fellow, muffled
in a mantle, jumped out so briskly that he almost over-
threw me. He turned to apologize, and, by Heaven, it
was Edwin !

' Charley ! ' said he, recoiling. ' Gracious powers,
what do you do here ? '

' Edwin,' said I, recoiling, ' gracious powers, what
do you do here? ' I struck my forehead as I said it,
and an insupportable blaze of light seemed to shoot
before my eyes.

146 CHARLES DICKENS

He hurried me into the little parlour (always kept
with a slow fire in it and no poker), where posting
company waited while their horses were putting to,
and, shutting the door, said :

' Charley, forgive me ! '

' Edwin ! ' I returned. ' Was this well ? When I
loved her so dearly ! When I had garnered up my
heart so long ! ' I could say no more.

He was shocked when he saw how moved I was, and
made the cruel observation, that he had not thought
I should have taken it so much to heart.

I looked at him. I reproached him no more. But
I looked at him.

' My dear, dear Charley,' said he, ' don't think ill of
me, I beseech you ! I know you have a right to my
utmost confidence, and, believe me, you have ever had
it until now. I abhor secrecy. Its meanness is intoler-
able to me. But I and my dear girl have observed it
for your sake.'

He and his dear girl ! It steeled me.

' You have observed it for my sake, Sir ? ' said I,
wondering how his frank face could face it out so.

' Yes ! — and Angela's,' said he.

I found the room reeling round in an uncertain way,
like a labouring humming-top. * Explain yourself,' I
said, holding on by one hand to an armchair.

1 Dear old darling Charley ! ' returned Edwin, in his
cordial manner, ' consider ! When you were going on
so happily with Angela, why should I compromise you
with the old gentleman by making you a party to our
engagement, and (after he had declined my proposals)
to our secret intention ? Surely it was better that you
should be able honourably to say, ' He never took
counsel with me, never told me, never breathed a word
of it.' If Angela suspected it, and showed me all the
favour and support she could — God bless her for a
precious creature and a priceless wife ! — I couldn't help
that. Neither I nor Emmeline ever told her, any more

THE HOLLY-TREE 147

than we told you. And for the same good reason,
Charley ; trust me, for the same good reason, and no
other upon ea.rth ! '

Emmeline was Angela's cousin. Lived with her.
Had been brought up with her. Was her father's
ward. Had property.

' Emmeline is in the chaise, my dear Edwin ! ' said I,
embracing him with the greatest affection.

' My good fellow ! ' said he, ' do you suppose I should
be going to Gretna Green without her ? '

I ran out with Edwin, I o"pened the chaise door, I
took Emmeline in my arms, I folded her to my heart.
She was wrapped in soft white fur, like the snowy
landscape : but was warm, and young, and lovely. I
put their leaders to with my own hands, I gave the boys
a five-pound note apiece, I cheered them as they drove
away, I drove the other way myself as hard as I could
pelt.

I never went to Liverpool, I never went to America,
I went straight back to London, and I married Angela.
I have never until this time, even to her, disclosed the
secret of my character, and the mistrust and the mis-
taken journey into which it led me. When she, and
they, and our eight children and their seven — I mean
Edwin's and Emmeline's, whose eldest girl is old enough
now to wear white for herself, and to look very like her
mother in it — come to read these pages, as of course
they will, I shall hardly fail to be found out at last.
Never mind ! I can bear it. I began at the Holly -Tree,
by idle accident, to associate the Christmas-time of
year with human interest, and with some inquiry into,
and some care for, the lives of those by whom I find
myself surrounded. I hope that I am none the worse
for it, and that no one near me or afar off is the worse
for it. And I say, May the green Holly-Tree flourish,
striking its roots deep into our English ground, and
having its germinating qualities carried by the birds of
Heaven all over the world !

WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

1824—1889

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY OF A
TERRIBLY STRANGE BED

SHORTLY after my education at college was finished,
I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend.
We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid,
rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn.
One night we were idling about the neighbourhood of
the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we
should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a
visit to Frascati's ; but his suggestion was not to my
taste. 1 knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by
heart ; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces
there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amuse-
ment no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all
the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly
as a respectable gambling-house. ' For Heaven's sake,'
said I to my friend, ' let us go somewhere where we can
see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken
gaming, with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over
it at all. Let us get away from fashionable Frascati's,
to a house where they don't mind letting in a man with
a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or other-
wise.'— * Very well,' said my friend, ' we needn't go out
of the Palais Royal to find the sort of company you
want. Here's the place just before us ; as blackguard
a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see.'
In another minute we arrived at the door, and entered

148

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 149

the house, the back of which you have drawn in your
sketch.1

When we got upstairs, and left our hats and sticks
with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief
gambling-room. We did not find many people
assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked
up at us on our entrance, they were all types — lament-
ably true types — of their respective classes.

We had come to see blackguards ; but these men
were something worse. There is a comic side, more or
less appreciable, in all blackguardism — here there was
nothing but tragedy — mute, weird tragedy. The
quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard,
long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely
watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke ; the
flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece
of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black
won, and how often red — never spoke ; the dirty,
wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned
greatcoat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked on
desperately, after he could play no longer — never spoke.
Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were
strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of
the room. I had entered the place to laugh, but the
spectacle before me was something to weep over. I
soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from
the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me.
Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by
going to the table, and beginning to play. Still more
unfortunately, as tl?e event will show, I won — won
prodigiously ; won incredibly ; won at such a rate,
that the regular players at the table crowded round me ;
and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious
eyes, whispered to one another that the English
stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in

i [The story is supposed to be narrated by its chief
actor, to the artist who is painting his portrait.]

150 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

every city in Europe, without, however, the care or
the wish to study the Theory of Chances —that philo-
sopher's stone of all gamblers ! And a gambler, in the
strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-
whole from the corroding passion for play. My gaming
was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted to it by
necessity, because I never knew what it was to want
money. I never practised it so incessantly as to lose
more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could
coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by
my good luck: In short, I had hitherto frequented
gambling- tables — just as I frequented ball-rooms and
opera-houses — because they amused me, and because
I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

But on this occasion it was very different — now, for
the first time in my life, I felt what the passion for play
really was. My success first bewildered, and then,
in the most literal meaning of the word, intoxicated
me. Incredible as it may appear, it is nevertheless true,
that I only lost when I attempted to estimate chances,
and played according to previous calculation. If I
left everything to luck, and staked without any care or
consideration, I was sure to win — to win in the face of
every recognized probability in favour of the bank. At
first, some of the men present ventured their money
safely enough on my colour ; but I speedily increased
my stakes to sums which they dared not risk. One
after another they left off playing, and breathlessly
looked on at my game.

Still, time after time, I staked, higher and higher,
and still won. The excitement in the room rose to
fever pitch. The silence was interrupted by a deep-
muttered chorus of oaths and exclamations in different
languages, every time the gold was shovelled across to
my side of the table — even the imperturbable croupier
dashed his rake on the floor in a (French) fury of
astonishment at my success. But one man present
preserved his self-possession ; and that man was my

'. THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 151

friend. He came to my side, and whispering in
English, begged me to leave the place, satisfied with
what I had already gained. I must do him the justice
to say that he repeated his warnings and entreaties
several times, and only left me and went away, after I
had rejected his advice (I was to all intents and pur-
poses gambling-drunk) in terms which rendered it
impossible for him to address me again that night.

Shortly after he had gone, a hoarse voice behind me
cried : ' Permit me, my dear sir ! — permit me to
restore to their proper place two Napoleons which you
have dropped. Wonderful luck, sir ! I pledge you
my word of honour, as an old soldier, in the course of
my long experience in this sort of thing, I never saw
such luck as yours ! — never ! Go on, sir — Sacre mille
lombes ! Go on boldly, and break the bank ! '

I turned round and saw, nodding and smiling at me
with inveterate civility, a tall man, dressed in a frogged
and braided surtout.

If I had been in my senses, I should have considered
him, personally, as being rather a suspicious specimen
of an old soldier. He had goggling blood-shot eyes,
mangy mustachios, and a broken nose. His voice
betrayed a barrack-room intonation of the worst order,
and he had the dirtiest pair of hands I ever saw — even
in France. These little personal peculiarities exercised,
however, no repelling influence on me. In the mad
excitement, the reckless triumph of that moment, I was
ready to ' fraternize ' with anybody who encouraged
me in my game. I accepted the old soldier's offered
pinch of snuff ; clapped him on the back, and swore he
was the honestest fellow in the world — the most
glorious relic of the Grand Army that I had ever met
with. * Go on ! ' cried my military friend, snapping
his fingers in ecstasy, — ' Go on, and win ! Break the
Bank — Mille tonnerres ! my gallant English comrade,
break the bank ! '

And I did go on — went on at such a rate, that in

152 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS ;

another quarter of an hour the croupier called out :
' Gentlemen ! the bank has discontinued for to-night.'
All the notes, and all the gold in that ' bank,' now lay
in a heap under my hands ; the whole floating capital
of the gambling-house was waiting to pour into my
pockets !

' Tie up the money in your pocket-handkerchief, my
worthy sir,' said the old s'oldier, as I wildly plunged my
hands into my heap of gold. ' Tie it up, as we used to
tie up a bit of dinner in the Grand Army ; your win-
nings are too heavy for any breeches pockets that ever
were sewed. There ! that's it ! — shovel them in, notes
and all ! Credie ! what luck ! — Stop ! another Napo-
leon on the floor ! Ah / sacre petit polisson de Napo-
leon ! have I found thee at last ? Now then, sir — -two
tight double knots each way with your honourable
permission, and the money's safe. Feel it ! feel it,
fortunate sir ! hard and round as a cannon ball — Ah,
bah ! if they had only fired such cannon balls at us at
Austerlitz — nom d'une pipe ! if they only had ! And
now, as an ancient grenadier, as an ex-brave of the
French army, what remains for me to do ? I ask
what ? Simply this : to entreat my valued English
friend to drink a bottle of champagne with me, and
toast the goddess Fortune in foaming goblets before
we part ! '

Excellent ex- brave ! Convivial ancient grenadier !
Champagne by all means ! An English cheer for an
old soldier ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! Another English
cheer for the goddess Fortune ! Hurrah ! hurrah !
hurrah !

' Bravo ! the Englishman ; the amiable, gracious
Englishman, in whose veins circulates the vivacious
blood of France ! Another glass ? Ah, bah ! — the
bottle is empty ! Never mind ! Vive le vin / I, the
old soldier, order another bottle, and half-a-pound of
bonbons with it ! '

' No, no, ex- brave ; never — ancient grenadier !

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 153

Your bottle last time ; my bottle this. Behold it !
Toast away ! The French Army ! — the great Napo-
leon ! — the present company ! the croupier ! the
honest croupier's wife and daughters — if he has any !
the Ladies generally ! Everybody in the world ! '

By the time the second bottle of champagne was
emptied, I felt as if I had been drinking liquid fire —
my brain seemed all a-flame. No excess in wine had
ever had this effect on me before in my life. Was it
the result of a stimulant acting upon my system when
I was in a highly excited state ? Was my stomach
in a particularly disordered condition ? Or was the
champagne amazingly strong ?

' Ex-brave of the French Army ! ' cried I, in a mad
state of exhilaration, ' I am on fire ! how are you ?
You have set me on fire ! Do you hear, my hero of
Austerlitz ? Let us have a third bottle of cham-
pagne to put the flame out ! '

The old soldier wagged his head, rolled his goggle
eyes, until I expected to see them slip out of their
sockets ; placed his dirty forefinger by the side of his
broken nose ; solemnly ejaculated ' Coffee ! ' and
immediately ran off into an inner room.

The word pronounced by the eccentric veteran
seemed to have a magical effect on the rest of the
company present. With one accord they all rose to
depart. Probably they had expected to profit by my
intoxication ; but finding that my new friend was
benevolently bent on preventing me from getting
dead drunk, had now abandoned all hope of thriving
pleasantly on my winnings. Whatever their motive
might be, at any rate they went away in a body.
When the old soldier returned, and sat down again
opposite to me at the table, we had the room to our-
selves. I could see the croupier, in a sort of vestibule
which opened out of it, eating his supper in solitude.
The silence was now deeper than ever.

A sudden change, too, had come over the * ex-

154 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

brave.' He assumed a portentously solemn look ;
and when he spoke to me again, his speech was orna-
mented by no oaths, enforced by no finger-snapping,
enlivened by no apostrophes or exclamations.

4 Listen, my dear sir,' said he, in mysteriously
confidential tones — ' listen to an old soldier's advice.
I have been to the mistress of the house (a very charm-
ing woman, with a genius for cookery !) to impress
on her the necessity of making us some particularly
strong and good coffee. You must drink this coffee
in order to get rid of your little amiable exaltation
of spirits before you think of going home — you must,
my good and gracious friend ! With all that money
to take home to-night, it is a sacred duty to yourself
to have your wits about you. You are known to be
a winner to an enormous extent by several gentlemen
present to-night, who, in a certain point of view, are
very worthy and excellent fellows, but they are mortal
men, my dear sir, and they have their amiable weak-
nesses ! Need I say more ? Ah, no, no ! you under-
stand me ! Now, this is what you must do — send for
a cabriolet when you feel quite well again — draw up
all the windows when you get into it— and tell the
driver to take you home only through the large and
well-lighted thoroughfares. Do this ; and you and
your money will be safe. Do this ; and to-morrow
you will thank an old soldier for giving you a word of
honest advice.'

Just as the ex-brave ended his oration in very
lachrymose tones, the coffee came in, ready poured
out in two cups. My attentive friend handed me one
of the cups with a bow. I was parched with thirst,
and drank it off at a draught. Almost instantly after-
wards, I was seized with a fit of giddiness, and felt
more completely intoxicated than ever. The room
whirled round and round furiously ; the old soldier
seemed to be regularly bobbing up and down before
me like the piston of a steam-engine. I was half

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 155

deafened by a violent singing in my ears ; a feeling of
utter bewilderment, helplessness, idiocy, overcame me,
I rose from my chair, holding on by the table to keep
my balance ; and stammered out, that I felt dread-
fully unwell — so unwell that I did not know how I
was to get home.

' My dear friend,' answered the old soldier — and
even his voice seemed to be bobbing up and down as
he spoke — ' my dear friend, it would be madness to
go home in your state ; you would be sure to lose
your money ; you might be robbed and murdered
with the greatest ease. / am going to sleep here : do
you sleep here, too — they make up capital beds in this
house — take one ; sleep off the effects of the wine,
and go home safely with your winnings to-morrow —
to-morrow, in broad daylight.'

I had but two ideas left : — one, that I must never
let go hold of my handkerchief full of money ; the
other, that I must lie down somewhere immediately,
and fall off into a comfortable sleep. So I agreed to
the proposal about the bed, and took the offered arm
of the old soldier, carrying my money with my disen-
gaged hand. Preceded by the croupier, we passed
along some passages and up a flight of stairs into the
bedroom which I was to occupy. The ex- brave shook
me warmly by the hand, proposed that we should
breakfast together, and then, followed by the croupier,
left me for the night.

I ran to the wash-hand stand ; drank some of the
water in my jug ; poured the rest out, and plunged
my face into it ; then sat down in a chair and tried to
compose myself. I soon felt better. The change for
my lungs, from the fetid atmosphere of the gambling-
room to the cool air of the apartment I now occupied ;
the almost equally refreshing change for my eyes, from
the glaring gas-lights of the ' Salon ' to the dim, quiet
flicker of one bedroom candle, aided wonderfully the
restorative effects of cold water. The giddiness left

156 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

me, and I began to feel a little like a reasonable being
again. My first thought was of the risk of sleeping
all night in a gambling- house ; my second, of the still
greater risk of trying to get out after the house was
closed, and of going home alone at night, through the
streets of Paris, with, a large sum of money Wbout me.
I had slept in worse places than this on my travels ;
so I determined to lock, bolt, and barricade my door,
and take my chance till the next morning.

Accordingly, I secured myself against all intrusion ;
looked under the bed, and into the cupboard ; tried
the fastening of the window ; and then, satisfied that
I had taken every proper precaution, pulled off my
upper clothing, put my light, which was a dim one,
on the hearth among a feathery litter of wood ashes,
and got into bed, with the handkerchief full of money
under my pillow.

I soon felt not only that I could not go to sleep, but
that I could not even close my eyes. I was wide
awake, and in a high fever. Every nerve in my body
trembled — every one of my senses seemed to be preter-
naturally sharpened. I tossed and rolled, and tried
every kind of position, and perseveringly sought out
the cold corners of the bed, and all to no purpose.
Now, I thrust my arms over the clothes ; now, I
poked them under the clothes ; now, I violently shot
my legs straight out down to the bottom of the bed ;
now, I convulsively coiled them up as near my chin
as they would go ; now, I shook out my crumpled
pillow, changed it to the cool side, patted it flat, and
lay down quietly on my back ; now, I fiercely doubled
it in two, set it up on end, thrust it against the board
of the bed, and tried a sitting posture. Every effort
was in vain ; I groaned with vexation, as I felt that I
was in for a sleepless night.

What could I do ? I had no book to read. And
yet, unless I found out some method of diverting my
mind, I felt certain that I was in the condition to

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 157

imagine all sorts of horrors ; to rack my brain with
forebodings of every possible and impossible danger ;
in short, to pass the night in suffering all conceivable
varieties of nervous terror.

I raised myself on my elbow, and looked about the
room — which was brightened by a lovely moonlight
pouring straight through the window — to see if it
contained any pictures or ornaments that I could at
all clearly distinguish. While my eyes wandered
from wall to wall, a remembrance of Le Maistre's
delightful little book, Voyage autour de ma Chambre,
occurred to me. I resolved to imitate the French
author, and find occupation and amusement enough
to relieve the tedium of my wakefulness, by making a
mental inventory of every article of furniture I could
see, and by following up to their sources the multitude
of associations which even a chair, a table, or a wash-
hand stand may be made to call forth.

In the nervous unsettled state of my mind at that
moment, I found it much easier to make my inven-
tory than to make my reflections, and thereupon soon
gave up all hope of thinking in Le Maistre's fanciful
track — or, indeed, of thinking at all. I looked about
the room at the different articles of furniture, and did
nothing more.

There was, first, the bed I was lying in ; a four-
post bed, of all things in the world to meet with in
Paris ! — yes, a thorough clumsy British four-poster,
with the regular top lined with chintz — the regular
fringed valance all round — the regular stifling un-
wholesome curtains, which I remembered having
mechanically drawn back against the posts without
particularly noticing the bed when I first got into
the room. Then there was the marble-topped wash-
hand stand, from which the water I had spilt, in my
hurry to pour it out, was still dripping, slowly and
more slowly, on to the brick floor. Then two small
chairs, with my coat, waistcoat, and trousers flung

158 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

on them. Then a large elbow-chair covered with
dirty-white dimity, with my cravat and shirt-collar
thrown over the back. Then a chest of drawers with
two of the brass handles off, and a tawdry, broken
china inkstand placed on it by way of ornament for
the top. Then the dressing-table, adorned by a very
small looking-glass, and a very large pincushion. Then
the window — an unusually large window. Then a
dark old picture, which the feeble candle dimly showed
me. It was the picture of a fellow in a high Spanish
hat, crowned with a plume of towering feathers. A
swarthy sinister ruffian, looking upward, shading his
eyes with his hand, and looking intently upward — it
might be at some tall gallows at which he was going to
be hanged. At any rate, he had the appearance of
thoroughly deserving it.

This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to
look upward too — at the top of the bed. It was a
gloomy and not an interesting object, and I looked
back at the picture. I counted the feathers in the
man's hat — they stood out in relief — three white, two
green. I observed the crown of his hat, which was
of a conical shape, according to the fashion supposed
to have been favoured by Guido Pawkes. I won-
dered what he was looking up at. It couldn't be at
the stars ; such a desperado was neither astrologer
nor astronomer. It must be at the high gallows, and
he was going to be hanged presently. Would the
executioner come into possession of his conical-crowned
hat and plume of feathers ? I counted the feathers
again — three white, two green.

While I still lingered over this very improving and
intellectual employment, my thoughts insensibly
began to wander. The moonlight shining into the
room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in
England — the night after a picnic party in a Welsh
valley. Every incident of the drive homeward,
through lovely scenery, which the moonlight made

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 159

lovelier than ever, came back to my remembrance,
though I had never given the picnic a thought for
years ; though, if I had tried to recollect it, I could
certainly have recalled little or nothing of that scene
long past. Of all the wonderful faculties that help
to tell us we are immortal, which speaks the sublime
truth more eloquently than memory ? Here was I,
in a strange house of the most suspicious character,
in a situation of uncertainty, and even of peril, which
might seem to make the cool exercise of my recollec-
tion almost out of the question ; nevertheless, remem-
bering, quite involuntarily, places, people, conversa-
tions, minute circumstances of every kind, which I
had thought forgotten for ever ; which I could not
possibly have recalled at will, even under the most
favourable auspices. And what cause had produced
in a moment the whole of this strange, complicated,
mysterious effect ? Npthing but some rays of moon-
light shining in at my bedroom window.

I was still thinking of the picnic — of our merriment
on the drive home — of the sentimental young lady
who would quote Childe Harold because it was moon-
light. I was absorbed by these past scenes and past
amusements, when, in an instant, the thread on which
my memories hung snapped asunder ; my attention
immediately came back to present things more vividly
than ever, and I found myself, I neither knew why
nor wherefore, looking hard at the picture again.

Looking for what ?

Good God ! the man had pulled his hat down on
his brows ! — No ! the hat itself was gone ! Where was
the conical crown ? Where the feathers — three white,
two green ? Not there ? In place of the hat and
feathers, what dusky object was it that now hid his
forehead, his eyes, his shading hand ?

Was the bed moving ?

I turned on my back and looked up. Was I mad ?
drunk ? dreaming ? giddy again ? or was the top of

160 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

the bed really moving down — sinking slowly, regu-
larly, silently, horribly, right down throughout the
whole of its length and breadth — right down upon me,
as I lay underneath ?

My blood seemed to stand still. A deadly paralysing
coldness stole all over me, as I turned my head round
on the pillow, and determined to test whether the
bed-top was really moving or not, by keeping my
eye on the man in the picture.

The next look in that direction was enough. The
dull, black, frowsy outline of the valance above me was
within an inch of being parallel with his waist. I still
looked breathlessly. And steadily, and slowly — very
slowly — I saw the figure, and the line of frame below
the figure, vanish, as the valance moved down before it.
I am, constitutionally, anything but timid. I have
been on more than one occasion in peril of my life,
and have not lost my self-possession for an instant ;
but when the conviction first settled on my mind that
the bed-top was really moving, was steadily and con-
tinuously sinking down upon me, I looked up shudder-
ing, helpless, panic-stricken, beneath the hideous
machinery for murder, which was advancing closer
and closer to suffocate me where I lay.

I looked up, motionless, speechless, breathless.
The candle, fully spent, went out ; but the moonlight
still brightened the room. Down and down, without
pausing and without sounding, came the bed-top,
and still my panic-terror seemed to bind me faster
and faster to the mattress on which I lay — down and
down it sank, till the dusty odour from the lining of
the canopy came stealing into my nostrils.

At that final moment the instinct of self-preserva-
tion startled me out of my trance, and I moved at
last. There was just room for me to roll myself side-
ways off the bed. As I dropped noiselessly to the
floor, the edge of the murderous canopy touched me
on the shoulder.

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 161

Without stopping to draw my breath, without
wiping the cold sweat from my face, I rose instantly
on my knees to watch the bed-top. I was literally
spell- bound by it. If I had heard footsteps behind
me, I could not have turned round ; if a means of
escape had been miraculously provided for me, I could
not have moved to take advantage of it. The whole
life in me was, at that moment, concentrated in my
eyes.

It descended — the whole canopy, with the fringe
round it, came down — down — close down ; so close
that there was not room now to squeeze my finger
between the bed-top and the bed. I felt at the sides,
and discovered that what had appeared to me from
beneath to be the ordinary light canopy of a four-post
bed, was in reality a thick, broad mattress, the sub-
stance of which was concealed by the valance and its
fringe. I looked up and saw the four posts rising
hideously bare. In the middle of the bed-top was a
huge wooden screw that had evidently worked it
down through a hole in the ceiling, just as ordinary
presses are worked down on the substance selected for
compression. The frightful apparatus moved with-
out making the faintest noise. There had been no
creaking as it came down ; there was now not the
faintest sound from the room above. Amid a dead
and awful silence I beheld before me — in the nineteenth
century, and in the civilized capital of France — such
a machine for secret murder by suffocation as might
have existed in the worst days of the Inquisition, in
the lonely inns among the Hartz Mountains, in the
mysterious tribunals of Westphalia ! Still, as I looked
on it, I could not move, I could hardly breathe, but I
began to recover the power of thinking, and in a
moment I discovered the murderous conspiracy framed
against me in all its horror.

My cup of coffee had been drugged, and drugged
too strongly. I had been saved from being smothered

228 O

162 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

by having taken an overdose of some narcotic. How
I had chafed and jfretted at the fever-fit which had
preserved my life by keeping me awake ! How reck-
lessly I had confided myself to the two wretches who
had led me into this room, determined, for the eake
of my winnings, to kill me in my sleep by the surest
and most horrible contrivance for secretly accomplish-
ing my destruction ! How many men, winners like
me, had slept, as I had proposed to sleep, in that
bed, and had never been seen or heard of more ! I
shuddered at the bare idea of it.

But, ere long, all thought was again suspended by
the sight of the murderous canopy moving once more.
After it had remained on the bed — as nearly as I
could guess — about ten minutes, it began to move up
again. The villains who worked it from above evi-
dently believed that their purpose was now accom-
plished. Slowly and silently, as it had descended,
that horrible bed-top rose towards its former place.
When it reached the upper extremities of the four
posts, it reached the ceiling too. Neither hole nor
screw could be seen ; the bed became in appearance
an ordinary bed again — the canopy an ordinary canopy
— even to the most suspicious eyes.

Now, for the first time, I was able to move — to rise
from my knees — to dress myself in my upper clothing
— and to consider of how I should escape. If I
betrayed, by the smallest noise, that the attempt to
suffocate me had failed, I was certain to be murdered.
Had I made, any noise already ? I listened intently,
looking towards the door.

No ! no footsteps in the passage outside — no sound
of a tread, light or heavy, in the room above — absolute
silence everywhere. Besides locking and bolting my
door, I had moved an old wooden chest against it,
which I had found under the bed. To remove this
chest (my blood ran cold as I thought of what its
contents might be !) without making some disturbance

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 163

was impossible ; and, moreover, to think of escaping
through the house, now barred up for the night, was
sheer insanity. Only one chance was left me — the
window. I stole to it on tiptoe.

My bedroom was on the first floor, above an entresol,
and looked into the back street, which you have
sketched in your view. I raised my hand to open the
window, knowing that on that action hung, by the
merest hair's-breadth, my chance of safety. They
keep vigilant watch in a House of Murder. If any
part of the frame cracked, if the hinge creaked, I was
a lost man ! It must have occupied me at least five
minutes, reckoning by time — five hours, reckoning by
suspense — to open that window. I succeeded in doing
it silently — in doing it with all the dexterity of a
housebreaker — and then looked down into the street.
To leap the distance beneath me would be almost
certain destruction ! Next, I looked round at the
sides of the house. Down the left side ran the thick
water-pipe which you have drawn — it passed close by
the outer edge of the window. The moment I saw the
pipe, I knew I was saved. My breath came and went
freely for the first time since I had seen the canopy
of the bed moving down upon me !

To some men the means of escape which I had dis-
covered might have seemed difficult and dangerous
enough — to me the prospect of slipping down the pipe
into the street did not suggest even a thought of peril.
I had always been accustomed, by the practice of
gymnastics, to keep up my schoolboy powers as a
daring and expert climber ; and knew that my head,
hands, and feet would serve me faithfully in any
hazards of ascent or descent. I had already got one
leg over the window-sill, when I remembered the
handkerchief filled with money under my pillow. I
could well have afforded to leave it behind me, but I
was revengefully determined that the miscreants of
the gambling-house should miss their plunder as well

164 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

as their victim. So I went back to the bed and tied
the heavy handkerchief at my back by my cravat.

Just as I had made it tight and fixed it in a com-
fortable place, I thought I heard a sound of breathing
outside the door. The chill feeling of horror ran
through me again as I listened. No ! dead silence
still in the passage — I had only heard the night-air
blowing softly into the room. The next moment I
was on the window-sill — and the next I had a firm
grip on the water-pipe with my hands and knees.

I slid down into the street easily and quietly, as I
thought I should, and immediately set off at the top
of my speed to a branch ' Prefecture ' of Police, which
I knew was situated in the immediate neighbourhood.
A ' Sub-prefect,' and several picked men among his
subordinates, happened to be up, maturing, I believe,
some scheme for discovering the perpetrator of a
mysterious murder which all Paris was talking of just
then. When I began my story, in a breathless hurry
and in very bad French, I could see that the Sub-
prefect suspected me of being a drunken Englishman
who had robbed somebody ; but he soon altered his
opinion as I went on, and before I had anything like
concluded, he shoved all the papers before him into
a drawer, put on his hat, supplied me with another
(for I was bare-headed), ordered a file of soldiers,
desired his expert followers to get ready all sorts of
tools for breaking open doors and ripping up brick-
flooring, and took my arm, in the most friendly and
familiar manner possible, to lead me with him out of
the house. I will venture to say, that when the Bub-
prefect was a little boy, and was taken for the first
time to the play, he was not half as much pleased as
he was now at the job in prospect for him at the
gambling-house !

Away we went through the streets, the Sub-prefect
cross-examining and congratulating me in the same
breath as we marched at the head of our formidable

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 165

posse comitatus. Sentinels were placed at the back
and front of the house the moment we got to it ; a
tremendous battery of knocks was directed against
the door ; a light appeared at a window ; I was told
to conceal myself behind the police — then came more
knocks, and a cry of ' Open in the name of the law ! '
At that terrible summons bolts and locks gave way
before an invisible hand, and the moment after the
Sub-prefect was in the passage, confronting a waiter
half-dressed and ghastly pale. This was the short
dialogue which immediately took place : —

' We want to see the Englishman who is sleeping
in this house ? '

' He went away hours ago.'

' He did no such thing. His friend went away ; he
remained. Show us to his bedroom ! '

' I swear to you, Monsieur le Sous-prefect, he is not
here ! he .'

' I swear to you, Monsieur le Gar9on, he is. He
slept here — he didn't find your bed comfortable — he
came to us to complain of it — here he is among my
men — and here am I ready to look for a flea or two
in his bedstead. Renaudin ! ' (calling to one of the
subordinates, and pointing to the waiter) < collar that
man, and tie his hands behind him. Now, then,
gentlemen, let us walk upstairs ! '

Every man and woman in the house was secured —
the ' Old Soldier ' the first. Then I identified the bed
in which I had slept, and then we went into the room
above.

No object that was at all extraordinary appeared in
any part of it. The Sub-prefect looked round the
place, commanded everybody to be silent, stamped
twice on the floor, called for a candle, looked atten-
tively at the spot he had stamped on, and ordered the
flooring there to be carefully taken up. This was done
in no time. Lights were produced, and we saw a
deep raftered cavity between the floor of this room

166 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

and the ceiling of the room beneath. Through this
cavity there ran perpendicularly a sort of case of iron
thickly greased ; and inside the case appeared the
screw, which communicated with the bed-top below.
Extra lengths of screw, freshly oiled ; levers covered
with felt ; all the complete upper works of a heavy
press — constructed with infernal ingenuity so as to
join the fixtures below, and when taken to pieces
again to go into the smallest possible compass — were
next discovered and pulled out on the floor. After
some little difficulty the Sub-prefect succeeded in put-
ting the machinery together, and, leaving his men to
work it, descended with me to the bedroom. The
smothering canopy was then lowered, but not so noise-
lessly as I had seen it lowered. When I mentioned
this to the Sub-prefect, his answer, simple as it was,
had a terrible significance. ' My men,' said he, ' are
working down the bed-top for the first time — the men
whose money you won were in better practice.'

We left the house in the sole possession of two police
agents — every one of the inmates being removed to
prison on the spot. The Sub-prefect, after taking
down my ' proces-verbal ' in his office, returned with
me to my hotel to get my passport. * Do you think,'
I asked, as I gave it to him, ' that any men have really
been smothered in that bed, as they tried to smother
me ? '

' I have seen dozens of drowned men laid out at the
Morgue,' answered the Sub-prefect, ' in whose pocket-
books were found letters, stating that they had com-
mitted suicide in the Seine, because they had lost
everything at the gaming-table. Do I 'know how
many of those men entered the same gambling- house
that you entered ? won as you won ? took that bed
as you took it ? slept in it ? were smothered in it ?
and were privately thrown into the river, with a letter
of explanation written by the murderers and placed in
their pocket-books ? No man can say how many or

THE TRAVELLER'S STORY 167

how few have suffered the fate from which you have
escaped. The people of the gambling-house kept their
bedstead machinery a secret from us — even from the
police ! The dead kept the rest of the secret for them.
Good night, or rather good morning, Monsieur Faulk-
ner ! Be at my office again at nine o'clock — in the
meantime, au revoir ! '

The rest of my story is soon told. I was examined
and re-examined ; the gambling-house was strictly
searched all through from top to bottom ; the pris-
oners were separately interrogated ; and two of the
less guilty among them made a confession. I dis-
covered that the Old Soldier was the master of the
gambling-house — justice discovered that he had been
drummed out of the army as a vagabond years ago ;
that he had been guilty of all sorts of villanies since ;
that he was in possession of stolen property, which the
owners identified ; • and that he, the croupier, another
accomplice, and the woman who had made my cup of
coffee, were all in the secret of the bedstead. There
appeared some reason to doubt whether the inferior
persons attached to the house knew anything of the
suffocating machinery ; and they received the benefit
of that doubt, by being treated simply as thieves and
vagabonds. As for the Old Soldier and his two head-
myrmidons, they went to the galleys ; the ^oman who
had drugged my coffee was imprisoned for I forget how
many years ; the regular attendants at the gambling-
house were considered ' suspicious,' and placed under
' surveillance' ; and I became, for one whole week
(which is a long time), the head 'lion' in Parisian
society. My adventure was dramatized by three
illustrious playmakers, but never saw theatrical day-
light ; for the censorship forbade the introduction on
the stage of a correct copy of the gambling-house
bedstead.

One good result was produced by my adventure,
which any censorship must have approved : — it cured

168 WILLIAM WILKIE COLLINS

me of ever again trying ' Rouge et Noir ' as an amuse-
ment. The sight of a green cloth, with packs of cards
and heaps of money on it, will henceforth be for ever
associated in my mind with the sight of a bed-canopy
descending to suffocate me in the silence and darkness
of the night.

WILLIAM HALE WHITE

(' MARK RUTHERFORD ')
1831—1913

' THE SWEETNESS OF A MAN'S FRIEND '
* But when he came to himself he said '

FORTY years ago I had been a clerk in a Government
office in Whitehall for three years. My father was a
small squire owning about 1,500 acres of land in the
Midlands, and, as he had only two children, a girl and
a boy, he contrived to send me to Harrow, his own
school. When I left Harrow I went to Cambridge, and
came out well in the Civil Service examination. Soon
afterwards I became engaged to Margaret Rushworth,
daughter of the rector in the little town of Hemsworth,
about five miles from my home, and in 1870 we were
married. In addition to my salary I had an allowance
of over £100 a year from home, and Margaret had £50
a year of her own. We set up house at Blackheath.

Margaret was not a great reader, although what she
read she read slowly and thoroughly. I thought she
would ' open out,' as I infelicitously described a liking
for literature, but in this way she did not open out.
Perhaps it was required of her that she should develop
according to the law of her own nature. Providence
may have considered it necessary, although probably
she was not conscious of the command, that her par-
ticular character should be preserved without the inter-
ference or imposition of any other. I, on the contrary,
lived hi books ; I worked hard at Cambridge, and I
hated dissipation. It was this love of books that was

G* 169

170 WILLIAM HALE WHITE

answerable for certain defects in me ; one of which was
the absence of a sense of proportion. It is curious —
Glycine's song of three or four verses in Zapolya or a
dozen lines from The Rape of the Lock were more to me
than the news of great events. I should even have
thought it better worth while to discover how
Shakespeare laced his shoes than to understand the
provisions of a revolutionary Reform Bill. Conversa-
tion was interesting to me mainly in so far as it turned
upon wrhat I had been reading. I was often, no doubt,
set down as a prig. I was not a prig, for I was much
in earnest. I was however, I admit, an uncomfortable,
unpopular acquaintance. The gay, the empty-hearted,
empty-headed society joker scoffed at me because I
was an easy chance he could not afford to miss of
securing laughter at the expense of that stock subject,
' a serious person.'

My peculiar temperament did not fully reveal itself
until some time after I was engaged. I then hoped for
a happy time with Margaret : when in long evenings
we could study Shelley together and discuss the con-
nexion of the story in The Revolt of Islam, a problem
I had not yet been able to solve. I belonged to a club,
called, for no particular reason, the Saturday Club, of
a dozen men about the same age as myself and of a
somewhat similar disposition, who met together for
mutual edification on. the second and fifteenth
of each month. It looks strange to many people, no
doubt, but to me, even now, it is not strange that
twelve persons belonging to this* commonplace world
could quietly seat themselves round a table and begin,
without the aid of alcohol, tobacco, or even of coffee,
to impart to one another their opinions on subjects
which would generally be considered most uninviting.
Once I came home with my head full of Milton's
prosody. I proceeded immediately to pour out upon
Margaret all the results of our debate and, more particu-
larly, my own observations, but as she had never read

'THE SWEETNESS OF A MAN'S FRIEND' 171

Paradise, Lost, and knew nothing of the laws of blank
verse, I did not go on and was disappointed. She also
was sad, and the evening passed as an evening passes
in late September when we have not begun fires, and
cold rain sets in with the growing darkness. When
either the second or fifteenth of the month fell on a
Saturday, the hour of meeting was four o'clock. One
Saturday we had tried to make out what really hap-
pened to the magic boat in Alastor. The eddying
waters rise ' stair above stair,' and the boat is

4 Seized by the sway of the ascending stream.'

I was puzzled and eager ; I got home early and could
not help trying to explain the difficulty to Margaret !
I read all that part of Alastor to her which has to do
with the movement of the boat, and I expatiated on it
with some eloquence and almost with emotion. I
could see she tried to follow me and to make clear to
herself the miraculous course of the stream, but she did
not succeed, and her irrelevant remarks made me
irritable. She asked me who the wanderer was, and
what was the object of his voyage. ' O Margaret,' I
broke out, and I propped my elbows on the table, my
head falling in despondency between my hands, ' O
Margaret, I do wish I could find a little more sympathy
in you. What a joy it would be for me if you cared
for the things for which I care, those which really
concern me.' She said nothing and I left the room,
but as I went I thought I saw tears in her eyes. I was
frightened. I loved her passionately, and I said to
myself that perhaps this was the beginning of decay in
my love for her. What should I do, what should I be
if we became estranged ? I felt that horrible half-
insane terror which men feel during an earthquake,
when the ground under their feet begins to shake.

That night an old college friend came to supper with
us. I had not seen him for two years. His name was
Robert Barclay. His father was a clergyman who had

172 WILLIAM HALE WHITE

been trained theologically in the school of Simeon, and
was, consequently, very Low Church. Robert also,
who went to Cambridge, was Low Church while he was
there, but when he was five-and-twenty there came a
great change. He woke up as if from a trance, and
began to ask questions, the result of which was that
the creed in which he had been educated seemed to
have no rock-foundation, but to hang in the air. He
went on until he could only say / do not know ; but it
was impossible for him to rest here. He was so con-
stituted that he was compelled to affirm, and, by a
process which I cannot now develop, he became a
Roman Catholic, conquering, to his own satisfaction,
the difficulty of finding for Papal authority a support
reaching down to the centre which he could not find in
Simeonism. He was content to rest where Newman
rested — ' there is no help for it : we must either give
up the belief in the Church as a divine institution alto-
gether, or we mtist recognize it in that communion of
which the Pope is the head ; we must take things as
they are ; to believe in a Church is to believe in the
Pope.'

Barclay was often at my father's house before his
conversion, and there he fell in love with Veronica,
Margaret's sister, who, with Margaret, was staying with
my mother. Veronica also was deeply in love with
him, and they were engaged. Slowly he became pos-
sessed with a desire to be a priest, with a sure conviction,
in fact, that he ought to be one. Veronica by this time
was a Roman Catholic, and she was strong enough to
urge him to obey what both of them believed to be a
divine injunction. What these two went through no
mortal can tell : Heaven only knows. I had a glimpse
every now and then of a struggle even unto death, of
wrestling till the blood forced itself through the pores
of the skin.

The difficulty lay not in doing what they were sure
was right, but in discovering what the right was.

'THE SWEETNESS OF A MAN'S FRIEND' 173

Sometimes it seemed a clear command that they should
give themselves up to one another. There was no
hesitation in it. Both of them were ardent, passionate,
vividly imaginative. Was it conceivable that such an
overwhelming impulse was not of God ? The command
that Robert should be a priest was nothing like so clear ;
but, on the other hand, both Veronica and Robert were
too well instructed not to be aware that clearness is not
decisive as to the authority of a direction, and that the
true path may be suggested in a whisper when we are
bidden, as if through a speaking trumpet, to take that
which leads to destruction. What made the separation
especially terrible, both to Veronica and Robert, it is
hard to say. Here are a couple of lines from one of
Robert's letters to me which may partly explain :
' There is something in this trouble I cannot put into
words. It is the complete unfolding, the making real
to myself, all that is hidden in that word Never.9 Is
it possible to express by speech a white handkerchief
waved from the window of the railway train, or the
deserted platform where ten minutes before a certain
woman stood, where her image still lingers ? There
is something in this which is not mere sorrow. It is
rather the disclosure of that dread Abyss which underlies
the life of man. One consequence of this experience
was the purest sincerity. All insincerity, everything
unsound, everything which could not stand the severest
test, was by this trial crushed out of him. His words
uniformly stood for facts. Perhaps it was his sincerity
which gave him a power over me such as no other man
ever possessed. He could not persuade me to follow
him into the Roman Catholic Church, but this was
because Margaret held me back. She was the only
person who could have enabled me to resist.

Robert was much struck with Margaret's account
during supper of the manner in which she helped her
poorer neighbours. She did not give them money or
clothes or food, nor did she play the district visitor ;

174 WILLIAM HALE WHITE

but she went into their houses and devoted to one
woman an hour in cooking, to another an hour in washing
clothes, or cleaning rooms and scrubbing floors. Not
only was this real assistance, but it was an opportunity
for her to show how work ought to be done. ' I can
slip in something now and then,' she said, ' which may
do their souls good, and I am sure that it is the word
which is spoken casually that is most effective with
them. It is useless to talk abstractions or to preach in
general terms the heinousness of sin ; but if Bill next
door has beaten his wife or drinks and gives her nothing
out of his wages, you can enlarge on his bad behaviour
with much profit. As to religion as we understand it
when we kneel at Holy Communion, it cannot be taught.
It requires a heavenly endowment as much as writing
great poems. Keeping your hands from picking and
stealing is a different matter.'

Margaret went early to bed. Her little girl, six
months old, required her attention. We had been
silent for a few minutes. Somewhat unexpectedly,
without any introduction, Robert spoke.

' Margaret is original, and has real genius. What a
blessing it is that she has honoured you with marriage !
Let stupid people say what they will, originality and
genius in a wife are amongst the greatest of earthly
blessings. But, although amongst the greatest, there
is something greater.' His voice shook a little.
Genius ! originality ! I had not thought of it before.
. The boat in Alastor crossed my mind, but Robert's
power asserted itself, a strength sufficient not only to
change an opinion, but to alter entirely the aspect of
things, just as in a flash, without argument, Saul per-
ceived that he had been utterly mistaken. Robert
revealed the truth of Margaret to me, and the revelation
was almost miraculous, so strangely disproportionate
were means to the effect.

I went into her room. I opened the door gently,
and saw that she and her child were both asleep, but

1 THE SWEETNESS OF A MAN'S FRIEND ' 175

the night-light was burning. I took off my shoes
outside and crept noiselessly to the little table by the
side of the bed. A bookmarker in a volume of Shelley
showed me she had been studying the passages which
I had read to her about the boat. I went back to bed,
but not to sleep. Next morning, early, I again went
into her room. She had been awake, for a page was
turned over, but her eyes were closed. Her arm lay
upon the coverlet. I knelt down and took her hand,
that delicately beautiful hand with its filbert finger-
nails— knelt down and kissed it softly. She started
a little, sat up, and bent over me, and I felt her lips on
my head, her thick hair falling over it and enveloping
it. She died ten years ago. The face in the vision
which is always before me is a happy face, thank God.

RICHARD GARNETT

1835—1906

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER

THE holy Buddha, Sakhya Muni, on dispatching his
apostles to proclaim his religion throughout the
peninsula of India, failed not to provide them with
salutary precepts for their guidance. He exhorted
them to meekness, to compassion, to abstemiousness,
to zeal in the promulgation of his doctrine, and added
an injunction never before or since prescribed by the
founder of any religion — namely, on no account to
perform any miracle.

It is further related, that whereas the apostles experi-
enced considerable difficulty in complying with the
other instructions of their master, and sometimes a.ctu-
ally failed therein, the prohibition to work miracles
was never once transgressed by any of them, save only
the pious Ananda, the history of whose first year's
apostolate is recorded as follows.

Ananda repaired to the kingdom of Magadha, and
instructed the inhabitants diligently in the law of
Buddha. His doctrine being acceptable, and his speech
persuasive, the people hearkened to him willingly, and
began to forsake the Brahmins whom they had pre-
viously revered as spiritual guides. Perceiving this,
Ananda became elated in spirit, and one day he ex-
claimed :

' How blessed is the apostle who propagates truth
by the efficacy of reason and virtuous example, com-
bined with eloquence, rather than error by imposture
and devil-monger ing, like those miserable Brahmins ! '

176

AN AND A THE MIRACLE WORKER 177

As he uttered this vainglorious speech, the mountain
of his merits was diminished by sixteen yojanas, and
virtue and efficacy departed from him, insomuch that
when he next addressed the multitude they first mocked,
then hooted, and finally pelted him.

When matters had reached this pass, Ananda lifted
his eyes and discerned a number of Brahmins of the
lower sort, busy about a boy who lay in a fit upon the
ground. They had long been applying exorcisms and
other approved methods with scant success, when the
most sagacious among them suggested :

1 Let us render the body of this patient an uncom-
fortable residence for the demon ; peradventure he will
then cease to abide therein.'

They were accordingly engaged with branding the
sufferer with hot irons, filling his nostrils with smoke,
and otherwise to the best of their ability disquieting
the intrusive devil. Ananda' s first thought was, ' The
lad is in a fit '; the second, ' It -were a pious deed to
deliver him from his tormentors ' ; the third, ' By good
management this may extricate me from my present
uncomfortable predicament, and redound to the glory
of the most holy Buddha.'

Yielding to this temptation, he strode forward,
chased away the Brahmins with an air of authority,
and, uplifting his countenance to heaven, recited the
appellations of seven devils. No effect ensuing, he
repeated seven more, and so continued until, the fit
having passed off in the course of nature, the patient's
paroxysms ceased, he opened his eyes, and Ananda
restored him to his relatives. But the people cried
loudly, ' A miracle ! a miracle ! ' and when Ananda
resumed his instructions, they gave heed to him, and
numbers embraced the religion of Buddha. Where-
upon Ananda exulted, and applauded himself for his
dexterity and presence of mind, and said to himself :

* Surely the end sanctifies the means.'

As he propounded this heresy, the eminence of his

178 RICHARD GARNETT

merits was reduced to the dimensions of a mole-hill,
and he ceased to be of account in the eyes of any of the
saints, save only of Buddha, whose compassion is
inexhaustible.

The fame of his achievement, nevertheless, was
bruited about the whole country, and soon reached the
ears of the King, who sent for him, and inquired if he
had actually expelled the demon.
Ananda replied in the affirmative.
' I am indeed rejoiced,' returned the King, ' as thpu
now wilt without doubt proceed to heal my son, who
has lain in a trance for twenty-nine days.'

' Alas ! dread sovereign,' modestly returned Ananda,
' how should the merits which barely suffice to effect
the cure of a miserable Pariah avail to restore the off-
spring of an Elephant among Kings ? '

' By what process are these merits acquired ? '
demanded the monarch.

' By the 'exercise of penance,' responded Ananda,
* in virtue of which the austere devotee quells the winds,
allays the waters, expostulates convincingly with
tigers, carries the moon in his sleeve, and otherwise
performs all acts and deeds appropriate to the
character of a peripatetic thaumaturgist.'

' This being so,' answered the King, ' thy inability
to heal my son manifestly arises from defect of merit,
and defect of merit from defect of penance. I will
therefore consign thee to the charge of my Brahmins,
that they may aid thee to fill up the measure of that
which is lacking.'

Ananda vainly strove to explain that the austerities
to which he had referred were entirely of a spiritual
and contemplative character. The Brahmins, en-
chanted to get a heretic into their clutches, immediately
seized upon him, and conveyed him to one of their
temples. They stripped him, and perceived with
astonishment that not one single weal or scar was
visible anywhere on his person. * Horror ! ' they

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER 179

exclaimed ; c here is a man who expects to go to heaven
in a whole skin ! ' To obviate this breach of etiquette,
they laid him upon his face, and flagellated him until
the obnoxious soundness of cuticle was entirely
removed. They then departed, promising to return
next day and operate in a corresponding manner upon
the anterior part of his person, after which, they
jeeringly assured him, his merits would be in no respect
less than those of the saintly Bhagiratha, or of the regal
Viswamitra himself.

Ananda lay half dead upon the floor of the temple,
when the sanctuary was illuminated by the apparition
of a resplendent Glendoveer, who thus addressed
him :

4 Well, backsliding disciple, art thou yet convinced
of thy folly ? '

Ananda relished neither the imputation on his
orthodoxy nor that on his wisdom. He replied,
notwithstanding, with all meekness :

' Heaven forbid that I should repine at any variety
of martyrdom that tends to the propagation of my
master's faith.'

' Wilt thou then first be healed, and moreover
become the instrument of converting the entire realm
of Magadha ? '

' How shall this be accomplished ? ' demanded
Ananda.

' By perseverance in the path of deceit and dis-
obedience,' returned the Glendoveer.

Ananda winced, but maintained silence in the ex-
pectation of more explicit directions.

' Know,' pursued the spirit, * that the king's son
will revive from his trance at the expiration of the
thirtieth day, which takes place at noon to-morrow.
Thou hast but to proceed at the fitting period to the
couch whereon he is deposited, and, placing thy hand
upon his heart, to command him to rise forthwith.
His recovery will be ascribed to thy supernatural

180 RICHARD GARNETT

powers, and the establishment of Buddha's religion
will result. Before this it will be needful that I should
perform an actual cure upon thy back, which is within
the compass of my capacity. I only request thee to
take notice, that thou wilt on this occasion be trans-
gressing the precepts of thy master with thine eyes
open. It is also meet to apprise thee that thy tem-
porary extrication from thy present difficulties will
only involve thee in others still more formidable.'

' An incorporeal Glendoveer is no judge of the
feelings of a flayed apostle,' thought Ananda. ' Heal
me,' he replied, ' if thou canst, and reserve thy admoni-
tions for a more convenient opportunity.'

' So be it,' returned the Glendoveer ; and as he
extended his hand over Ananda, the latter' s back was
clothed anew with skin, and his previous smart
simultaneously allayed. The Glendoveer vanished at
the same moment, saying, ' When thou hast need
of me, pronounce but the incantation, Gnooh Im-
dap Inam Mua,1 and I will immediately be by thy
side.'

The anger and amazement of the Brahmins may
be conceived when, on returning equipped with fresh
implements of flagellation, they discovered the salu-
brious condition of their victim. Their scourges would
probably have undergone conversion into halters, had
they not been accompanied by a royal officer, who
took the really triumphant martyr under his protec-
tion, and carried him off to the palace. He was speedily
conducted to the young prince's couch, whither a vast
crowd attended him. The hour of noon not having
yet arrived, Ananda discreetly protracted the time
by a seasonable discourse on the impossibility of
miracles, those only excepted which should be wrought
by the professors of the faith of Buddha. He then
descended from his pulpit, and precisely as the sun
attained the zenith laid his hand upon the bosom of
i The mystic formula of the Buddhists, read backwards.

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER 181

the young prince, who instantly revived, and com-
pleted a sentence touching the game of dice which
had been interrupted by his catalepsy.

The people shouted, the courtiers went into ecstasies,
the countenances of the Brahmins assumed an ex-
ceedingly sheepish expression. Even the king seemed
impressed, and craved to be more particularly in-
structed in the law of Buddha. In complying with
this request, Ananda, who had made marvellous
progress in worldly wisdom during the last twenty-
four hours, deemed it needless to dilate on the cardinal
doctrines of his master, the misery of existence, the
need of redemption, the path to felicity, the prohibi-
tion to shed blood. He simply stated that the priests
of Buddha were bound to perpetual poverty, and
that under the new dispensation all ecclesiastical
property would accrue to the temporal authorities.

4 By the holy cow ! ' exclaimed the monarch, ' this
is something like a religion ! '

The words were scarcely out of the royal lips ere
the courtiers professed themselves converts. The
multitude followed their example. The Brahminical
church was promptly disestablished and disendowed,
and more injustice was committed in the name of the
new and purified religion in one day than the old
corrupt one had occasioned in a hundred years.

Ananda had the satisfaction of feeling able to
forgive his adversaries, and of valuing himself accord-
ingly ; and to complete his felicity, he was received
in the palace, and entrusted with the education of the
king's son, which he strove to conduct agreeably to
the precepts of Buddha. This was a task of some
delicacy, as it involved interference with the princely
youth's favourite amusement, which had previously
consisted in torturing small reptiles.

After a short interval Ananda was again sum-
moned to the monarch's presence. He found his
majesty in the company of two most ferocious ruffians,

182 RICHARD GARNETT

one of whom bore a huge axe, and the other an
enormous pair of pincers.

4 My chief executioner and my chief tormentor,*
said the king.

Ananda expressed his gratification at becoming
acquainted with such exalted functionaries.

' Thou must know, most holy man,' resumed the
king, ' that need has again arisen for the exercise of
fortitude and self-denial on thy part. A powerful
enemy has invaded my dominions, and has impiously
presumed to discomfit my troops. Well might I feel
dismayed, were it not for the consolations of religion ;
but my trust is in thee, O my spiritual father ! It is
urgent that thou shouldst accumulate the largest
amount of merit with the least delay possible. I am
unable to invoke the ministrations of thy old friends
the Brahmins to this end, they being, as thou knowest,
in disgrace, but I have summoned these trusty and
experienced counsellors in their room. I find them
not wholly in accord. My chief tormentor, being a
man of mild temper and humane disposition, con-
siders that it might at first suffice to employ gentle
measures, such, for example, as suspending thee head
downwards in the smoke of a wood fire, and filling
thy nostrils with red pepper. My chief executioner,
taking, peradventure, a too professional view of the
subject, deems it best to resort at once to crucifixion
or impalement. I would gladly know thy thoughts
on the matter.'

Ananda expressed, as well as his terror would suffer
him, his entire disapproval of both the courses recom-
mended by the royal advisers.

4 Well,' said the king, with an air of resignation,
' if we cannot agree upon either, it follows that we
must try both. We will meet for that purpose to-
morrow morning at the second hour. Go in peace ! '

Ananda went, but not in peace. His alarm would
have well-nigh deprived him of his faculties if he had

AN AND A THE MIRACLE WORKER 183

not remembered the promise made him by his former
deliverer. On reaching a secluded spot he pronounced
the mystic formula, and immediately became aware
of the presence, not of a radiant Glendoveer, but of
a holy man, whose head was strewn with ashes, and
his body anointed with cow-dung.

' Thy occasion,' said the Fakir, ' brooks no delay.
Thou must immediately accompany me, and assume
the garb of a Jogi.'

Ananda rebelled excessively in his heart, for he
had imbibed from the mild and sage Buddha a befit-
ting contempt for these grotesque and cadaverous
fanatics. The emergency, however, left him no
resource, <and he followed his guide to a charnel
house, which the latter had selected as his domicile.
There, with many lamentations over the smoothness
of his hair and the brevity of his nails, the Jogi be-
sprinkled and besmeared Ananda agreeably to his
own pattern, and scored him with chalk and ochre
until the peaceful apostle of the gentlest of creeds re-
sembled a Bengal tiger. He then hung a chaplet of
infants' skulls about his neck, placed the skull of a
malefactor in one of his hands, and the thigh-bone of
a necromancer in the other, and at nightfall conducted
him into the adjacent cemetery, where, seating him
on the ashes of a recent funeral pile, he bade him
drum upon the skull with the thigh-bone, and repeat
after himself the incantations which he began to
scream out towards the western part of the firma-
ment. These charms were apparently possessed of
singular efficacy, for scarcely were they commenced
ere a hideous tempest arose, rain descended in torrents,
phosphoric flashes darted across the sky, wolves and
hyaenas thronged howling from their dens, and gigantic
goblins, arising from the earth, extended their flesh-
less arms towards Ananda, and strove to drag him
from his seat. Urged by frantic terror, and the
example and exhortations of his companion, he bat-

184 RICHARD GARNETT

tered, banged, and vociferated, until on the very
verge of exhaustion ; when, as if by enchantment, the
tempest ceased, the spectres disappeared, and joyous
shouts and a burst of music announced the occurrence
of something auspicious in the adjoining city.

' The hostile king is dead,' said the Jogi ; * and his
army has dispersed. This will be attributed to thy
incantations. They are coming in quest of thee even
now. Farewell until thou again hast need of me.'

The Jogi disappeared, the tramp of a procession
became audible, and soon torches glared feebly through
the damp, cheerless dawn. The monarch descended
from his state elephant, and, prostrating himself before
Ananda, exclaimed :

4 Inestimable man ! why didst thou not disclose
that thou wert a Jogi ? Never more shall I feel the
least apprehension of any of my enemies, so long as
thou continuest an inmate of this cemetery.'

A family of jackals were unceremoniously dislodged
from a disused sepulchre, which was allotted to Ananda
for his future residence. The king permitted no
alteration in his costume, and took care that the food
doled out to him should have no tendency to impair
his sanctity, which speedily gave promise of attaining
a very high pitch. His hair had already become as
matted and his nails as long as the Jogi could have
desired, when he received a visit from another royal
messenger. The Rajah, so ran the regal missive,
had been suddenly and mysteriously attacked by a
dangerous malady, but confidently anticipated relief
from Ananda's merits and incantations.

Ananda resumed his thigh-bone and his skull, and
ruefully began to thump the latter with the former,
in dismal expectation of the things that were to come.
But the spell seemed to have lost its potency. No-
thing more unearthly than a bat presented itself, and
Ananda was beginning to think that he might as well
desist when his reflections were diverted by the appari-

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER 185

tion of a tall and grave personage, wearing a sad-
coloured robe, and carrying a long wand, who stood
by his side as suddenly as though just risen from the
earth.

' The caldron is ready,' said the stranger.

' What caldron ? ' demanded Ananda.

* That wherein thou art about to be immersed.'

* I immersed hi a caldron ! wherefore ? '

4 Thy spells,' returned his interlocutor, ' having
hitherto failed to afford his Majesty the slightest
relief, and his experience of their efficacy on a former
occasion forbidding: him to suppose that they can be
inoperative he is naturally led to ascribe to their
pernicious influence that aggravation of pain of which
he has for some time past unfortunately been sensible.
I have confirmed him in this conjecture, esteeming it
for the interest of science that his anger should fall
upon an impudent impostor like thee rather than rn
a discreet and learned physician like myself. He has
consequently directed the principal caldron to be
kept boiling all night, intending to immerse thee
therein at daybreak, unless he should in the meantime
derive some benefit from thy conjurations.'

1 Heavens ! J exclaimed Ananda, ' whither shall I
fly?'

* Nowhere beyond this cemetery,' returned the
physician, * inasmuch as it is entirely surrounded by
the royal forces.'

4 Wherein, then,' demanded the agonized apostle,
* doth the path of safety lie ? '

' In this phial,' answered the physician. * It con-
tains a subtle poison. Demand to be led before the
king. Affirm that thou hast received a sovereign
medicine from the hands of benignant spirits. He
will drink it and perish, and thou wilt be richly re-
warded by his successor.'

* Avaunt , tempter ! ' cried Ananda, hurling the phial
indignantly away. ' I defy thee ! and will have re-

186 RICHARD GARNETT

course to my old deliverer — Gnooh Imdap Inam
Mua!"

But the charm appeared to fail of its effect. No
figure was visible to his gaze, save that of the phy-
sician, who seemed to regard him with an expression
of pity as he gathered up his robes and melted rather
than glided into the encompassing darkness.

Ananda remained, contending with himself. Count-
less times was he on the point of calling after the
physician and imploring him to return with a potion
of like properties to the one rejected, but something
seemed always to rise in his throat and impede his
utterance, until, worn out by agitation, he fell asleep
and dreamed this dream.

He thought he stood at the vast and gloomy entrance
of Patala.1 The lugubrious spot wore a holiday
appearance ; everything seemed to denote a dia-
bolical gala. Swarms of demons of all shapes and
sizes beset the portal, contemplating what appeared
to be preparations for an illumination. Strings of
coloured lamps were in course of disposition in wreaths
and festoons by legions of frolicsome imps, chattering,
laughing, and swinging by their tails like so many
monkeys. The operation was directed from below
by superior fiends of great apparent gravity and
respectability. These bore wands of office, tipped
with yellow flames, wherewith they singed the tails of
the imps when such discipline appeared to them to be
requisite. Ananda could not refrain from asking the
reason of these festive preparations.

' They are in honour,' responded the demon in-
terrogated, ' of the pious Ananda, one of the
apostles of the Lord Buddha, whose advent is
hourly expected among us with much eagerness and
satisfaction.'

The horrified Ananda with much difficulty mustered
resolution to inquire on what account the apostle in
i The Hindoo Pandemonium*

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER 187

question was necessitated to take up his abode in the
infernal regions.

' On account of poisoning,' returned the fiend
laconically.

Ananda was about to seek further explanations,
when his attention was arrested by a violent altercation
between two of the supervising demons.

' Kammuragha, evidently,' croaked one.

' Damburanana, of course,' snarled the other.

' May I,' inquired Ananda of the fiend he had before
addressed, ' presume to ask the signification of Kam-
muragha and Damburanana ? '

' They are two hells,' replied the demon. ' In
Kammuragha the occupant is plunged into melted
pitch and fed with melted lead. In Damburanana he
is plunged into melted lead and fed with melted pitch.
My colleagues are debating which is the more appro-
priate to the demerits of our guest Ananda.'

Ere Ananda had time to digest this announcement
a youthful imp descended from above with agility, and,
making a profound reverence, presented himself before
the disputants.

'"Venerable demons,' interposed he, ' might my
insignificance venture to suggest that we cannot well
testify too much honour for our visitor Ananda, seeing
that he is the only apostle of Buddha writh whose com-
pany we are likely ever to be indulged ? Wherefore
I would propose that neither Kammuragha nor Dam-
buranana be assigned for his residence, but that the
amenities of all the two hundred and forty-four
thousand hells be combined in a new one, constructed
especially for his reception.'

The imp having thus spoken, the senior demons were
amazed at his precocity, and performed a pradakshina,
exclaiming, ' Truly thou art a highly superior young
devil ! ' They then departed to prepare the new in-
fernal chamber, agreeably to his recipe.

Ananda awoke, shuddering with terror.

188 RICHARD GARNETT

' Why,' he exclaimed, ' why was I ever an apostle ?
O Buddha ! Buddha ! how hard are the paths of
saintliness ! How prone to error are the well-meaning !
How huge is the absurdity of spiritual pride ! '

' Thou hast discovered that, my son ? ' said a gentle
voice in his vicinity.

He turned and beheld the divine Buddha, radiant
with a mild and benignant light. A cloud seemed
rolled away from his vision, and he recognized in his
master the Glendoveer, the Jogi, and the Physician.

' 0 holy teacher ! ' exclaimed he in extreme pertur-
bation, ' whither shall I turn ? My sin forbids me to
approach thee.'

' Not on account of thy sin art thou forbidden, my
son,' returned Buddha, ' but on account of the ridicu-
lous and unsavoury plight to which thy knavery and
disobedience have reduced thee. I have now appeared
to remind thee that this day all my apostles meet
on Mount Vindhya to render an account of their mission,
and to inquire whether I am to deliver thine in thy stead,
or whether thou art minded to proclaim it thyself.'

1 1 will render it with my own lips,' resolutely
exclaimed Ananda. ' It is meet that I should bear the
humiliation of acknowledging my folly.'

' Thou hast said well, my son,' replied Buddha, ' and
in return I will permit thee to discard the attire, if such
it may be termed, of a Jogi, and to appear in our
assembly wearing the yellow robe as beseems my
disciple. Nay, I will even infringe my own rule on
thy behalf, and perform a not inconsiderable miracle
by immediately transporting thee to the summit of
Vindhya, where the faithful are already beginning to
assemble. Thou wouldst otherwise incur much risk
of being torn to pieces by the multitude, who, as the
shouts now approaching may instruct thee, are be-
ginning to extirpate my religion at the instigation of
the new king, thy hopeful pupil. The old king is
dead, poisoned by the Brahmins.'

ANANDA THE MIRACLE WORKER 189

4 O master ! master ! ' exclaimed Ananda, weeping
bitterly, ' and is all the work undone, and all by my
fault and folly ? '

' That which is built on fraud and imposture can by
no means endure,' returned Buddha, ' be it the very
truth of heaven. Be comforted ; thou shalt proclaim
my doctrine to better purpose in other lands. Thou
hast this time but a sorry account to render of thy
stewardship ; yet thou mayest truly declare that thou
hast obeyed my precept in the letter, if not in the spirit,
since none can assert that thou hast ever wrought any
miracle.'

FRANCIS BRET HARTE

1839—1902

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT

As Mr. John Oakhurst, gambler, stepped into the
main street of Poker Flat on the morning of the twenty-
third of November, 1850, he was conscious of a change
in its moral atmosphere since the preceding night.
Two or three men, conversing earnestly together,
ceased as he approached, and exchanged significant
glances. There was a Sabbath lull in the air, which,
in a settlement unused to Sabbath influences, looked
ominous.

Mr. Oakhurst' s calm, handsome face betrayed small
concern in these indications. Whether he was con-
scious of any predisposing cause, was another question.
4 1 reckon they're after somebody,' he reflected ; ' likely
it's me.' He returned to his pocket the handkerchief
with which he had been whipping away the red dust
of Poker Flat from his neat boots, and quietly dis-
charged his mind of any further conjecture.

In point of fact, Poker Flat was ' after somebody.'
It had lately suffered the loss of several thousand
dollars, two valuable horses, and a prominent citizen.
It was experiencing a spasm of virtuous reaction, quite
as lawless and ungovernable as any of the acts that had
provoked it. A secret committee had determined to
rid the town of all improper persons. This was done
permanently in regard of two men who were then hang-
ing from the boughs of a sycamore in the gulch, and
temporarily in the banishment of certain other objec-
tionable characters, I regret to say that some of these

190

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 191

were ladies. It is but due to the sex, however, to state
that their impropriety was professional, and it was only
in such easily established standards of evil that Poker
Flat ventured to sit in judgement.

Mr. Oakhurst was right in supposing that he was in-
cluded in this category. A few of the committee had urged
hanging him as a possible example, and a sure method
of reimbursing themselves from his pockets of the sums
he had won from them. ' It's agin justice,' said Jim
Wheeler, ' to let this yer young man from Roaring
Camp — an entire stranger — carry away our money.'
But a crude sentiment of equity residing in the breasts
of those who had been fortunate enough to win from
Mr. Oakhurst overruled this narrower local prejudice.

Mr. Oakhurst received his sentence with philosophic
calmness, none the less coolly that he was aware of the
hesitation of his judges. He was too much of a
gambler not to accept fate. With him life was at
best an uncertain game, and he recognized the usual
percentage in favour of the dealer.

A body of armed men accompanied the deported
wickedness of Poker Flat to the outskirts of the settle-
ment. Besides Mr. Oakhurst, who was known to be a
coolly desperate man, and for whose intimidation the
armed escort was intended, the expatriated party
consisted of a young woman familiarly known as ' The
Duchess ' ; another, who had won the title of ' Mother
Shipton ' ; and ' Uncle Billy,' a suspected sluice-robber
and confirmed drunkard. The cavalcade provoked no
comments from the spectators, nor was any word
uttered by the escort. Only when the gulch which
marked the uttermost limit of Poker Flat was reached,
the leader spoke briefly and to the point. The exiles
were forbidden to return at the peril of their lives.

As the escort disappeared, their pent-up feelings
found vent in a few hysterical tears from the Duchess,
some bad language from Mother Shipton, and a Par-
thian volley of expletives from Uncle Billy. The

192 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

philosophic Oakhurst alone remained silent. He
listened calmly to Mother Shipton's desire to cut some-
body's heart out, to the repeated statements of the
Duchess that she would die in the road, and to the
alarming oaths that seemed to be bumped out of Uncle
Billy as he rode forward. With the easy good-humour
characteristic of his class, he insisted upon exchanging
his own riding-horse, ' Five Spot,' for the sorry mule
which the Duchess rode. But even this act did not
draw the party into any closer sympathy. The young
woman readjusted her somewhat draggled plumes with
a feeble, faded coquetry ; Mother Shipton eyed the -
possessor of ' Five Spot ' with malevolence ; and Uncle
Billy included the whole party in one sweeping
anathema.

The road to Sandy Bar — a camp that, not having as
yet experienced the regenerating influences of Poker
Flat, consequently seemed to offer some invitation to
the emigrants — lay over a steep mountain range. It
was distant a day's severe travel. In that advanced
season, the party soon passed out of the moist, tem-
perate regions of the foot-hills into the dry, cold, bracing
air of the Sierras. The trail was narrow and difficult.
At noon the Duchess, rolling out of her saddle upon the
ground, declared her intention of going no farther, and
the party halted.

The spot was singularly wild and impressive. A
wooded amphitheatre, surrounded on three sides by
precipitous cliffs of naked granite, sloped gently toward
the crest of another precipice that overlooked the valley.
It was, undoubtedly, the most suitable spot for a camp,
had camping been advisable. But Mr. Oakhurst knew
that scarcely half the journey to Sandy Bar was accom-
plished, and the party were not equipped or provisioned
for delay. This fact he pointed out to his companions
curtly, with a philosophic commentary on the folly of
' throwing up their hand before the game was played
out.' But they were furnished with liquor, which in

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 193

this emergency stood them in place of food, fuel, rest,
and prescience. In spite of his remonstrances, it was
not long before they were more or less under its
influence. Uncle Billy passed rapidly from a bellicose
state into one of stupor, the Duchess became maudlin,
and Mother Shipton snored. Mr. Oakhurst alone
remained erect, leaning against a rock, calmly surveying
them.

Mr. Oakhurst did not drink. It interfered with a
profession which required coolness, impassiveness, and
presence of mind, and, in his own language, he ' couldn't
afford it.' As he gazed at his recumbent fellow- exiles,
the loneliness begotten of his pariah -trade, his habits of
life, his very vices, for the first time seriously oppressed
him. He bestirred himself in dusting his black clothes,
washing his hands and face, and other acts character-
istic of his studiously neat habits, and for a moment
forgot his annoyance. The thought of deserting his
weaker and more pitiable companions never perhaps
occurred to him. Yet he could not help feeling the
want of that excitement which, singularly enough, was
most conducive to that calm equanimity for which he
was notorious. He looked at the gloomy walls that
rose a thousand feet sheer above the circling pines
around him ; at the sky, ominously clouded ; at the
valley below, already deepening into shadow. And,
doing so, suddenly he heard his own name called.

A horseman slowly ascended the trail. In the fresh,
open face of the new-comer Mr. Oakhurst recognized
Tom Simson, otherwise known as ' The Innocent ' of
Sandy Bar. He had met him some months before over
a l little game,' and had, with perfect equanimity, won
the entire fortune — amounting to some forty dollars —
of that guileless youth. After the game was finished,
Mr. Oakhurst drew the youthful speculator behind the
door, and thus addressed him : ' Tommy, you're a good
little man, but you can't gamble worth a cent. Don't
try it over again,' He then handed him his money

228 H

194 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

back, pushed him gently from the room, and so made
a devoted slave of Tom Simson.

There was a remembrance of this in his boyish and
enthusiastic greeting of Mr. Oakhurst. He had started,
he said, to go to Poker Flat to seek his fortune. ' Alone ? '
No, not exactly alone ; in fact (a giggle), he had run
away with Piney Woods. Didn't Mr. Oakhurst remem-
ber Piney ? She that used to wait on the table at the
Temperance House ? They had been engaged a long
time, but old Jake Woods had objected, and so they
had run away, and were going to Poker Flat to be
married, and here they were. And they were tired out,
and how lucky it was they had found a place to camp
and company ! All this the Innocent delivered rapidly,
while Piney, a stout, comely damsel of fifteen, emerged
from behind the pine-tree, where she had been blushing
unseen, and rode to the side of her lover.

Mr. Oakhurst seldom troubled himself with senti-
ment, still less with propriety ; but he had a vague
idea that the situation was not fortunate. He retained,
however, his presence of mind sufficiently to kick Uncle
Billy, who was about to say something, and Uncle
Billy was sober enough to recognize in Mr. Oakhurst "s
kick a superior power that would not bear trifling. He
then endeavoured to dissuade Tom Simson from delay-
ing further, but in vain. He even pointed out the fact
that there was no provision, nor means of making a
camp. But, unluckily, the Innocent met this objection
by assuring the party that he was provided with an
extra mule loaded with provisions, and by the discovery
of a rude attempt at a log-house near the trail. ' Piney
can stay with Mrs. Oakhurst,' said the Innocent, point-
ing to the Duchess, * and I can shift for myself.'

Nothing but Mr. Oakhurst's admonishing foot saved
Uncle Billy from bursting into a roar of laughter. As it
was, he felt compelled to retire up the canon until he
could recover his gravity. There he confided the joke
to the tall pine-trees, with many slaps of his leg, con-

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 195

tortions of his face, and the usual profanity. But
when he returned to the party, he found them seated
by a fire — for the air had grown strangely chill and the
sky overcast^-in apparently amicable conversation.
Piney was actually talking in an impulsive, girlish
fashion to the Duchess, who was listening with an
interest and animation she had not shown for many
days. The Innocent was holding forth, apparently
with equal effect, to Mr. Oakhurst and Mother Shipton,
who was actually relaxing into amiability. ' Is this
yer a d — d picnic ? ' said Uncle Billy, with inward scorn,
as he surveyed the sylvan group, the glancing firelight,
and the tethered animals in the foreground. Suddenly
an idea mingled with the alcoholic fumes that disturbed
his brain. It was apparently of a jocular nature, for he
felt impelled to slap his leg again and cram his fist into
his mouth.

As the shadows crept slowly up the mountain, a
slight breeze rocked the tops of the pine-trees, and
moaned through their long and gloomy aisles. The
ruined cabin, patched and covered with pine-boughs,
was set apart for the ladies. As the lovers parted, they
unaffectedly exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere
that it might have been heard above the swaying pines.
The frail Duchess and the malevolent Mother Shipton
were probably too stunned to remark upon this last
evidence of simplicity, and so turned without a word
to the hut. The fire was replenished, the men lay down
before the door, and in a few minutes were asleep.

Mr. Oakhurst was a light sleeper. Toward morning
he awoke benumbed and cold. As he stirred the dying
fire, the wind, which was now blowing strongly, brought
to his cheek that which caused the blood to leave it, —
snow !

He started to his feet with the intention of awakening
the sleepers, for there was no time to lose. But turning
to where Uncle Billy had been lying, he found him gone.
A suspicion leaped to his brain and a curse to his lips,

196 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

He ran to the spot where the mules had been tethered ;
they were no longer there. The tracks were already
rapidly disappearing in the snow.

The momentary excitement brought Mr. Oakhurst
back to the fire with his usual calm. He did not waken
the sleepers. The Innocent slumbered peacefully,
with a smile on his good-humoured, freckled face ; the
virgin Piney slept beside her frailer sisters as sweetly
as though attended by celestial guardians, and Mr.
Oakhurst, drawing his blanket over his shoulders,
stroked his moustaches and waited for the dawn. It
came slowly in a whirling mist of snow-flakes, that
dazzled and confused the eye. What could be seen of
the landscape appeared magically changed. He looked
over the valley, and summed up the present and future
in two words — ' snowed in ! '

A careful inventory of the provisions, which, fortun-
ately for the party, had been stored within the hut, and
so escaped the felonious fingers of Uncle Billy, disclosed
the fact that with care and prudence they might last
ten days longer. ' That is,' said Mr. Oakhurst, sotto
voce to the Innocent, ' if you're willing to board us. If
you ain't — and perhaps you'd better not — you can
wait till Uncle Billy gets back with provisions.' For
some occult reason, Mr. Oakhurst could not bring
himself to disclose Uncle Billy's rascality, and so
offered the hypothesis that he had wandered from the
camp and had accidentally stampeded the animals.
He dropped a warning to the Duchess and Mother Ship-
ton, who of course knew the facts of their associate's
defection. ' They'll find out the truth about us all
when they find out anything,' he added, significantly,
4 and there's no good frightening them now.'

Tom Simson not only put all his worldly store at the
disposal of Mr. Oakhurst, but seemed to enjoy the pros-
pect of their enforced seclusion. ' We'll have a good
camp for a week, and then the snow'll melt, and we'll
all go back together.' The cheerful gaiety of the young

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 197

man and Mr. Oakhurst's calm infected the others.
The Innocent, with the aid of pine-boughs, extempor-
ized a thatch for the roofless cabin, and the Duchess
directed Piney in the rearrangement of the interior
with a taste and tact that opened the blue eyes of that
provincial maiden to their fullest extent. ' I reckon
now you're used to fine things at Poker Flat,' said Piney.
The Duchess turned away sharply to conceal something
that reddened her cheeks through their professional tint,
and Mother Shipton requested Piney not to ' chatter.'
But when Mr. Oakhurst returned from a weary search
for the trail, he heard the sound of happy laughter
echoed from the rocks. He stopped in some alarm,
and his thoughts first naturally reverted to the whisky,
which he had prudently cached. ' And yet it don't
somehow sound like whisky,' said the gambler. It was
not until he caught sight of the blazing fire through
the still blinding storm and the group around it, that he
settled to the conviction that it was ' square fun.'

Whether Mr. Oakhurst had cached his cards with the
whisky as something debarred the free access of the
community, I cannot say. It was certain that, in
Mother Shipton' s words, he ' didn't say cards once '
during that evening. Haply the time was beguiled by
an accordion, produced somewhat ostentatiously by
Tom Simson from his pack. Notwithstanding some
difficulties attending the manipulation of this instru-
ment, Piney Woods managed to pluck several reluctant
melodies from its keys, to an accompaniment by the
Innocent on a pair of bone castanets. But the crowning
festivity of the evening was reached in a rude camp-
meeting hymn, which the lovers, joining hands, sang
with great earnestness and vociferation. I fear that a
certain defiant tone and Covenanter's swing to its chorus,
rather than any devotional quality, caused it speedily
to infect the others, who at last joined in the refrain : — •

' I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army.'

198 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

The pines rocked, the storm eddied and whirled
above the miserable group, and the flames of their altar
leaped heavenward, as if in token of the vow.

At midnight the storm abated, the rolling clouds
parted, and the stars glittered keenly above the sleeping
camp. Mr. Oakhurst, whose professional habits had en-
abled him to live on the smallest possible amount of
sleep, in dividing the watch with Tom Simson, somehow
managed to take upon himself the greater part of that
duty. He excused himself to the Innocent by saying
that he had * often been a week without sleep.' ' Doing
what ? ' asked Tom. ' Poker ! ' replied Oakhurst,
sententiously ; ' when a man gets a streak of luck —
nigger-luck — he don't get tired. The luck gives in first.
Luck,' continued the gambler, reflectively, ' is a mighty
queer thing. All you know about it for certain is
that it's bound to change. And it's finding out when
it's going to change that makes you. We've had a
streak of bad luck since we left Poker Flat — you come
along, and slap you get into it, too. If you can hold
your cards right along you're all right. For,' added
the gambler, with cheerful irrelevance —

' " I'm proud to live in the service of the Lord,
And I'm bound to die in His army." '

The third day came, and the sun, looking through
the white-curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide
their slowly decreasing store of provisions for the
morning meal. It was one of the peculiarities of that
mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly warmth
over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commisera-
tion of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow
piled high around the hut — a hopeless, uncharted,
trackless sea of white lying below the rocky shores to
which the castaways still clung. Through the marvel-
lously clear air the smoke of the pastoral village of
Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it,
and from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness,

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 199

hurled in that direction a final malediction. It was her
last vituperative attempt, and perhaps for that reason
was invested with a certain degree of sublimity. It
did her good, she privately informed the Duchess.
' Just you go out there and cuss, and see.' She then
set herself to the task of amusing ' the child,' as she and
the Duchess were pleased to call Piney. Piney was
no chicken, but it was a soothing and original theory
of the pair thus to account for the fact that she didn't
swear and wasn't improper.

When night crept up again through the gorges, the
reedy notes of the accordion rose and fell in fitful
spasms and long-drawn gasps by the nickering camp-
fire. But music failed to fill entirely the aching void
left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was
proposed by Piney — story-telling. Neither Mr. Oak-
hurst nor his female companions caring to relate their
personal experiences, this plan would have failed, too,
but for the Innocent. Some months before he had
chanced upon a stray copy of Mr. Pope's ingenious
translation of the Iliad. He now proposed to narrate
the principal incidents of that poem — having
thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten
the words — in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar.
And so for the rest of that night the Homeric demi-
gods again walked the earth. Trojan bully and wily
Greek wrestled in the winds, and the great pines in the
canon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of Peleus.
Mr. Oakhurst listened with quiet satisfaction. Most
especially was he interested in the fate of ' Ash-heels,'
as the Innocent persisted in denominating the ' swift-
footed Achilles.'

So with small food and much of Homer and the
accordion, a week passed over the heads of the outcasts.
The sun again forsook them, and again from leaden
skies the snowflakes were sifted over the land. Day by
day closer around them drew the snowy circle, until at
last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of

200 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

dazzling white, that towered twenty feet above their
heads. It became more and more difficult to replenish
their fires, even from the fallen trees beside them, now
half hidden in the drifts. And yet no one complained.
The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and looked
into each other's eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst
settled himself coolly to the losing game before him.
The Duchess, more cheerful than she had been, assumed
the care of Piney. Only Mother Shipton — once the
strongest of the party — seemed to sicken and fade.
At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to
her side. ' I'm going,' she said, in a voice of querulous
weakness, ' but don't say anything about it. Don't
waken the kids. Take the bundle from under my head
and open it.' Mr. Oakhurst did so. It contained
Mother Shipton's rations for the last week, untouched.

* Give 'em to the child,' she said, pointing to the sleeping
Piney. ' You've starved yourself,' said the gambler.

* That's what they call it,' said the woman, querulously,
as she lay down again, and, turning her face to the wall,
passed quietly away.

The accordion and the bones were put aside that day,
and Homer was forgotten. When the body of Mother
Shipton had been committed to the snow, Mr. Oakhurst
took the Innocent aside, and showed him a pair of snow-
shoes, which he had fashioned from the old pack-saddle.
' There's one chance in a hundred to save her yet,' he
said, pointing to Piney ; ' but it's there,' he added,
pointing towards Poker Flat. ' If you can reach there
in two days she's safe.' ' And you ? ' asked Tom
Simson. ' I'll stay here,' was the curt reply.

The lovers parted with a long embrace. * You are
not going, too ? ' said the Duchess, as she saw Mr. Oak-
hurst apparently waiting to accompany him. ' As
far as the canon,' he replied. He turned suddenly,
and kissed the Duchess, leaving her pallid face aflame,
and her trembling limbs rigid with amazement.

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the

THE OUTCASTS OF POKER FLAT 201

storm again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess,
feeding the fire, found that someone had quietly piled
beside the hut enough fuel to last a few days longer.
The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid them from Piney.

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking
into each other's faces, they read their fate. Neither
spoke ; but Piney, accepting the position of the
stronger, drew near and placed her arm around the
Duchess's waist. They kept this attitude for the rest
of the day. That night the storm reached its greatest
fury, and, rending asunder the protecting pines,
invaded the very hut.

Toward morning they found themselves unable to
feed the fire, which gradually died away. As the
embers slowly blackened, the Duchess crept closer to
Piney, and broke the silence of many hours : ' Piney,
can you pray ? ' ' No, dear,' said Piney, simply. The
Duchess, without knowing exactly why, felt relieved,
and, putting her head upon Piney's shoulder, spoke no
more. And so reclining, the younger and purer
pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin
breast, they fell asleep.

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken them.
Feathery drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine-
boughs, flew like white-winged birds, and settled about
them as they slept. The moon through the rifted
clouds looked down upon what had been the camp.
But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was
hidden beneath the spotless mantle mercifully flung
from above.

They slept all that day and the next, nor did they
waken when voices and footsteps broke the silence of
the camp. And when pitying fingers brushed the snow
from their wan faces, you could scarcely have told, from
the equal peace that dwelt upon them, which was she
that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat recog-
nized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked
in each other's arms.

202 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

But at the head of the gulch, on one of the largest
pine-trees, they found the deuce of clubs pinned to the
bark with a bowie-knife. It bore the following, written
in pencil, in a firm hand :

t

BENEATH THIS TREE

LIES THE BODY

OF

JOHN OAKHURST,

WHO STRUCK A STREAK OF BAD LUCK
ON THE 23RD OF NOVEMBER, 1850,

AND

HANDED IN HIS CHECKS
ON THE 7TH DECEMBER, 1850.

And pulseless and cold, with a Derringer by his side and
a bullet in his heart, though still calm as in life, beneath
the snow lay he who was at once the strongest and yet
the weakest of the outcasts of Poker Flat.

HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME TO SIMPSON'S BAR

IT had been raining in the valley of the Sacramento.
The North Fork had overflowed its banks, and Rattle-
snake Creek was impassable. The few boulders that had
marked the summer ford at Simpson's Crossing were
obliterated by a vast sheet of water stretching to the
foothills. The up-stage was stopped at Grangers ;
the last mail had been abandoned in the tules, the rider
swimming for his life. ' An area,' remarked the Sierra
Avalanche, with pensive local pride, ' as large as the
State of Massachusetts is now under water.'

HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME 203

Nor was the weather any better in the foothills.
The mud lay deep on the mountain road ; wagons that
neither physical force nor moral objurgation could
move from the evil ways into which they had fallen,
encumbered the track, and the way to Simpson's Bar
was indicated by broken-down teams and hard swearing.
And farther on, cut off and inaccessible, rained upon
and bedraggled, smitten by high winds and threatened
by high water, Simpson's Bar, on the eve of Christmas
Day, 1862, clung like a swallow's nest to the rocky
entablature and splintered capitals of Table Mountain,
and shook in the blast.

As night shut down on the settlement, a few lights
gleamed through the mist from the windows of cabins
on either side of the highway now crossed and gullied
by lawless streams and swept by marauding winds.
Happily most of the population were gathered at
Thompson's store, clustered round a red-hot stove, at
which they silently spat in some accepted sense of
social communion that perhaps rendered conversation
unnecessary. Indeed, most methods of diversion had
long since been exhausted on Simpson's Bar ; high water
had suspended the regular occupations on gulch and on
river, and a consequent lack of money and whisky had
taken the zest from most illegitimate recreation. Even
Mr. Hamlin was fain to leave the Bar with fifty dollars
in his pocket — the only amount actually realized of the
large sums won by him in the successful exercise of his
arduous profession. ' Ef I was asked,' he remarked
somewhat later, — ' ef I was asked to pint out a purty
little village where a retired sport as didn't care for
money could exercise hisself , frequent and lively, I'd say
Simpson's Bar ; but for a young man with a large family
depending on his exertions, it don't pay.' As Mr. Ham-
lin's family consisted mainly of female adults, this remark
is quoted rather to show the breadth of his humour than
the exact extent of his responsibilities.

Howbeit, the unconscious objects of this satire sat

204 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

that evening in the listless apathy begotten of idleness
and lack of excitement. Even the sudden splashing
of hoofs before the door did not arouse them. Dick
Bullen alone paused in the act of scraping out his pipe,
and lifted his head, but no other one of the group
indicated any interest in, or recognition of, the man
who entered.

It was a figure familiar enough to the company, and
known in Simpson's Bar as ' The Old Man.' A man of
perhaps fifty years ; grizzled and scant of hair, but
still fresh and youthful of complexion. A face full
of ready but not very powerful sympathy, with a
chameleon-like aptitude for taking on the shade and
colour of contiguous moods and feelings. He had evi-
dently just left some hilarious companions, and did not
at first notice the gravity of the group, but clapped the
shoulder of the nearest man jocularly, and threw
himself into a vacant chair.

' Jest heard the best thing out, boys ! Ye know
Smiley, over yar — Jim Smiley — funniest man in the
Bar ? Well, Jim was jest telling the richest yarn
about •'

* Smiley' s a fool,' interrupted a gloomy voice.

1 A particular skunk,' added another in sepul-
chral accents.

A silence followed these positive statements. The
Old Man glanced quickly around the group. Then his
face slowly changed. ' That's so,' he said reflectively,
after a pause, ' certingly a sort of a skunk and suthin'
of a fool. In course.' He was silent for a moment as
in painful contemplation of the unsavouriness and folly
of the unpopular Smiley. ' Dismal weather, ain't it ? '
he added, now fully embarked on the current of pre-
vailing sentiment. ' Mighty rough papers on the boys,
and no show for money this season. And to-morrow's
Christmas.'

There was a movement among the men at this an-
nouncement, but whether of satisfaction or disgust was

HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME 205

not plain. ' Yes,' continued the Old Man in the lugubri-
ous tone he had, within the last few moments, uncon-
sciously adopted,—' yes , Christmas , and to-night' s Christ-
masEve. Ye see, boys, I kinderthought — thatis,! sorter
had an idee, jest passin' like, you know — that maybe
ye'd all like to come over to my house to-night and
have a sort of tear round. But I suppose, now, you
wouldn't ? Don't feel like it, maybe ? ' he added with
anxious sympathy, peering into the faces of his com-
pardons.

' Well, I don't know,' responded Tom Flynn with
some cheerfulness. ' P'r'aps we may. But how about
your wife, Old Man .? What does she say to it ? '

The Old Man hesitated. His conjugal experience
had not been a happy one, and the fact was known to
Simpson's Bar. His first wife, a delicate, pretty little
woman, had suffered keenly and secretly from the
jealous suspicions of her husband, until one day he
invited the whole Bar to his house to expose her
infidelity. On arriving, the party found the shy, petite
creature quietly engaged in her household duties, and
retired abashed and discomfited. But the sensitive
woman did not easily recover from the shock of this
extraordinary outrage. It was with difficulty she
regained her equanimity sufficiently to release her lover
from the closet in which he was concealed, and escape
with him. She left a boy of three years to comfort her
bereaved husband. The Old Man's present wife had
been his cook. She was large, loyal, and aggressive.

Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with
great directness that it was the ' Old Man's house,' and
that, invoking the Divine Power, if the case were his
own, he would invite whom he pleased, even if in so
doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil,
he further remarked, should contend against him
vainly. All this delivered with a terseness and vigour
lost in this necessary translation.

' In course. Certainly. Thet's it,' said the Old

206 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

Man with a sympathetic frown. * Thar's no trouble
about thet. It's my own house, built every stick on it
myself. Don't you be afeard o' her, boys. She may
cut up a trifle rough — ez wimmin do — but she'll come
round.' Secretly the Old Man trusted to the exaltation
of liquor and the power of courageous example to
sustain him in such an emergency.

As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simp-
son's Bar, had not spoken. He now took his pipe from
his lips. ' Old Man, how's that yer Johnny gettin' on ?
Seems to me he didn't look so peart last time I seed him
on the bluff heavin' rocks at Chinamen. Didn't seem
to take much interest in it. Thar was a gang of 'em
by yar yesterday — drownded out up the river — and
I kinder thought o' Johnny, and how he'd miss ?em !
Maybe now, we'd be in the way ef he wus sick ? '

The father, evidently touched not only by this
pathetic picture of Johnny's deprivation, but by the
considerate delicacy of the speaker, hastened to assure
him that Johnny was better and that a ' little fun
might 'liven him up.' Whereupon Dick arose, shook
himself, and saying, ' I'm ready. Lead the way, Old
Man : here goes,' himself led the way with a leap, a
characteristic howl, and darted out into the night. As
he passed through the outer room he caught up a blaz-
ing brand from the hearth. The action was repeated
by the rest of the party, closely following and elbowing
each other, and before the astonished proprietor of
Thompson's grocery was aware of the intention of his
guests, the room was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind
their temporary torches were extinguished, and only
the red brands dancing and flitting in the gloom like
drunken will-o'-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.
Their way led up Pine-Tree Canon, at the head of which
a broad, low, bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the
mountain-side. It was the home of the Old Man, and
the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked when

HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME . 207

he worked at all. Here the crowd paused for a moment,
out of delicate deference to their host, who came up
panting in the rear.

' P'r'aps ye'd better hold on a second out yer, whilst
I go in and see that things is all right/ said the Old Man,
with an indifference he was far from feeling. The
suggestion was graciously accepted, the door opened
and closed on the host, and the crowd, leaning their
backs against the wall and cowering under the eaves,
waited and listened.

For a few moments there was no sound but the
dripping of water from the eaves, and the stir and
rustle of wrestling boughs above them. Then the
men became uneasy, and whispered suggestion and
suspicion passed from the one to the other. ' Reckon
she's caved in his head the first lick ! ' ' Decoyed him
inter the tunnel and barred him up, likely.' ' Got
him down and sittin' on him.' ' Prob'ly biling suthin'
to heave on us : stand clear the door, boys ! ' For
just then the latch clicked, the door slowly opened,
and a voice said, ' Come in out o' the wet.'

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of
his wife. It was the voice of a small boy, its weak
treble broken by that preternatural hoarseness which
only vagabondage and the habit of premature self-
assertion can give. It was the face of a small boy
that looked up at theirs, — a face that might have been
pretty, and even refined, but that it was darkened by
evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard experi-
ence from without. He had a blanket around his
shoulders, and had evidently just risen from his bed.
1 Come in,' he repeated, ' and don't make no noise.
The Old Man's in there talking to mar,' he continued,
pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a
kitchen, from which the Old Man's voice came in
deprecating accents. ' Let me be,' he added queru-
lously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up,
blanket and all, and was affecting to toss him into

208 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

the fire, ' let go o' me, you d — d old fool, d'ye
hear ? '

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the
ground with a smothered laugh, while the men, enter-
ing quietly, ranged themselves around a long table of
rough boards which occupied the centre of the room.
Johnny then gravely proceeded to a cupboard and
brought out several articles, which he deposited on
the table. ' Thar's whisky. And crackers. And red
herons. And cheese.' He took a bite of the latter
on his way to the table. ' And sugar.' He scooped
up a mouthful en route with a small and very dirty
hand. ' And ter backer. Thar's dried appils too on
the shelf, but I don't admire 'em. Appils is swellin'.
Thar,' he concluded, ' now wade in, and don't be
afeard. / don't mind the old woman. She don't
b'long to me. S'long.'

He had stepped to the threshold of a small room,
scarcely larger than a closet, partitioned off from the
main apartment, and holding in its dim recess a small
bed. He stood there a moment looking at the company,
his bare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.

' Hello, Johnny ! You ain't goin' to turn in agin,
are ye ? ' said Dick.

' Yes, I are,' responded Johnny decidedly.

' Why, wot's up, old fellow ? '

1 I'm sick.'

' How sick ? '

' I've got a fevier. And childblains. And rooma-
tiz,' returned Johnny, and vanished within. After a
moment's pause, he added in the dark, apparently from
under the bed-clothes, — ' And biles ! '

There was an embarrassing silence. The men
looked at each other and at the fire. Even with the
appetizing banquet before them, it seemed as if they
might again fall into the despondency^of Thompson's
grocery, when the voice of the Old Man, incautiously
lifted, came deprecatingly from the kitchen*

HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME 209

' Certainly ! Thet's so. In course they is. A gang
o' lazy, drunken loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen's the
ornariest of all. Didn't hev no more sabe than to
come round yar with sickness in the house and no
provision. Thet's what I said : " Bullen," sez I, " it's
crazy drunk you^are, or a fool," sez I, "to think o'
such a thing.'* " Staples," I sez, " be you a man,
Staples, and 'spect to raise h — 11 under my roof and
invalids lyin' round ? " But they would come, —
they would. Thet's wot you must 'spect o' such
trash as lays round the Bar.'

A burst of laughter from the men followed this
unfortunate exposure. Whether it was overheard in
the kitchen, or whether the Old Man's irate companion
had just then exhausted all other modes of expressing
her contemptuous indignation, I cannot say, but a
back door was suddenly slammed with great violence.
A moment later and the Old Man reappeared, haply
unconscious of the cause of the late hilarious outburst,
and smiled blandly.

' The old woman thought she'd jest run over to
Mrs. McFadden's for a sociable call,' he explained, with
jaunty indifference, as he took a seat at the board.

Oddly enough it needed this untoward incident to
relieve the embarrassment that was beginning to be
felt by the party, and their natural audacity returned
with their host. I do not propose to record the con-
vivialities of that evening. The inquisitive reader
will accept the statement that the conversation was
characterized by the same intellectual exaltation, the
same cautious reverence, the same fastidious delicacy,
the same rhetorical precision, and the same logical
and coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening,
which distinguish similar gatherings of the masculine
sex in more civilized localities and under more favour-
able auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence
of any ; no liquor was uselessly spilt on the floor or
table in the scarcity of that article.

210 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

It was nearly midnight when the festivities were
interrupted. ' Hush,' said Dick Bullen, holding up
his hand. It was the querulous voice of Johnny from
his adjacent closet : 4 Oh, dad ! '

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the
closet. Presently he reappeared. *His rheurnatiz is
coming on agin bad,' he explained, * and he wants
rubbinV He lifted the demijohn of whisky from the
table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put
down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did
the others. The Old Man examined their contents
and said hopefully, ' I reckon that's enough ; he don't
need much. You hold on all o' you for a spell, and
I'll be back ' ; and vanished in the closet with an old
flannel shirt and the whisky. The door closed but
imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly
audible : —

4 Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst ? '

' Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer ;
but it's most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer,
dad.'

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then
Johnny :

' Hevin' a good time out yer, dad ? '

* Yes, sonny.'

1 To-morrer's Chrismiss, — ain't it ? '

' Yes, sonny. How does she feel now ? '

' Better. Rub a little furder down. Wot's Chris-
miss, anyway ? Wot's it all about ? '

' Oh, it's a day.'

This exhaustive definition was apparently satis-
factory, for there was a silent interval of rubbing.
Presently Johnny again :

' Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody
gives things to everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist
waded inter you. She sez thar's a man they call
Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind
o' Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore

HOW SANTA GLAUS CAME 211

Chrismiss and gives things to chillern, — boys like me.
Puts 'em in their butes ! Thet's what she tried to
play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rabbin'
to, — thet's a mile from the place. She jest made that
up, didn't she. jest to aggrewate me and you ? Don't
rub thar Why, dad ! '

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon
the house the sigh of the near pines and the drip of
leaves without was very distinct. Johnny's voice,
too, was lowered as he went on, ' Don't you take on
now, fur I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys
doin' out thar ? ' •

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered
through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough,
but there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin
purse on the table. ' Bettin' on suthin' — some little
game or 'nother. They're all right,' he replied to
.Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.

* I'd like to take a hand and win some money,' said
Johnny reflectively after a pause.

The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a
familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he
struck it rich in the tunnel he'd have lots of money,
etc., etc.

' Yes,' said Johnny, ' but you don't. And whether
you strike it or I win it, it's about the same. It's all
luck. But it's mighty cur'o's about Chrismiss — ain't
it ? Why do they call it Chrismiss ? '

Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the
overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of
incongruity, the Old Man's reply was so low as to be
inaudible beyond the room.

' Yes,' said Johnny, with some slight abatement of
interest, ' I've heerd o' him before. Thar, that'll do,
dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did. Now wrap
me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now/ he added in a
muffled whisper, ' sit down yer by me till I go asleep.9
To assure himself of obedience, he disengaged one

212 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

hand from the blanket and, grasping his father's
sleeve, again composed himself to rest.

For some moments the Old Man waited patiently.
Then the unwonted stillness of the house excited his
x curiosity, and without moving from the bed he cau-
tiously opened the door with his disengaged hand,
and looked into the main room. To his infinite sur-
prise it was dark and deserted. But even then a
smouldering log on the hearth broke, and by the up-
springing blaze he saw the figure of Dick Bullen sitting
by the dying embers.

< Hello ! '

Dick started, rose, and came somewhat unsteadily
toward him.

' Whar's the boys ? ' said the Old Man.

' Gone up the canon on a little pasear. They're
coming back for me in a minit. I'm waitin' round for
'em. What are you starin' at, Old Man ? ' he added
with a forced laugh ; ' do you think I'm drunk ? '

The Old Man might have been pardoned the sup-
position, for Dick's eyes were humid and his face
flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the chimney,
yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and
laughed. ' Liquor ain't so plenty as that, Old Man.
Now don't you git up,5 he continued, as the Old Man
made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny's
hand. ' Don't you mind manners. Sit jest whar you
be ; I'm goin' in a jiffy. Thar, that's them now.'

There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen
opened it quickly, nodded ' Good night ' to his host,
and disappeared. The Old Man would have followed
him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped
his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it ; it
was small, weak, and emaciated. But perhaps be-
cause it was small, weak, and emaciated, he changed
his mind, and, drawing his chair closer to the bed,
rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude
the potency of his earlier pDtations surprised him.

. HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME 213

The room flickered and faded before his eyes, re-
appeared, faded again, went out, and left him — asleep.

Meantime Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted
his companions. ' Are you ready ? ' said Staples.
4 Ready,' said Dick ; ' what's the time ? ' ' Past
twelve/ was the reply ; * can you make it ? — it's nigh
on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon.' ' I
reckon,' returned Dick shortly. ' Whar's the mare ? '
4 Bill and Jack's holdin' her at the crossin'.' ' Let 'em
hold on a minit longer,' said Dick.

He turned and re-entered the house softly. By the
light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that
the door of the little room was open. He stepped
toAvard it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had
fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet
thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and
his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow
wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a
blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a
few curls damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made
a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoul-
der into the deserted room. Everything was quiet.
With a sudden resolution he parted his huge mous-
taches with both hands and stooped over the sleeping
boy. But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying
in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindled the
hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless glow from
which Dick fled in bashful terror.

His companions were already waiting for him at the
crossing. Two of them were struggling in the dark-
ness with some strange misshapen bulk, which as
Dick came nearer took the semblance of a great yellow
horse.

It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture.
From her Roman nose to her rising haunches, from
her arched spine hidden by the stiff mactiillas of a
Mexican saddle, to her thick, straight, bony legs, there
was not a line of equine grace. In her "half -blind but

214 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

wholly vicious white eyes, in her protruding under-
lip, in her monstrous colour, there was nothing but
ugliness and vice.

' Now then,' said Staples, ' stand cl'ar of her heels,
boys, and up with you. Don't miss your first hold of
her mane, and mind ye get your off stirrup quick.
Ready ! '

There was a leap, a scrambling struggle, a bound,
a wild retreat of the crowd, a circle of flying hoofs,
two springless leaps that jarred the earth, a rapid play
and jingle of spurs, a plunge, and then the voice of
Dick somewhere in the darkness, ' All right ! '

' Don't take the lower road back onless you're hard
pushed for time ! Don't hold her in down hill. We'll
be at the ford at five. G'lang ! Hoopa ! Mula !
GO!'

A splash, a spark struck from the ledge in the road,
a clatter in the rocky cut beyond, and Dick was gone.

Sing, 0 Muse, the ride of Richard Bullen ! Sing,
O Muse, of chivalrous men ! the sacred quest, the
doughty deeds, the battery of low churls, the fearsome
ride and gruesome perils of the Flower of Simpson's
Bar ! Alack ! she is dainty, this Muse ! She will have
none of this bucking brute and swaggering, ragged
rider, and I must fain follow him in prose, afoot !

It was one o'clock, and yet he had only gained
Rattlesnake Hill. For in that time Jovita had re-
hearsed to him all her imperfections and practised all
her vices. Thrice had she stumbled. Twice had she
thrown up her Roman nose in a straight line with
the reins, and, resisting bit and spur, struck out madly
across country. Twice had she reared, and, rearing,
fallen backward ; and twice had the agile Dick, un-
harmed, regained his seat before she found her vicious
legs again. And a mile beyond them, at the foot of
a long hill, was Rattlesnake Creek. Dick knew that
here was the crucial test of his ability to perform his

HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME 215

enterprise, set his teeth grimly, put -his knees well
into her flanks, and changed his defensive tactics to
brisk aggression. Bullied and maddened, Jovita
began the descent of the hill. Here the artful Richard
pretended to hold her in with ostentatious objurga-
tion and well-feigned cries of alarm. It is unneces-
sary to add that Jovita instantly ran away. Nor
need I state the time made in the descent ; it is
written in the chronicles of Simpson's Bar. Enough
that in another moment, as it seemed to Dick, she
was splashing on the overflowed banks of Rattlesnake
Creek. As Dick expected, the momentum she had
acquired carried her beyond the point of balking, and,
holding her well together for a mighty leap, they
dashed into the middle of the swiftly flowing current.
A few moments of kicking, wading, and swimming,
and Dick drew a long breath on the opposite bank.

The road from Rattlesnake Creek to Red Mountain
was tolerably level. Either the plunge in Rattlesnake
Creek had dampened her baleful fire, or the art which
led to it had shown her the superior wickedness of
her rider, for Jovita no longer wasted her surplus
energy in wanton conceits. Once she bucked, but it
was from force of habit ; once she shied, but it was
from a new, freshly-painted meeting-house at the
crossing of the county road. Hollows, ditches, gravelly
deposits, patches of freshly -springing grasses, flew from
beneath her rattling hoofs. She began to smell un-
pleasantly, once or twice she coughed slightly, but
there was no abatement of her strength or speed. By
two o'clock he had passed Red Mountain and begun
the descent to the plain. Ten minutes later the driver
of the fast Pioneer coach was overtaken and passed
by a ' man on a Pinto hoss,' — an event sufficiently
notable for remark. At half-past two Dick rose in his
stirrups with a great shout. Stars were glittering
through the rifted clouds, and beyond him, out of the
plain, rose two spires, a flagstaff, and a straggling line

216 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

of black objects. Dick jingled his spurs and swung
his riataj Jo vita bounded forward, and in another
moment they swept into Tuttleville, and drew up
before the wooden piazza of ' The Hotel of All Nations/

What transpired that night at Tuttleville is not
strictly a part of this record. Briefly I may state,
however, that after Jo vita had been handed over to a
sleepy ostler, whom she at once kicked into unpleasant
consciousness, Dick sallied out with the bar-keeper
for a tour of the sleeping town. Lights still gleamed
from a few saloons and gambling- houses ; but, avoid-
ing these, they stopped before several closed shops,
and by persistent tapping and judicious outcry roused
the proprietors from their beds, and made them
unbar the doors of their magazines and expose their
wares. Sometimes they were met by curses, but
oftener by interest and some concern in their needs,
and the interview was invariably concluded by a
drink. It was three o'clock before this pleasantry
was given over, and with a small waterproof bag of
indiarubber strapped on his shoulders Dick returned
to the hotel. But here he was waylaid by Beauty,—
Beauty opulent in charms, affluent in dress, persuasive
in speech, and Spanish in accent ! In vain she re-
peated the invitation in ' Excelsior,' happily scorned
by all Alpine-climbing youth, and rejected by this
child of the Sierras,— ra rejection softened in this in-
stance by a laugh and his last gold coin. And then
he sprang to the saddle and dashed down the lonely
street and out into the lonelier plain, where presently
the lights, the black line of houses, the spires, and the
flagstaff sank into the earth behind him again and
were lost in the distance.

The storm had cleared away, the air was brisk and
cold, the outlines of adjacent landmarks were distinct,
but it was half-past four before Dick reached the
meeting-house and the crossing of the county road.
To avoid the rising grade he had taken a longer and

HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME 217

more circuitous road, in whose viscid mud Jo vita sank
fetlock deep at every bound. It was a poor prepara-
tion for a steady ascent of five miles more ; but
Jovita, gathering her legs under her, took it with her
usual blind, unreasoning fury, and a half -hour later
reached the long level that led to Rattlesnake Creek.
Another half-hour would bring him to the creek. He
threw the reins lightly upon the neck of the mare,
chirruped to her, and began to sing.

Suddenly Jovita shied with a bound that would
have unseated a less practised rider. Hanging to her
rein was a figure that had leaped from the bank, and
at the same time from the road before her arose a
shadowy horse and rider. ' Throw up your hands,'
commanded the second apparition, with an oath.

Dick felt the mare tremble, quiver, and apparently
sink under him. He knew what it meant and was
prepared.

' Stand aside, Jack Simpson. I know you, you
d — d thief ! Let me pass, or '

He did not finish the sentence. Jovita rose straight
in the air with a terrific bound, throwing the figure
from her bit with a single shake of her vicious head,
and charged with deadly malevolence down on the
impediment before her. An oath, a pistol-shot, horse
and highwayman rolled over in the road, and the next
moment Jovita was a hundred yards away. But the
good right arm of her rider, shattered by a bullet,
dropped helplessly at his side.

Without slacking his speed he shifted the reins to
his left hand. But a few moments later he was obliged
to halt and tighten the saddle-girths that had slipped
in the onset. This in his crippled condition took some
time. He had no fear of pursuit, but looking up he
saw that the eastern stars were already paling, and
that the distant peaks had lost their ghostly white-
ness, and now stood out blackly against a lighter sky.
Day was upon him. Then completely absorbed in a

218 FRANCIS BRET HARTE

single idea, he forgot the pain of his wound, and mount-
ing again dashed on toward Rattlesnake Creek. But
now Jo vita's breath came broken by gasps, Dick
reeled in his saddle, and brighter and brighter grew
the sky.

Ride, Richard ; run, Jovita ; linger, O day !

For the last few rods there was a roaring in his ears.
Was it exhaustion from loss of blood, or what ? He
was dazed and giddy as he swept down the hill, and
did not recognize his surroundings. Had he taken
the wrong road, or was this Rattlesnake Creek ?

It was. But the brawling creek he had swam a few
hours before had risen, more than doubled its volume,
and now rolled a swift and resistless river between
him and Rattlesnake Hill. For the first time that
night Richard's heart sank within him. The river,
the mountain, the quickening east, swam before his
eyes. He shut them to recover his self-control. In
that brief interval, by some fantastic mental process,
the little room at Simpson's Bar and the figures of
the sleeping father and son rose upon him. He opened
his eyes wildly, cast off his coat, pistol, boots, and
saddle, bound his precious pack tightly to his shoul-
ders, grasped the bare flanks of Jovita with his bared
knees, and with a shout dashed into the yellow water.
A cry rose from the opposite bank as the head of a
man and horse struggled for a few moments against
the battling current, and then were swept away amidst
uprooted trees and whirling driftwood.

The Old Man started and woke. The fire on the
hearth was dead, the candle in the outer room flicker-
ing in its socket, and somebody was rapping at the
door. He opened it, but fell back with a cry before
the dripping, half-naked figure that reeled against the
doorpost.

* Dick ? '

4 Hush ! Is he awake yet ? '

HOW SANTA CLAUS CAME 219

' No,— but, Dick ? '

' Dry up, you old fool ! Get me some whisky,
quick ! ' The Old Man flew and returned with — an
empty bottle ! Dick would have sworn, but his
strength was not equal to the occasion. He staggered,
caught at the handle of the door, and motioned to the
Old Man.

' Thar's suthin' in my pack yer for Johnny. Take
it off. I can't.'

The Old Man unstrapped the pack, and laid it before
the exhausted man.

' Open it, quick ! '

He did so with trembling fingers. It contained only
a few poor toys, — cheap and barbaric enough, good-
ness knows, but bright with paint and tinsel. One of
them was broken ; another, I fear, was irretrievably
ruined by water ; and on the third — ah me ! there
was a cruel spot.

* It don't look like much, that's a fact,' said Dick
ruefully. . . . ' But it's the best we could do. . . . Take
'em, Old Man, and put 'em in his stocking, and tell

him — tell him, you know — hold me, Old Man '

The Old Man caught at his sinking figure. ' Tell him,'
said Dick, with a weak little laugh, — ' tell him Sandy
Glaus has come.'

And even so, bedraggled, ragged, unshaven, and un-
shorn, with one arm hanging helplessly at his side,
Santa Glaus came to Simpson's Bar and fell fainting on
the first threshold. The Christmas dawn came slowly
after, touching the remoter peaks with the rosy
warmth of ineffable love. And it looked so tenderly
on Simpson's Bar that the whole mountain, as if
caught in a generous action, blushed to the skies.

CHARLES GRANT

1841-1889
PEPPINIELLO

IF you have ever sauntered along the Strada del
Molo at Naples, you can hardly have failed to notice
the mozzonari who gather there in greater numbers
than in any other part of the city. You frequently
catch sight of a single mozzonare in other places, it
is true — lounging on the steps of a church, it may
be, or basking in the hottest corner of a piazza ; but
here is the great centre of the trade in old cigar ends,
and here its ' merchants most do congregate ' — as
ragged, dirty, and unkempt a set of little beggar-boys
as any European city can show. Each has his stock-
in-trade spread out before him on the sheet of an old
newspaper, and carefully divided into little heaps of
eight or nine ends apiece. The lots have been care-
fully selected according to the quality of the cigars
of which they are composed, and cost one soldo each ;
for the mozzonari are almost the only Neapolitan
traders who have really fixed prices, and with whom
it is useless to bargain, though even they stoop to
human weakness in so far as to keep a general heap
from which each purchaser is allowed to select a
stump.

Perhaps you may wonder who can be found to buy
such nasty rubbish. Wait a minute or two, and you
will see.

But first fix your eyes on the boy who lounges at
the corner of the road leading down to the custom-

220

PEPPINIELLO 221

house and the landing-place. His name is Peppiniello,
and he is about twelve years old. Judging from his
face you might fancy him older, it wears in its moments
of rest so astute and self-reliant an expression ; but
if you looked at his body you would think him at
least a year or two younger, for a scanty diet has
checked his growth. Otherwise his. limbs are not
ill-formed. If you watch him while bathing in the
dirty waters of the harbour, you will be amazed at
their suppleness and activity, and also at their leanness.
He seems to consist of nothing but skin and bone.
' The wonder is,' as an Italian shopkeeper once re-
marked to me, ' that there should be so much life in
so little flesh ! ' The whole of his skin is of one
colour, a deep greyish- brown ; there is not blood
enough in the veins to lend it the warmer tint that
the Venetian painters loved. The upper part of the
face is well formed, and the eyes are very bright and
intelligent ; the mouth, however, is not only too large,
but there is a precocious trait about it of something
which generally appears to be merely humour, but at
times looks unpleasantly like cunning. Still it is, at
the worst, a quick, cheerful, not unkindly face, and
it would look far better if the hair were not shorn so
closely to the head. In dress, Peppiniello does not
greatly differ from his companions. His shirt is open
before and torn behind ; his trousers are so full of
holes that you wonder he should think it worth while
to put them on at all, particularly in a town where
their absence in a boy of his age would attract but
little attention. He is wiser than you, however, and
he knows that in Naples it is only the children who
have parents to care for them that can afford to run
about in their shirts. He does not look at the nether
article of his dress — at least during the summer months
— as a matter either of comfort or decency, but simply
as the badge of the social position he is desirous of
occupying. In the same light, too, he regards the

222 CHARLES GRANT

little round cap, of nearly the same colour as his skin,
which seems to be made of some woollen material. I
have never been daring enough to examine it closely.
It is rarely to be seen upon his head, and its chief
practical purpose seems to be to serve as an elbow
cushion.

At present Peppiniello looks idle enough. He is
stretched at full length upon the ground, watching a
game which two other boys are playing with peach-
stones, a natural substitute for marbles ; but he has a
keen eye for business, and makes more money than
any of the fraternity. This his comrades attribute to
his luck ; but it is really the result of a number of
small observations. Thus, more than a year and a
half ago he noticed that when four or rive of them sat
in a row, those at the two ends were sure to sell their
wares quickest ; for if the purchaser is in haste he
will buy of the first that he sees, and hurry on ; if he
is at leisure he will probably inspect all the piles, and,
finding them pretty much alike, he will take his tobacco
of the last, in order that he may not have to retrace
his steps. Some months passed before he made a
second discovery, namely, that the spot he now
occupies is the best for its purpose in all Naples, because
the mechanics who pass along the Strada del Molo
are generally anxious to get to or from their work as
quickly as may be, while, on the other hand, the boat-
men who return from the landing-place have usually
finished their task, and have nothing very particular
to do. As soon as he had noticed this, he made a
point of occupying the corner before any of his com-
rades were astir, and he has now almost a prescriptive
right to it. Some of his success must also be attri-
buted to his good-nature. When his wares are ex-
hausted, or there is no hope of custom, he is always
ready to run an errand for the men who are working
near. Sometimes he is rewarded by a crust, a slice of
cabbage, or a handful of fruit, and more rarely by a

PEPPINIELLO 223

centesimo or two ; but on such occasions he never
asks for anything, and those whom he serves in this
way naturally repay him by giving him their own
custom and recommending him to their friends. In
fact, he is a favourite with most of the men who are
employed in the neighbourhood ; and this is useful to
him in more ways than one.

Among Peppiniello's other observations is this —
that during the morning hours it is useless for him to
take much trouble in recommending his wares. Those
who want old cigar ends will come and buy them ;
but every one is then too busy to pay attention to
his noise and nonsense. Later in the day it will be
different — a joke may secure a customer, or a grin
and a caper draw a soldo from the pocket of some
foreign gentleman, and Peppiniello is as equal to these
as to the other requirements of his trade. But there
is a time for everything, and at present the most
brilliant display of his talents would make no impres-
sion on any one but his companions, for whose applause
he does not greatly care ; so he lies at his ease with
the happy conviction that his own stock is the finest
in this morning's market.

It consists of eleven piles, and a little heap of foreign
cigar ends, which are their possessor's great joy and
pride, though he is a little uncertain as to their exact
market value. If a sailor of luxurious tastes and
reduced means happens to pass, he will probably offer
a good price for them ; but at present the boy is not
anxious to sell, for he knows the unusual display will
attract customers for his other wares. This special
heap is the result of a daring raid into the Grand
Cafe which he made the other evening, and in which
his retreat was covered by a party of good-natured
foreigners. When he found himself in safety, and
gesticulated his thanks from the middle of the street,
they threw him a soldo or two, and one of them,
supposing that an infantile craving for the prohibited

224 CHARLES GRANT

joys of tobacco was the cause of his boldness, added
a cigar which he had only just lighted. There it lies
at the top of the sheet of paper. Peppiniello is re-
solved not to part with it for less than eight centesimi.
It must surely be worth ten, he thinks ; but, unfortu-
nately, those who are ready to pay such a price for a
cigar usually prefer to buy it in a shop.

But see, a mechanic in his working-dress pauses for
a moment, lays down two soldi, sweeps up two piles,
which he wraps in a piece of paper, and thrusts them
into his pocket as he walks on. The whole trans-
action has been the work of a few seconds, and has
not cost a single word. The next customer is of a
very different type : he is a fisherman coming up from
the landing-place to fill his morning pipe. He feels
the deepest contempt and animosity for the mechanic
on account of his calling ; but, at the same time, he
has a firm conviction that he belongs to a class which
knows how to cheat the devil, and that consequently
it is by no means unadvisable for a good, simple,
Christian fisherman to take a hint from it in worldly
matters. He has, consequently, made up his mind
as to which of the mozzonari he will patronize long
before he reaches the first of them ; but that does not
prevent him inspecting all the other papers with a
critical, irresolute air. When he reaches Peppiniello,
he looks at his wares with a new expression of marked
contempt, pauses for half a minute, and then com-
mences to gesticulate. To all his movements Pep-
piniello only replies by that slight and peculiar toss
of the head which every Neapolitan accepts as a
final refusal. In fact, they have been having an
animated discussion, although not a single word has
been spoken ; for the common people of Naples,
though ready enough with their tongues, are fond of
* conversing silently ' with each other — not exactly
as lovers are said to do, but by means of a perfect
language of signs. The fisherman has offered, first

PEPPINIELLO 225

three, and then four centesimi for a single lot, and
then nine centesimi for two. These offers have of
course been refused. He knew from the first that
they would be, for any mozzonare who was observed
to increase the size of his piles, or even suspected of
selling below the established price, would not only
lose caste, but be subjected to constant persecution
by his comrades ; but then, as a fisherman, he feels
he would be outraging every feeling of propriety if he
were to buy any article whatever without at least
attempting to cheapen it. It would almost look as if
he wished to be taken for a signore. At last, with a
sigh, he places the exact price of a single pile — which
he has all the time been holding ready — upon the
paper, and then, with a most innocent expression, he
stretches out his hand to the foreign tobacco at the
top of the sheet. He knows that is not its price, and
he does not want it, as he greatly prefers the Italian
tobacco below : he only wishes to show that he is
not quite a fool. Peppiniello gently pushes back his
hand, draws a line with his own finger between the
upper and the lower lots, and points to the latter. He
is very careful not to touch the money, as that might
lead to an unpleasant discussion with respect to the
exact amount. The fisherman now makes as if he
intended to resume it, and purchase of the next
dealer ; but, as he sees Peppiniello is still unmoved,
he takes instead the heap on which from the first his
heart has been set, seizes the largest cigar -end in the
general pile, and moves off slowly till he finds an
empty place on the coping on Avhich to seat himself.
When he feels quite comfortable, he slowly takes off
that peculiar piece of headgear, which young artists
and enthusiastic antiquaries delight to call Phrygian,
but which to the uninitiated eyes of ordinary mortals
rather suggests a cross between an overgrown night- "
cap and a gouty stocking ; from this, after fumbling
about in it for a time, he draws a red clay pipe with a
228 I

226 CHARLES GRANT

cane stem, and a clasp-knife, and begins to prepare
for the enjoyment of a morning smoke. If you could
get near enough to look into that Phrygian headdress
of his, as it lies there beside him, you would probably
find that it still contains a hunch of bread, half an
onion, an apple, two peaches, a few small fish wrapped
up in seaweed, and a picture of San Antonio ; for the
fisherman's cap is not only his purse and tobacco-
pouch, but a general receptacle for miscellaneous
articles of his personal property. It is but just to
add, however, that the fish he carries in this way is
always intended for his own consumption.

IT

At ten o'clock, Peppiniello has disposed of all his
wares. As the day is hot he feels almost inclined to
have a swim in the harbour ; but he sees no one near
with whom he could safely deposit the eleven soldi
which he has made by his morning's work, and,
besides, he is hungry, as well he may be, for he has
been up since dawn and has eaten nothing yet. Where
to get a dinner ? — that is the question ; for it never
even occurs to him that he might spend a part of
his hard-earned gains upon common food, though
now and then, when the times are good, he will buy a
slice of water-melon. He would hardly feel justified
in doing even that to-day ; so, as he rolls up the
foreign tobacco, which he has not sold, in the old
newspaper, and places it inside the breast of his shirt,
which serves all Neapolitans of his class as a capacious
pocket, he revolves in his mind the chances that are
open to him. He knows he could have what he wants
at once by going to the narrow street near the Porta
Capuana, where his father used to live ; for there
are still several women in the neighbourhood who
remember his family, and who would give him a crust
of bread, a slice of raw cabbage, or a part of whatever

PEPPINIELLO 227

their own dinner happened to be. But he has noticed
that the more rarely he comes the warmer his welcome
is; and he wishes to leave these friends as a last
resource in cases of the utmost need. Though it is
not the hour during which strangers are likely to be
moving about, it might be worth while to saunter
down to Santa Lucia, as there is no saying what a
foreigner may not do, and, if he is out, that is the
likeliest place to find him. But the children in that
district hold together, and look upon him as an in-
truder on the hunting-grounds that belong by right
to them. They will crowd him out of the circle, if
possible, spoil his antics, and snatch the soldi out of
his very hand. Nay, a few weeks ago, when he stole
the purse from the English gentleman, they seemed
half-inclined to betray him, instead of covering his
retreat. It is true, that, at last, their instinctive hatred
of law and the police got the better of their local
jealousy, and he made his escape. In half an hour,
when he had brought his booty into safety, he re-
turned, and invited the boys who had helped him
into a neighbouring taverna, where he placed four
litres of wine before them. That was the right thing
to do, and he did it ; nay, as the purse had contained
nearly twenty lire — though that he confessed to
nobody — he even added a kilo of bread to the repast.
Since then he has enjoyed a half -unwilling respect hi
that quarter. But Peppiniello is not the boy to
forget their hesitation, which seems to him the basest
of treachery. Besides, their manners disgust him. It
is right enough that boys should cut capers, and make
grimaces, and beg, and steal ; but it is indecent for
girls of eleven or twelve to do so. If he has a con-
tempt for anything in the world, it is for those girls
and their relations. No ; he will not go to Santa
Lucia.

So he turns up one of the dark narrow ways that
lead away from the Porto, looking wistfully into. every

228 CHARLES GRANT

taverna that he passes. Most of them are empty.
In some a single workman is sitting, with a small
piece of bread and one glass of wine before him, or
half a dozen have clubbed together to buy a loaf and
a bottle. Peppiniello knows it is useless to beg of
these — they have little enough to stay their own appe-
tites. ' Ah ! ' thinks he, who, like, all his class, is
a bitter enemy of the present government — perhaps
only because it is the government — ' it was different
in good King Ferdinand's days, when bread only cost
four soldi the kilo, and wine seven centesimi the litre.
Then, they say, if a hungry beggar-boy could find a
workman at his dinner, he was sure of a crust and a
sup ; but how can they give anything now, with bread
at eight and wine at twelve soldi ? ' At last he sees
what appears to be a well-dressed man, sitting at the
further end of the low, dark room. He slips in in a
moment, and stands before him making that move-
ment of the forefinger and thumb to the mouth by
which Neapolitan beggars express their hunger. The
man cuts off a small fragment of his bread and gives
it him. Now Peppiniello is near, he can see by the
pinched face and bright eyes of the man that he, too,
has nothing to spare. He is almost ashamed of having
begged of him ; but he munches the bread as he goes
along. It is such a little piece that it seems only to
make him hungrier. He hardly knows what to do ;
so he sits down on a doorstep to reflect.

He knows an English ship came into port last
night. The chance is that some of the sailors are
ashore. If he could find them, they would very likely
give him something, and he fancies he can guess
pretty nearly where they are ; but then — to tell the
truth — he is afraid. Such sailors, it is true, have
never shown him anything but kindness ; but who
knows what they may do ? They are so strong and
rough, and have no respect for anything. He looks
upon them as he does on the forces of nature, as

PEPPINIELLO 229

something entirely capricious, incalculable, and un-
controllable. They threw him a handful of soldi the
other day ; perhaps to-day they may throw him out
-of the window. The people say they are not even
Christians. Who can tell ? Yet surely the Madonna
must have power over them too; and he is very
hungry. So he rises, and turns once more in the
direction of the Porto, murmuring a Paternoster and
an Ave, with eyes in the meantime perfectly open to
any other chance of provender.

He goes to one, two, three of the houses they are
likely to frequent, and convinces himself they are not
there. At last he hears them in the front room of
the first story of the fourth. It is the very worst
house for his purpose that they could have chosen ;
for the hostess is a very — well, I know no English
word which would not be degraded if applied to her.
She looks upon all the money in the pockets of her
guests upstairs as already her own, and naturally
resents any claim upon it, however small. Peppiniello
knows her well ; but he has not come thus far to be
turned back at last by fear of an old woman. He
saunters carelessly and yet wearily into the street,
and seats himself on the step opposite the door of the
locanda, leans his head upon his arm, and finally
stretches himself at full length. Any passer would
fancy him asleep ; in fact, he is on the watch. He
knows his only chance is to wait till the lower room
and, if possible, the kitchen behind it, are empty, and
then make a dart for the staircase. He lies there for
more than half an hour. At last the cook is sent out
to fetch something, as it seems from a distance ; for
he takes his coat and hat. The hostess stands at a
table at the back of the front room, with a tray of
grog-glasses before her which are half -full of spirits.
In a moment more the scullion comes with a kettle of
boiling water, which he pours into the glasses while
the hostess stirs them. By some accident a drop or

230 CHARLES GRANT

two falls upon her hand ; she says nothing, but simply
wipes it with a cloth beside her. As soon, however,
as the last glass is full, and the scullion has taken two
steps away from the table, she gives him such a cuff •
as sends him flying to the other end of the kitchen,
with the scalding water streaming down his legs. Of
course, there is a howl. He, at least, is not likely to
take much notice of anything at present. The hostess
quietly takes up the tray, puts on a bland smile, and
mounts the stairs. This is Peppiniello' s chance. He
lets her ascend three or four steps, and then, with a
spring as stealthy as a cat's, he follows her. His bare
feet fall noiselessly, and he steals up so close behind
her that there is no chance of her seeing him, even if
she should turn, which she can hardly do, as the stairs
are narrow and she has the tray in her hand. When
she reaches the landing, she stops to place her burden
on a table, in order that she may open the door ;
Peppiniello at once springs forward, and enters with-
out being announced, satisfied so far with his success,
but by no means certain that he may not have sprung
out of the frying-pan into the fire.

Round a table which is strewed with the remnants
of what seems to have been a sumptuous though
rather coarse meal, six sailors are seated in company
not of the most respectable.

Peppiniello knows that boldness is now his only
hope, for if the hostess can catch hold of him before
he has attracted the men's attention he will certainly
fly down the stairs much more quickly than he as-
cended them. So he advances at once, and with a low
bow and a grin makes the gesture that indicates his
hunger.

' What does the young devil mean ? ' asks one of
the men in very imperfect Italian.

' He only wants some of the broken bread,' replies
a girl, throwing him half a loaf.

Peppiniello springs into the air, catches it halfway,

PEPPINIELLO 231

makes a gesture of the wildest joy, and then, with a
face of preternatural gravity, bows his thanks and
stands like a soldier on parade. The men are amused,
and soon all the bread upon the table is stowed away
within his shirt. This gives him a strange appearance,
as the slender arms and legs form a striking contrast
to the enormous trunk. He at once sees his advantage,
and proceeds to contort his face and limbs in a way
that makes him appear hardly human. Shouts of
laughter follow, and one of the girls hands him a glass
of wine. Meanwhile the grog has been placed on the
table and the men have lighted their pipes. One
pulls out an Italian cigar, but after the first whiff he
throws it away with a curse, declaring that it is made
of a mixture of rotten cabbage-leaves and india-rubber.
Peppiniello seizes it almost before it falls, seats him-
self in a corner, and begins to puff away with an
expression of the most luxurious enjoyment.

' What, you smoke, do you, you little imp of hell ?
You'd better take the whole lot of them, for I'll be
d d if any human being can smoke them.'

The words are spoken in English, and Peppiniello
can hardly believe his eyes when a parcel of cigars
comes flying across the room into his lap.

' Ask him if his mother knows he's out/ says one
of the men. His companion puts the question into
such Italian as he can command. One of the girls
repeats it in the Neapolitan dialect, and explains
Peppiniello' s answer, which is then translated into
English for the benefit of the male part of the com-
pany.

' I have no mother.'

' His father, then ? '

' I have no father.'

' How does he live, then ? *

' How I can.'

4 Ask him if he'll come aboard with us ; and tell
him we'll make a man of him.'

232 CHARLES GRANT

' What would my sisters do then ? '

' How many sisters has he ? '

1 Four.'

' How old ? '

' One a year older and three younger than I am,
and they have nobody in the world to take care of
them but me.'

The idea of that little monkey being the father of a
family is too comic not to excite a laugh, yet there is
something pathetic in it. None of the girls believe
the tale ; but if questioned by their companions they
would all assert a firm conviction of its truth. Nay,
one or two of them would probably say they were
personally acquainted with all the facts of the case.

4 It's all a d d lie, of course,' says another of

the men ; ' but it don't matter,' and he throws the
boy a two-soldi piece. The other sailors follow his
example.

Peppiniello gathers up his riches. He feels that it
is time for him to withdraw, but he knows the land-
lady is waiting below with a stick, and that she pur-
poses first to beat him as unmercifully as she can,
then to rob him of all that has been given him, and
finally to kick him into the street. He is afraid that
even his morning's earnings will go with the rest of
his gains. It is not a pleasant prospect. Fortunately
for him the girls at the table know all this as well as
he does. One of them whispers a word or two to her
companion, rises, beckons slightly to the boy, and
goes downstairs. He makes a silent bow to the com-
pany and slinks after her, but when they reach the
lower room she takes him by the hand and leads him
to the street-door amid a perfect storm of abuse from
the landlady, who, however, does not venture to give
any more practical expression to her rage.

' Now run, you little devil, run ! '

Peppiniello only pauses for a single moment to raise
the girl's hand gently to his lips, and before half a

PEPPINIELLO 233

minute is past he has put a dozen corners between
himself and the scene of his adventure.

But the girl turns and faces the infuriated hostess.
' What harm has the boy done you ? ' she says quietly.
' If the gentlemen .upstairs had been angry I could
understand it, but they were amused. What harm
has he done you ? '

The hostess is rather cowed by the girl's manner,
and she replies in an almost whining tone, ' All that
bread he has robbed me of— is that nothing ? '

' Why, what can you do with broken bread ? '

' Sell it to the poor.'

The girl's form assumes a sudden dignity ; she feels
that this woman has sunk far below her, and her
voice is very low but very biting as she says, ' Donna
Estere, you are as hard and wicked as a Piedmontese.
If you speak another word I will never enter your
house again, but take all my friends over there, and
she moves her head slightly in the direction of a rival
establishment.

This is a threat that Donna Estere cannot afford to
disregard, but she is still too excited to be able to
fawn on the girl and flatter her as she will in half an
hour's time. So she retires silently into the kitchen,
to vent her rage first in abusing and then in beating
the scullion.

When Peppiniello feels himself well out of the reach
of danger, he draws out a piece of bread and eats
it greedily as he walks slowly in the direction of his
father's old home. He has not gone far before he
sees another boy of his own class seated in a doorway
and dining off a raw cabbage head and two onions.
Peppiniello squats himself down opposite, and by way
of beginning a conversation he remarks in a friendly
tone that the cabbage doesn't look very fresh. The

234 CHARLES GRANT

owner of the maligned vegetable replies that he pulled
it that very morning in his uncle's garden, and adds
that he is sorry for boys who are obliged to dine oil
stale bread. This gives rise to an animated discussion,
which in about five minutes leads to the exchange of
a thick slice of cabbage and half an onion for a piece
of bread. Each now feels that he is dining sumptu-
ously, and in order to remove any unpleasant impres-
sion that may have been left on his neighbour's mind,
he praises the provisions he has just received at least
as warmly as he before disparaged them. The stranger
then gives a glowing description of his uncle's garden,
which, by his account, must certainly be the most
remarkable estate ever possessed by a violent and
eccentric old gentleman, whose only weakness is a
doting fondness for his nephew. Pepphiiello has his
own doubts as to the existence of that earthly para-
dise, but he is far too polite to express any. In his
turn he relates how his father went to sea a year and
a half ago and was, as they thought, lost, and how
they mourned for him, and how that very morning
his aunt had received a letter stating that he had
married a great heiress in Palermo, and was going to
return to Naples in a few weeks.

' Ah, won't your stepmother just beat you ! ' says
the stranger, in a tone which implies that he could
quite enter into the fun of the operation.

" Ah, but she can't ! ' replies Peppiniello. ' That's
the best of it. She's only one leg ; the other's a
wooden one, but they say it's stuffed full of good
French gold pieces.'

And so, having finished his meal, he proceeds upon
his way, pondering upon what to do with the fortune
he has so unexpectedly invented for himself. The
stranger, as he saunters in the opposite direction, con-
siders the important question whether a ferocious
miser of an uncle who can refuse nothing to his single
pet, or a stepmother with a wooden leg stuffed with

PEPPINIELLO 235

gold pieces, is zhe more desirable imaginary possession
for a little street-boy of limited means.

Peppiniello at last reaches a small tobacco-shop ai
the corner of a narrow close. ' Good-day, Donna
Amalia,' he says as he enters.

4 What, Peppiniello ! you here again, and dinner's
over, and I don't believe there's a bite left in the
house.' Her tone is rough, but she turns with the
evident intention of searching her larder.

' Thank you ; I've eaten to-day. I only want to
ask you to take care of this for me till the evening,'
and he heaps the bread upon the counter.

' What, ten pieces ; you have had luck to-day ! *

' And here are some cigars. Will you sell them for
me ? Of course I should not expect the full price.'

It goes rather against Donna Amalia' s conscience
to refuse any lawful profit that may fall in her way ;
but she remembers that the boy is an orphan, and
that the Virgin has a way of rewarding those who are
pitiful to such.

' Well, let me see them. Yes, they are whole.
They cost, you know, eight centesimi apiece ; that
makes fourteen soldi and two centesimi. There it is,'
and she pays him the whole sum. She has no doubt
in her own mind that she is receiving stolen goods,
but no one can identify a cigar, and it is no business
of hers, so she asks no questions. Peppiniello puts it
together with the rest, and then commits the whole
to her care. She counts over the sum with him very
carefully, wraps it in a piece of paper, and places it on
a shelf in the inside room beside the bread. He has
already bidden her good-bye, and is passing out of
the shop, when she calls him back.

' You will never be able to eat all that bread while
it is fresh.'

4 It is quite at your service, Donna Amalia ; ' but
there is something in the eyes that contradicts the
tone and the words.

236 CHARLES GRANT

' Nay, boy, I don't want to beg your bread of you ;
but look here, these three pieces are as good as when
they came from the baker's. If you like, I will take
them to-day, and give you new bread for them to-
morrow.'

' A thousand thanks, but let it be the day after
to-morrow.'

' Very well.'

He is really grateful to the rough kind woman, but
he does not kiss her hand. That one only does to
people of a higher social class, and he does not feel
so very much below Donna Amalia.

It is now more than time for the mid-day sleep, so
Peppiniello retires into a doorway where the stones
are pretty smooth, and there is no danger of the
sunshine stealing in to waken him. He does not go to
sleep so quickly as usual, perhaps because he has dined
better ; and as he reviews the events of the morning
he comes to the conclusion that it is his duty to go to
mass next morning, to return thanks for his deliverance
from danger. He has no doubt that it was the Ma-
donna who saved him from Donna Ester e, and it never
occurs to him that she chose rather a strange messenger.
Then he begins to consider on what numbers he had
better set in this week's lotto. He is rather doubtful
of his luck, for he has lost six of the francs he found in
the purse in that way. How he wishes he could dream
of numbers, but somehow he never does. The priests
of course know them all, for they are learned, but they
are bound by a vow not to impart their knowledge to
any one ; yet they say that sometimes a monk will
whisper the sacred secret to a friend. Surely they
ought to do so, if only to be revenged on the govern-
ment who has turned them out of their monasteries.
Peppiniello resolves to be very polite to all monks in
future. If he could read, he would try to get hold of
one of those wonderful books which explain things so
well you can hardly dream of anything without finding

PEPPINIELLO 237

the number it signifies in them. Well, this time he
will set upon 32, the number of Donna Estere's house,
and upon 12, for there were twelve guests at table.
Fate will doubtless give him another number before
the time for playing comes round. Pondering these
things, he falls asleep.

It is later than usual when he awakens, and he sees
with some consternation how low the sun has already
sunk. He has missed the best early harvest for old
cigar ends, which is at its height at two o'clock, when
the gentlemen who have lunched and smoked return to
their places of business. He must make haste or he
will have nothing for the evening market and miss that
too. So he hastens off to the railway station, picking
up here and there a bit of merchandise by the way.
He is not lucky even there, though a good-natured
porter lets him slip into the waiting-room, which is
empty for the moment ; and on his way to the Porto,
which he chooses to take through the narrow streets
and not by the most frequented road, he walks slowly,
as if in doubt. At last he sits down and counts over
his scanty gleanings with a look that says plainly
enough, ' They won't do.' So he turns once more away
from the Porto, and after climbing two or three streets
at rather a rapid pace, he reaches the corner of one in
which a poverty-stricken cafe is situated. Then his
whole manner changes ; he assumes an indolent but
merry air, and begins to sing a Neapolitan song. The
threadbare waiter who is sitting at the door hails him
with a loud jest, and then asks in a low voice, — ' Don't
you want any cigar-ends to-day ? '

' Well, I hardly know. I have such a large stock, and
I sell so few : but let me see them.'

They enter the empty cafe together, and the treasure
is displayed.

' Wnat do you want for them ? '

' What will you give — four soldi ? ' •

' Not two for that lot,' says the boy contemptuously.

238 CHARLES GRANT

A discussion of course follows, and Peppiniello finally
agrees to give two soldi, but only that he may not lose
the waiter's friendship and patronage. The tobacco
he still insists is not worth the price.

' And when am I to be paid ? '

' To-night, if I sell enough.'

He resumes his indolent walk and his song, which he
continues till he reaches the end of the street, when he
quickens his pace and leaves off singing. Both parties
are rather ashamed of this transaction. The waiter
knows he has been acting meanly, and the boy, who
looks upon all cigar- ends as the rightful property of the
mozzonari, feels he has been put upon. It is only in
extreme cases like to-day's that he will submit to this.
In fact, this perfectly legitimate purchase, by which he
is sure of making a large profit, weighs on his conscience
far more heavily than any of his thefts. Hence each is
sure of the other's secrecy.

As Peppiniello turns again in the direction of the
Porto, he fancies that some misfortune is sure to over-
take him shortly, for he feels he has deserved a punish-
ment, and only hopes the avenging powers will lay it on
with a light hand. So when he finds a perfect stranger
to the whole company of mozzonari — a great hulking
youth of some fifteen years — has taken possession of his
place, he looks upon it as the result of their immediate
interposition, but this does not make him feel any the
more inclined to bear it patiently. Besides, Ke knows
that if he gives way now his favourite seat is lost for
ever. Accordingly he utters an indignant protest,
which calls forth a contemptuous answer. An angry
altercation follows, in which sufficiently strong language
is used on both sides. A boatman passing up from
the landing-place soon puts an end to the situation by
first pushing the youth to a distance of some yards
and then tossing his wares after him. This being done,
he passes on, fully satisfied that he has been perform-
ing an act of justice, for he knows Peppiniello does

PEPPINIELLO 239

usually sit there, and then his opponent is old enough
to gain his living in some other way. The sale of old
cigar- ends is work that children can do, and so it ought
to be left to them.

Peppiniello quietly takes his old seat, from which the
new-comer does not venture to expel him by force — he
has evidently too powerful allies ; so he crouches down
at a distance of a few yards in front of him, and covers
him with every term of abuse. Hitherto the language,
though strong, has been confined within the wide limits
of what the lower-class Neapolitans consider decent,
or at least tolerable ; now the vilest and most offensive
terms which their unusually expressive dialect furnishes
are freely used. At first the boy gives epithet for
epithet, but then he falls silent, his eyes dilate, his lips
tighten, his right hand is fumbling inside his shirt.

4 You son of a priest.'

The words are scarcely uttered, when the boy's
knife is unclasped, and, with a spring as sudden and
unexpected as a cat's, he has flown at his enemy's
throat.

Fortunately for both, a well-dressed man has been
silently watching the scene, and with a motion as
quick as Peppiniello' s he has seized the boy, clasping
his body with his right arm and grasping the knife
with his left hand. Another moment, and a hearty
kick has sent the intruder sprawling upon the stones.
The latter gathers up first himself and then his wares,
and goes off muttering threats and curses. A single
glance at his face, however, is sufficient to show that
he will never venture to interfere with Peppiniello
again.

' If you had ever seen the inside of a prison, my
boy,' says the man whose intervention has just been
so opportune, ' you would not run the risk of being
sent there for such a foul-mouthed fool as that ; nor,'
he adds in a voice that none but the child in his arms
can hear — ' nor for a purse either, even if it did contain

240 CHARLES GRANT

twenty lire ; ' and so he pushes him with apparent
roughness, but real gentleness, back into his place.

Peppiniello stretches himself at full length. His
face is on the ground and covered by his two arms,
his whole body is still quivering, but his protector sees
at a glance that it is only with subsiding rage, so he
passes on as if nothing particular had happened.
When he returns in an hour's time the boy is jesting
merrily with his comrades ; but his quick eyes catch
the approaching form, he draws back into his corner,
and whispers with a down-bent head, ' Thank you,
Don Antonio.'

Don Antonio, if that is his name, takes no notice ;
he does not even cast a passing glance at the scene of
the late conflict.

IV

At about eight o'clock, Peppiniello resolves to give
up business for that evening. It is true the market is
at its height, and he has not yet sold more than half
his wares, but he will want a new supply to-morrow,
and the best time for gathering it has now begun.
To-night, too, he must make good use of his time, for
he will have to return home earlier than usual, as
Donna Amalia goes to bed between eleven and twelve.
He turns in the direction of San Carlo, and walks
slowly past the small theatres, picking up what he can
by the way, till he reaches the garden gate of the palace,
over which he throws a two-centesimo piece, with a
hardly perceptible motion of his hand, and without
, turning his head. On each side stands a colossal
bronze statue of a man governing an unruly horse.
The Emperor Nicholas of Russia sent them as a present
to King Ferdinand after his return from Italy, and
they were supposed by the Italian Liberals of those
days to convey a delicate hint as to what the Autocrat
of the North considered the true principles of govern-

PEPPINIELLO 241

ment. Of all this Peppiniello of course knows nothing ;
but the stalwart forms have made a deep impression
on his imagination, and he has invented this strange
way of paying his adoration to them. He does not
number them with the saints, still less has he any
intention of paying them divine honours. What he
attributes to them is great, though by no means un-
limited, power, and some such capricious goodwill to
himself as the boatmen frequently show. He is not
given to analysis, and he sees no contradiction between
this worship and the rest of his religious creed ; indeed,
the bronze statues fill a place that would otherwise be
left vacant in his pantheon. He looks upon them as
leading strong joyous lives of their own, and caring on
the whole very little for human affairs, though he
thinks they must be somewhat pleased by sincere
devotion. At best they are only good-natured, not
good ; and so they stand far below the saints, whose
whole time is spent in acts of graciousness and pity.
But then you cannot call upon the saints to help you
in committing what the Church calls a sin, though
doubtless they will often save you from its conse-
quences. With respect to the two bronze figures, he
has no such scruples, for he is convinced that their
moral code is no more stringent than his own. So he
called upon them when the children at Santa Lucia
seemed inclined to abandon him to the police, and we
know how well he got out of that scrape. Nevertheless,
he keeps his irreligious faith a profound secret, partly
from a fear of ridicule, no doubt, but partly also because
he has a shrewd suspicion that the objects of it are
more likely to pay attention to his prayers if the
number of their worshippers remains strictly limited.

Peppiniello now sets to work in good earnest, and
by twelve o'clock he has collected an ample stock-in-
trade, paid the waiter the two soldi he owed him, and
received his bread and money from Donna Amalia.
He now turns homewards. It is a long way, but tie

242 CHARLES GRANT

only pauses to buy two slices of water-melon at a stall,
and these he carries in his hand until he reaches a
small open court at the mouth of a cavern, where a
number of women are seated to enjoy as much of the
freshness of the night as the high walls of the neigh-
bouring houses will allow. He gives a sharp whistle,
and immediately a girl hastens towards him. You
can see at a glance that she is Peppiniello' s sister.
Her name is Concetta, and she is about thirteen years
old, though a Northerner would probably think her a
year and a half older. Her complexion is sallower
than her brother's, her eyes are very bright, and her
black hair, which is tied in a rough wisp round her
head, has been burnt and bleached by exposure till
the surface coil is almost brown. With a little care it
might be made to look well, but it has never been
brushed since her mothers death, and is rarely combed
more than once a week. Her dress is decent, but it
has been patched in many places with different
materials, and she is far dirtier than Peppiniello, to
whom custom allows the luxury of sea-bathing. Still
there is a great deal of intelligence, some kindness, and
not a little care in her look. Yet at times she can
break into wild fits of merriment, and dance the taran-
tella with all the wild passion of a bacchanal. She
seldom does that, however, when her brother or,
indeed, any male person is present, and to-night she
follows him very quietly down a narrow street to a
little open place, and there seats herself on a doorstep
beside him. She feels quite as strongly as he does that
it would be beneath his dignity to take a place among
the women and girls at the cavern's mouth.

4 The children are asleep ? ' asks Peppiniello, as he
gives his sister a hunch of bread and one of the slices
of water-melon.

' Yes ; and Donna Lucia has promised to have an
eye on them till I come back.'

Peppiniello now gives the girl four soldi for the

PEPPINIELLO 243

household expenses of the morrow, and when he adds
eight centesimi to enable them each to buy a piece of
water-melon, she knows he has had a prosperous day,
for in hard times she and her sisters are obliged to live
on a soldo each, and what they can manage to earn or
pick up. The bread is a new and pleasant surprise,
over which her eyes brighten ; to-morrow, house-
keeping will be a'n easy task.

Business being over, the two fall to their suppers
with a hearty appetite, while Peppiniello relates all
his day's adventures, with the exception of the bargain
with the waiter, and his sacrifice to the statues. The
manner of both is quite changed ; they are mere
children chatting together as merrily as if they had
never known want or care. When he has finished his
tale, he places the money in her hand — all except a
single soldo which he has hid away before. She counts
it over carefully, and then exclaims joyously, 'Why,
you have been lucky ! With the rest this makes seven
lire and a half: only ten soldi more and the month's
rent is ready, and to-morrow is only the thirteenth.'

Peppiniello' s tone assumes some of its old business
weight iness, as he replies, ' Yes, but that must be made
up before we spend anything.'

Concetta readily assents to this, and then goes on to
propose that, even when their rent is ready, they shall
continue to hoard their gains until they have money
enough to buy one of the children a nice dress, so that
they may be able to send her out of an evening to sell
flowers to the ladies and gentlemen in the villa. ' That
is the way to make money.' But Peppiniello very
decisively rejects the proposal, and the girl, who, like
most affectionate women that have not been spoiled
by culture, has a habit of obeying even the unreason-
able wishes of those whom she loves, gives way at once,
and all who know more of Neapolitan life than she does
will feel that in this difference her brother is in the right.
Still, though she does not sulk or quarrel, she is disap-

244 CHARLES GRANT

pointed by the rejection of her plan, and more silent
than usual. She has a great trust, love, and admira-
tion for her brother : they never quarrel, partly per-
haps because they are so little together, and, what is
more, she never yet had a secret from him. He, as we
have seen, is not so open. He never told his sister
anything about that purse ; but he had several good
reasons for this. He does not wish her to know that
he steals, for she might imitate his example, and that
would be unfeminine. There is no harm in boys doing
a great many things that girls must not do, and he
would be as much shocked to hear that Concetta had
been guilty of a theft as to find her swimming in the
waters of the harbour. But he had also another reason
for keeping that secret. He knew exactly what he
wanted to do with the money. The great terror of his
life is that some month he may be unable to pay the
rent, and that they will consequently be turned into
the street. For himself the discomfort would not be
great, as in most weathers he can sleep at least as com-
fortably on a doorstep as in bed ; but he dreads it
for the children's, and still more for Concetta' s sake.
So as soon as the money fell into his hands, he resolved
to keep eight lire constantly in store as a resource
against cases of the utmost need, and to say nothing
about this, in order that neither he nor his sister might
be tempted to be less careful in always getting the rent
together as early in the month as possible. Nearly
three lire were spent on the banquet he had to give to
his half-hearted associates. He has still three left to
dispose of, but they will go, as six have already gone,
to the lotto. For that, too. he reserves the soldo, which
he daily abstracts from his earnings. It is the only
way he knows of investing his savings, but he is afraid
of awakening hopes in his sister's mind which a sad
experience has shown to be so often fallacious. Yet
he has many compunctions of conscience about that
soldo, which he tries to quiet by remembering that he

PEPPINIELLO 245

allows each of the others the same sum for her daily
expenditure. Otherwise he scrupulously shares every-
thing he gains with the rest. If he buys a little fruit,
the only way in which he ever spends anything upon
himself, he brings them some, or gives them money to
do the same. What Concetta and the children can
earn or pick up they do as they like with, but though
she keeps the family purse, into which all his gains flow,
she never thinks of taking a centesimo out of it without
his previous consent.

But, by this time, Peppiniello and his sister have
finished their supper and are returning to the cavern's
mouth. More than twenty families sleep in that
gloomy hole, divided from each other by no partition
greater than a line drawn upon the floor. The sides
of the grotto are damp, and the air close and fetid
with a thousand evil odours, though the entrance and
the roof are lofty. You can catch no glimpse of the
latter at this time of night ; there is only one great
starless darkness overhead, but below, here and there,
a tiny oil flame glimmers before the picture of some
saint. There is one burning at the foot of Peppiniello' s
bed, which occupies the worst place but one, that
farthest from the entrance, and when the two reach it,
after exchanging a few friendly words with Donna
Lucia, one of the occupants of the neighbouring bed,
they refill the lamp from a little flask, and then kneel
down before a rough print of the Virgin to repeat a
Paternoster and an Ave.

The bed itself is large enough not only for the whole
family, but also to accommodate a stranger now and
then, when, of a stormy night, Peppiniello happens
to find some homeless boy shivering on a doorstep
that does not shelter him from the rain. Three
children are now sleeping quietly enough in it. The
eldest of them, who may be nine, has a strong family
likeness to Concetta, and so has one of the younger
girls, whom you take to be six ; but the third, who

24C CHARLES GRANT

seems to be of nearly the same age, has quite a different
face and figure. She is far more slightly built, has a
little rosy mouth and tiny hands and feet. Her skin,
though it is bronzed by the sun, is far fairer than that
of her bedfellows, and she has fine light brown hair
which would be silken if it were kept in proper order.
Her name is Mariannina, and she is not in fact one of
Peppiniello's sisters. This is her story : —

One night, about a year ago, when the boy was
returning home, he saw her sleeping all alone in the
portico of a church. If it had been a boy he would
have passed on without taking any notice, but that
wasn't a proper place for little girls to sleep in, so he
wakened her, and asked where her home was, that he
might take her there. It was a long way off, she
said ; she didn't know where, but a long, long way.
At length, in answer to many questions and a good
deal of coaxing, she told him she lived alone with her
mother, who, as soon as she had had her breakfast,
used to give her a hunch of bread, turn her into the
street, lock the door, and go to her work, from which
she did not return till after dark. But one morning
some time ago — Mariannina did not know exactly
how long : it seemed a long while — her mother was
lazy and would not get up. The child had nothing to
eat that day, but in the evening her mother gave her
the key of the cupboard where the bread was, and told
her where to find some money. Mariannina had a good
time of it for several days, as her mother took no notice
of her, and would not eat anything ; but when the
money was all spent she told her she had no more, and
that she must get her breakfast how she could. She
went out to play as usual, and a neighbour gave her
something to eat. When she came back her mother
was talking very loud, but there was no one else in the
room, and the child could not understand what she
said. She went on in that way for a long time, but at
last she made a strange noise and then she was quite

PEPPINIELLO 247

still. Afterwards the lamp before the Virgin went
out ; there had been no oil to replenish it with. Next
morning, when Mariannina awoke, her mother was
still asleep. When she touched her she was quite cold.
At first she had tried to awaken her, but she would not
speak nor move, so the child was frightened and ran
away. All day she had tried to get as far away as she
could. She did not want to go home ; she would go
with Peppiniello, and she was hungry.

The kindest as well as the wisest thing would of
course have been to take the little orphan to the
Foundling Hospital, but Peppiniello never thought of
that. He was convinced that the Holy Virgin had
sent him to take care of this child, and he was not the
boy to shrink from such a trust. Concetta was of the
same opinion, and from that day to this Mariannina
had been a member of the family. She is a quiet child,
with soft, caressing ways, and never has those fits of
wild merriment into which the others fall ; but she has
also less cheerfulness to face hard times with, and wThen
the supply of food is very scanty, she is apt to be rather
subdued and to look weary. The girls treat her exactly
as they do each other, but there is just a shade of extra
gentleness in the relation between her and her protector,
which may arise from the consciousness that the ties
between them have been formed by their own free
choice, or perhaps from the belief which both entertain
that it was the Blessed Virgin who brought them
together.

As soon as Peppiniello and Concetta have finished
their prayers they arm themselves with two long sticks.
A rusty fork is firmly bound to the end of that which
the girl leans against her side of the bed, while her
brother's terminates in the blade of an old knife,
carefully sharpened. As he creeps into his place,
Mariannina puts her hands up to his cheeks and falls
asleep again in the midst of the caress. And now the
purpose of the strange weapons soon becomes clear,

248 CHARLES GRANT

for scarcely has quiet been restored when the floor is
literally covered with hundreds of rats. Concetta
makes several ineffectual thrusts before Peppiniello
moves his arm, but at his first blow he succeeds in
wounding one of them, which utters a sharp squeak as
it disappears. In a moment all the rest have vanished,
and a shrill yet tremulous voice is raised in angry pro-
test from the darkness beyond. At first it utters noth-
ing but vile abuse and frightful curses, but then in a
whine it urges that it is a sin to maim and injure the
poor creatures. ' They, too, are God's children.'

' Why doesn't He keep them at home, then ? While
I'm here, they're not going to nibble Mariannina's
toes,' replies Peppiniello, but in a tone only just loud
enough to catch Concetta' s ear, for he respects the age
and pities the suffering of the wretched being who has
just spoken.

It is Donna Lucia's mother, who, having been found
too loathsome to retain her place in the family bed,
has been accommodated with a sack of dried maize-
leaves in the darkest corner of the cave. As her
daughter and son-in-law are abroad at their work all
day, their children are too little to be of any use, and she
cannot move from her pallet, she has perhaps some
reason to be grateful to the natural scavengers she
vainly endeavours to protect. Perhaps, too, the last
affectionate instincts of a motherly nature have centred
themselves on the only living beings that constantly
surround her. At length the querulous voice dies
away, the stick falls from Peppiniello' s hand, and he
sinks into a sound sleep.1

i The incident of the old woman's affection for the rats
is borrowed from Renato Fucini's interesting Napoli a
occliio nudo, p. 67. On his visiting one of the habitations
of the poor, some such wretched being as Donna Lucia's
mother used the expression employed in the text, in re-
proving him for frightening the rats away. The Italian
words are Son creature di Dio anche loro, and the verbal
translation would of course be, ' They, too, are God's

PBPPINIELLO 249

When Peppiniello wakes he feels instinctively that
it is dawn, though as yet no ray of light has penetrated
even to the entrance of the cavern ; so he awakens
Concetta. She is tired, and would willingly sleep
another hour or two as she usually does, but in that
case she could not go to mass with her brother, so she
rouses herself, and they are soon on their way to a
neighbouring church.

It is still dusk, the larger stars have not yet faded
out of the sky, and the freshness of the morning air is
felt even in the narrow streets through which their way
leads them. There is a stillness everywhere, and an
unusual light on common things, which impress both
the children, but chiefly Concetta, who never rises so
early except when she goes to mass. And when they
pass the portal of the church the blaze of the candles
upon the altar, the glow of the polished marble, the
rich colours of the hangings, seem to stand in a strange
contrast, not only to the quiet twilight outside, but
also to all their ordinary surroundings. To you and
me the church looks gaudy, a miracle of bad taste, it
may be ; to them it is a little glimpse of splendour
which they feel all the more keenly because it is so

creatures ' ; but this would quite fail to give the point of
the reproof, for the word creatura is constantly applied in
affectionate excuse for little children, or to urge their claim
on the pity of adults. When a poor widow says in begging,
Tengo tre creature, she means to insist on their inability
to care for themselves in any way, and Sono creature is
the constant plea of the mother whose children have excited
the anger of a grown-up person ; pretty much as an Eng-
lishwoman might say, ' They are too young to know
what they are doing, poor things.' In calling the rats
creature di Dio, therefore, the old woman wished to insist
upon their weakness and their ignorance of right and
wrong as a claim upon human pity, quite as much as on the
fact of their having been created by God ; almost as if she
had said, ' Spare the poor helpless innocents who have no
protector but Him Who made them.'

250 CHARLES GRANT

different from all the sordid circumstances of their
daily life. And they are so safe here, too. Dirty as
they are, no one rudely forbids their entrance or will
push them from the altar step at which they kneel.
For this is no great man's palace, but the house of God
and the Madonna, and even these outcast children
have a right to a place in it.

And so the mass begins, and Peppiniello remembers
a number of trifles, and asks forgiveness for them.
He thinks about the daily soldo he conceals from his
sister, and has half a mind not to do so any more,
though he is by no means sure it is a sin, and he thanks
God and the Madonna for having taken care of him so
often, but particularly yesterday, and prays them still
to be good to him and his sisters and Mariannina, and
to the girl who so kindly befriended him yesterday.
For the rest of his friends and benefactors he prays in a
general way and in the usual form ; he does not
specially think even of Donna Amalia or Don Antonio
(though he would pray for both if they asked him),
far less of the English sailors ; and when he repeats the
petition which he has been taught to use with respect
to his enemies, I doubt whether any remembrance of
Donna Estere comes into his head. When the eleva-
tion of the Host is past, and the time has come to
remember the dead, Concetta gently presses his hand,
and he prays for the souls of his parents and of Marian-
nina's mother, and for ' all that rest in Christ.' She
remembers their old home better, and thinks oftener
about it, than he does, and so she is more moved by this
part of the service, which he is sometimes apt to forget.

And all his real sins, his lies and thefts, doesn't he
repent of them ? I am afraid not. Some time ago he
took his sisters to see the miracle of San Gennaro, and ,
when the liquefaction of the blood was long delayed,
did not think of all the other spectators who crowded
the church, but concluded that it was some personal
sin of his that had offended the saint. So he searched

PEPPINIELLO 251

his conscience, and remembered that some time before
he had refused an old woman a part of his scanty dinner,
even though she had begged for it in the Madonna's
name, and that he had spoken harshly to Donna
Lucia's mother a few d&ys afterwards ; and he resolved
to be gentler and kinder to the aged and infirm in
future. Then the miracle was wrought, and hitherto
he has kept his resolution. But his lies and thefts he
did not remember. Nay, when he next prepares himself
for confession, they will probably be the last sins that
come into his mind. When the priest insists on their
wickedness, the boy will be moved, and he will really
repent, and make up his mind to give them up alto-
gether, and for a day or two he will persevere ; but
then he will begin to consider the matter from a worldly
point of view. The priest was doubtless right in what
he said. Peppiniello himself can hardly imagine that
a saint ever picked anyone's pocket, but then there is
no chance of his ever becoming a saint, and they know
how hard a poor mozzonare's life is, and will not judge
him too harshly. In some such way he will probably
arrive at the conclusion that perfect honesty is a luxury
as far beyond his means as the whelks and periwinkles
which are heaped upon the itinerant vendor's tray,
and whose dainty odours so often vainly excite his
appetite.

But now the mass is over, and Peppiniello and
Concetta pass out of the church into the golden morning
sunshine and there part, each to begin anew the labours
and adventures of the day. And here we must leave
them for the present.

AMBROSE BIERCE

1842—1913 (?)

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY

ONE sunny afternoon in the autumn of the year 1861,
a soldier lay in a clump of laurel by the side of a road
in Western Virginia. He lay at full length, upon his
stomach, his feet resting upon the toes, his head upon
the left forearm. His extended right hand loosely
grasped his rifle. But for the somewhat methodical
disposition of his limbs and a slight rhythmic movement
of the cartridge box at the back of his belt, he might
have been thought to be dead. He was asleep at his
post of duty. But if detected he would be dead shortly
afterward, that being the just and legal penalty of his
crime.

The clump of laurel in which the criminal lay was in
the angle of a road which, after ascending, southward,
a steep acclivity to that point, turned sharply to the
west, running along the summit for perhaps one hun-
dred yards. There it turned southward again and went
zigzagging downward through the forest. At the
salient of that second angle was a large flat rock,
jutting out from the ridge to the northward, overlooking
the deep valley from which the road ascended. The
rock capped a high cliff ; a stone dropped from its
outer edge would have fallen sheer downward one thou-
sand feet to the tops of the pines. The angle where the
soldier lay was on another spur of the same cliff. Had
he been awake he would have commanded a view, not
only of the short arm of the road and the jutting rock

252

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 253

i

but of the entire profile of the cliff below it. It might
well have made him giddy to look.

The country was wooded everywhere except at the
bottom of the valley to the northward, where there
was a small natural meadow, through which flowed a
stream scarcely visible from the valley's rim. This
open ground looked hardly larger than an ordinary
doorryard, but was really several acres in extent. Its
green was more vivid than that of the enclosing forest.
Away beyond it rose a line of giant cliffs similar to
those upon which we are supposed to stand in our
survey of the savage scene, and through which the road
had somehow made its climb to the summit. The
configuration of the valley, indeed, was such that from
our point of observation it seemed entirely shut in,
and one could not but have wondered how the road
which found a way out of it had found a way into it, and
whence came and whither went the waters of the stream
that parted the meadow two thousand feet below.

No country is so wild and difficult but men will make
it a theatre of war ; concealed in the f orest at the
bottom of that military rat-trap, in which half a hun-
dred men in possession of the exits might have starved
an army to submission, lay five regiments of Federal
infantry. They had marched all the previous day and
night and were resting. At nightfall they would take
to the road again, climb to the place where their
unfaithful sentinel now slept, and, descending the
other slope of the ridge, fall upon a camp of the enemy
at about midnight. Their hope was to surprise it, for
the road led to the rear of it. In case of failure their
position would be perilous in the extreme ; and fail
they surely would should accident or vigilance apprise
the enemy of the movement.

The sleeping sentinel in the clump of laurel was a
young Virginian named Carter Druse. He was the son
of wealthy parents, an only child, and had known such
ease and cultivation and high living as wealth and taste

254 AMBROSE BIERCE

were able to command in the mountain country of
Western Virginia. His home was but a few miles from
where he now lay. One morning he had risen from the
breakfast table and said, quietly and gravely : * Father,
a Union regiment has arrived at Grafton. I am going
to join it.'

The father lifted his leonine head, looked at the son a
moment in silence, and replied : 'Go, Carter, and,
whatever may occur, do what you conceive to be your
duty. Virginia, to which you are a traitor, must get
on without you. Should we both live to the end of the
war, we will speak further of the matter. Your mother,
as the physician has informed you, is in a most critical
condition ; at the best she cannot be with us longei
than a few weeks, but that time is precious. It would
be better not to disturb her.'

So Carter Druse, bowing reverently to his father,
who returned the salute with a stately courtesy which
masked a breaking heart, left the home of his childhood
to go soldiering. By conscience and courage, by deeds
of devotion and daring, he soon commended himself
to his fellows and his officers ; and it was to these
qualities and to some knowledge of the country that he
owed his selection for his present perilous duty at the
extreme outpost. Nevertheless, fatigue had been
stronger than resolution, and he had fallen asleep.
What good or bad angel came in a dream to rouse him
from his state of crime who shall say ? Without a
movement, without a sound, in the profound silence
and the languor of the late afternoon, some invisible
messenger of fate touched with unsealing finger the
eyes of his consciousness — whispered into the ear of
his spirit the mysterious awakening word which no
human lips have ever spoken, no human memory
ever has recalled. He quietly raised his forehead
from his arm and looked between the masking stems
of the laurels, instinctively closing his right hand
about the stock of his rifle.

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 255

His first feeding was a keen artistic delight. On
a colossal pedestal, the cliff, motionless at the extreme
edge of the capping rock and sharply outlined against,
the sky, was an equestrian statue of impressive dignity.
The figure of the man sat the figure of the horse,
straight and soldierly, but with the repose of a Grecian
god carved in the marble which limits the suggestion
of activity. The grey costume harmonized with its
aerial background ; the metal of accoutrement and
caparison was softened and subdued by the shadow ;
the animal's skin had no points of high light. A
carbine, strikingly foreshortened, lay across the pommel
of the saddle, kept in place by the right hand grasping
it at the ' grip ' ; the left hand, holding the bridle rein,
was invisible. In silhouette against the sky, the profile
of the horse was cut with the sharpness of a cameo ; it
looked across the heights of air to the confronting cliffs
beyond. The face of the rider, turned slightly to the
left, showed only an outline of temple and beard ; he
was looking downward to the bottom of the valley.
Magnified by its lift against the sky and by the soldier's
testifying sense of the formidableness of a near enemy,
the group appeared of heroic, almost colossal, size.

For an instant Druse had a strange, half-defined
feeling that he had slept to the end of the war and was
looking upon a noble work of art reared upon that
commanding eminence to commemorate the deeds of
an heroic past of which he had been an inglorious part.
The feeling was dispelled by a slight movement of the
group ; the horse, without moving its feet, had drawn
its body slightly backward from the verge ; the man
remained immobile as before. Broad awake and keenly
alive to the significance of the situation, Druse now
brought the butt of his rifle against his cheek by
cautiously pushing the barrel forward through the
bushes, cocked the piece, and, glancing through the
sights, covered a vital spot of the horseman's breast.
A touch upon the trigger and all would have been well

256 AMBROSE BIERCE

with €arter .Druse. At that instant the horseman
turned his head and looked in the direction of his
concealed foeman — seemed to look into his very face,
into his eyes, into his brave compassionate heart.

Is it, then, so terrible to kill an enemy in war — an
enemy who has surprised a secret vital to the safety of
one's self and comrades — an enemy more formidable
for his knowledge than all his army for its numbers ?-
Carter Druse grew deathly pale ; he shook in every
limb, turned faint, and saw the statuesque group before
him as black figures, rising, falling, moving unsteadily
in arcs of circles in a fiery sky. His hand fell away
from his weapon, his head slowly dropped until his face
rested on the leaves in which he lay. This courageous
gentleman and hardy soldier was near swooning from
intensity of emotion.

It was not for long ; in another moment his face was
raised from earth, his hands resumed their places on
the rifle, his forefinger sought the trigger ; mind, heart,
and eyes were clear, conscience and reason sound. He
could not hope to capture that enemy ; to alarm him
would but send him dashing to his camp with his fatal
news. The duty of the soldier was plain : the man
must be shot dead from ambush — without warning,
without a moment's spiritual preparation, with
never so much as an unspoken prayer, he must be sent
to his account. But no — there is a hope ; he may
have discovered nothing — perhaps he is but admiring
the sublimity of the landscape. If permitted he may
turn and ride carelessly away in the direction whence
he came. Surely it will be possible to judge at the
instant of his withdrawing whether he knows. It may
well be that his fixity of attention — Druse turned his
head and looked below, through the deeps of air down-
ward, as from the surface to the bottom of a translucent
sea. He saw creeping across the green meadow a
sinuous line of figures of men and horses — some foolish
commander was permitting the soldiers of his escort

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 257

to water their beasts in the open, in plain view from a
hundred summits !

Druse withdrew his eyes from the valley and fixed
them again upon the group of man and horse in the
sky, and again it was through the sights of his rifle.
But this time his aim was at the horse. In his memory,
as if they were a divine mandate, rang the words of his
father at their parting. ' Whatever may occur, do
what you conceive to be your duty.' He was calm
now. His teeth were firmly but not rigidly closed ;
his nerves were as tranquil as a sleeping babe's — not
a tremor affected any muscle of his body ; his breathing
until suspended in the act of taking aim, was regular
and slow. Duty had conquered ; the spirit, had said to
the body : ' Peace, be still.' He fired.

At that moment an officer of the Federal force,
who, in a spirit of adventure or in quest of knowledge,
had left the hidden bivouac in the valley, and, with
aimless feet, had made his way to the lower edge of
a small open space near the foot of the cliff, was con-
sidering what he had to gain by pushing his explora-
tion further. At a distance of a quarter-mile before
him, but apparently at a stone's throw, rose from its
fringe of pines the gigantic face of rock, towering to
so great a height above him that it made him giddy
to look up to where its edge cut a sharp, rugged line
against the sky. At some distance away to his right
it presented a clean, vertical profile against a back-
ground of blue sky to a point half of the way down,
and of distant hills hardly less blue thence to the
tops of the trees at its base. Lifting his eyes to the
dizzy altitude of its summit, the officer saw an aston-
ishing sight — a man on horseback riding down into
the valley through the air !

Straight upright sat the rider, in military fashion,
with a firm seat in the saddle, a strong clutch upon
the rein to hold his charger from too impetuous a
plunge. From his bare head his long hair streamed

228 K

258 AMBROSE BIERCE

upward, waving like a plume. His right hand was
concealed in the cloud of the horse's lifted mane.
The animal's body was as level as if every hoof stroke
encountered the resistant earth. Its motions were
those of a wild gallop, but even as the officer looked
they ceased, with all the legs thrown sharply forward
as in the act of alighting from a leap. But this was
a flight !

Filled with amazement and terror by this appari-
tion of a horseman in the sky — half believing himself
the chosen scribe of some new Apocalypse, the officer
was overcome by the intensity of his emotions ; his
legs failed him and he fell. -Almost at the same instant
he heard a crashing sound in the trees — a sound that
died without an echo, and all was still.

The officer rose to his feet, trembling. The familiar
sensation of an abraded shin recalled his dazed facul-
ties, Pulling himself together, he ran rapidly obliquely
away from the cliff to a point a half-mile from its
foot ; thereabout he expected to find his man ; and
thereabout he naturally failed. In the fleeting in-
stant of his vision his imagination had been so wrought
upon by the apparent grace and ease and intention
of the marvellous performance that it did not occur
to him that the line of march of aerial cavalry is
directed downward, and that he could find the objects
of his search at the very foot of the cliff. A half-hour
later he returned to camp.

This officer was a wise man ; he knew better than
to tell an incredible truth. He said nothing of wrhat
he had seen. But when the commander asked him
if in his scout he had learned anything of advantage
to the expedition, he answered :

' Yes, sir ; there is no road leading down into this
valley from the southward.'

The commander, knowing better, smiled.

After firing his shot Private Carter Druse reloaded
his rifle and resumed his watch. Ten minutes had

A HORSEMAN IN THE SKY 259

hardly passed when a Federal sergeant crept cau-
tiously to him on hands and knees. Druse neither
turned his head nor looked at him, but lay .without
motion or sign of recognition.

'Did you fire ? ' the sergeant whispered.

1 Yes.'

' At what ? '

' A horse. It was standing on yonder rock — pretty
far out. You see it is no longer there. It went over
the cliff.'

The man's face was white, but he showed no other
sign of emotion. Having answered, he turned away
his face and said no more. The sergeant did not
understand.

' See here, Druse,' he said, after a moment's silence,
' it's no use making a mystery. I order you to report.
Was there anybody on the horse ? '

4 Yes.'

' Who ? '

' My father.'

The sergeant rose to his feet and walked away.
' Good God ! ' he said.

HENRY JAMES

1843-1916
OWEN WINGRAVE

* UPON my honour you must be off your head ! '
cried Spencer Coyle, as the young man, with a white
face, stood there panting a little and repeating ' Really,
I've quite decided,' and ' I assure you I've thought it
all out.' They were both pale, but Owen Wingrave
smiled in a manner exasperating to his interlocutor,
who however still discriminated sufficiently to see that
his grimace (it was like an irrelevant leer) was the
result of extreme and conceivable nervousness.

' It was certainly a mistake to have gone so far ;
but that is exactly why I feel I mustn't go further,'
poor Owen said, waiting mechanically, almost humbly
(he wished not to swagger, and indeed he had nothing
to swagger about) and carrying through the window
to the stupid opposite houses the dry glitter of his
eyes.

4 I'm unspeakably disgusted. You've made me
dreadfully ill,' Mr. Coyle went on, looking thoroughly
upset.

4 I'm very sorry. It was the fear of the effect on
you that kept me from speaking sooner.'

' You should have spoken three months ago. Don't
you know your mind from one day to the other ? '

The young man for a moment said nothing. Then
he replied with a little tremor : ' You're very angry
with me, and I expected it. I'm awfully obliged to
you for all you've done for me. I'll do anything else

260

OWEN WINGRAVE 261

for you in return, but I can't do that. Everyone else
will let me have it, of course. I'm prepared for it —
I'm prepared for everything. That's what has taken
the time : to be sure I was prepared. I think it's
your displeasure I feel most and regret most. But
little by little you'll get over it.'

1 You'll get over it rather faster, I suppose ! '
Spencer Coyle satirically exclaimed. He was quite
as agitated as his young friend, and they were evi-
dently in no condition to prolong an encounter in
which they each drew blood. Mr. Coyle was a pro-
fessional ' coach ' ; he prepared young men for the
army, taking only three or four at a time, to whom
he applied the irresistible stimulus of which the posses-
sion was both his secret and his fortune. He had not
a great establishment ; he would have said himself
that it was not a wholesale business. Neither his
system, his health, nor his temper could have accom-
modated itself to numbers ; so he weighed and mea-
sured his* pupils and turned away more applicants
than he passed. He was an artist in his line, caring
only for picked subjects and capable of sacrifices
almost passionate for the individual. He liked ardent
young men (there were kinds of capacity to which he
was indifferent) and he had taken a particular fancy
to Owen Wingrave. This young man's facility really
fascinated him. His candidates usually did wonders,
and he might have sent up a multitude. He was a
person of exactly the stature of the great Napoleon,
with a certain flicker of genius in his light blue eye :
it had been said of him that he looked like a pianist.
The tone of his favourite pupil now expressed, with-
out intention indeed, a superior wisdom which irritated
him. He had not especially suffered before from
Wingrave' s high opinion of himself, which had seemed
justified by remarkable parts ; but to-day it struck
him as intolerable. He cut short the discussion,
declining absolutely to regard their relations as ter-

262 HENRY JAMES

minated, and remarked to his pupil that he had better
go off somewhere (down to Eastbourne, say ; the
sea would bring him round) and take a few days to
find his feet and come to his senses. He could afford
the time, he was so well up : when Spencer Coyle
remembered how well up he was he could have boxed
his ears. The tall, athletic young man was not phy-
sically a subject for simplified reasoning ; but there
was a troubled gentleness in his handsome face, the
index of compunction mixed with pertinacity, which
signified that if it could have done any good he would
have turned both cheeks. He evidently didn't pre-
tend that his wisdom was superior ; he only presented
it as his own. It was his own career after all that
was in question. He couldn't refuse to go through
the form of trying Eastbourne or at least of holding
his tongue, though there was that in his manner
which implied that if he should do so it would be
really to give Mr. Coyle a chance to recuperate. He
didn't feel a bit overworked, but there was nothing
more natural than that with their tremendous pressure
Mr. Coyle should be. Mr. Coyle's own intellect would
derive an advantage from his pupil's holiday. Mr.
Coyle saw what he meant, but he controlled himself ;
he only demanded, as his right, a truce of three days.
Owen Wingrave granted it, though as fostering sad
illusions this went visibly against his conscience ; but
before they separated the famous crammer remarked :

' All the same I feel as if I ought to see someone.
I think you mentioned to me that your aunt had
come to town ? '

' Oh yes ; she's in Baker Street. Do go and see
her,' the boy said comfortingly.

Mr. Coyle looked at him an instant. ' Have you
broached this folly to her ? '

4 Not yet — to no one. I thought it right to speak
to you first.'

' Oh, what you " think right " ! ' cried Spencer

OWEN WINGRAVE 263

Coyle, outraged by his young friend's standards. He
added that he would probably call on Miss Wingrave ;
after which the recreant youth got out of the house.

Owen Wingrave didn't however start punctually
for Eastbourne ; he only directed his steps to Ken-
sington Gardens, from which Mr. Coyle' s desirable
residence (he was terribly expensive and had a big
house) was not far removed. The famous coach ' put
up ' his pupils, and Owen had mentioned to the butler
that he would be back to dinner. The spring day
was warm to his young blood, and he had a book
in his pocket which, when he had passed into the
gardens and, after a short stroll, dropped into a chair,
he took out with the slow, soft sigh that finally ushers
in a pleasure postponed. He stretched his long legs
and began to read it ; it was a volume of Goethe's
poems. He had been for days in a state of the highest
tension, and now that the cord had snapped the relief
was proportionate ; only it was characteristic of him
that this deliverance should take the form of an intel-
lectual pleasure. If he had thrown up the probability
of a magnificent career it was not to dawdle along
Bond Street nor parade his indifference in the window
of a club. At any rate he had in a few moments
forgotten everything — the tremendous pressure, Mr.
Coyle' s disappointment, and even his formidable aunt
in Baker Street. If these watchers had overtaken
him, there would surely have been some excuse for
their exasperation. There was no doubt he was per-
verse, for his very choice of a pastime only showed
how he had got up his German.

' What the devil's the matter with him, do you
know ? ' Spencer Coyle asked that afternoon of young
Lechmere, who had never before observed the head
of the establishment to set a fellow such an example
of bad language. Young Lechmere was not only
Wingrave' s fellow-pupil, he was supposed to be his
intimate, indeed quite his best friend, and had uncon-

264 HENRY JAMES

sciously performed for Mr. Coyle the office of making
the promise of his great gifts more vivid by contrast.
He was short and sturdy and as a general thing unin-
spired, and Mr. Coyle, who found no amusement in
believing in him, had never thought him less exciting
than as he stared now out of a face from which you
could never guess whether he had caught an idea.
Young Lechmere concealed such achievements as if
they had been youthful indiscretions. At any rate
he could evidently conceive no reason why it should
be thought there was anything more than usual the
matter with the companion of his studies ; so Mr.
Coyle had to continue :

' He declines to go up. He chucks the whole
thing ! '

The first thing that struck young Lechmere in the
case was the freshness it had imparted to the governor's
vocabulary.

' He doesn't want to go to Sandhurst ? '

* He doesn't want to go anywhere. He gives up
the army altogether. He objects,' said Mr. Coyle,
in a tone that made young Lechmere almost hold
his breath, ' to the military profession.'

' Why, it has been the profession of all his family ! '

* Their profession ? It has been their religion !
Do you know Miss Wingrave ? '

' Oh, yes. Isn't she awful ? ' young Lechmere
candidly ejaculated.

His instructor demurred.

' She's formidable, if you mean that, and it's right
she should be ; because somehow in her very person,
good maiden lady as she is, she represents the might,
she represents the traditions and the exploits of the
British army. She represents the expansive pro-
perty of the English name. I think his family can
be trusted to come down on him, but every influence
should be set in motion. I want to know what yours
is. Can you do anything in the matter ? '

OWEN WINGRAVE 265

* I can try a couple of rounds with him,' said young
Lechmere reflectively. ' But he knows a fearful lot.
He has the most extraordinary ideas.'

' Then he has told you some of them — he has taken
you into his confidence ? '

' I've heard him jaw by the yard,' smiled the honest
youth. ' He has told me he despises it.'

' What is it he despises ? I can't make out.'

The most consecutive of Mr. Coyle's nurslings
considered a moment, as if he were conscious of a
responsibility.

' Why, I think, military glory. He says we take
the wrong view of it.'

' He oughtn't to talk to you that way. It's cor-
rupting the youth of Athens. It's sowing sedition.''

' Oh, I'm all right ! ' said young Lechmere. ' And
he never told me he meant to chuck it. I always
thought he meant to see it through, simply because
he had to. He'll argue on any side you like. It's
a tremendous pity — I'm sure he'd have a big career.'

' Tell him so, then ; plead with him ; struggle with
him — for God's sake.'

' I'll do what I can — I'll tell him it's a regular
shame.'

' Yes, strike that note — insist on the disgrace
of it.'

The young man gave Mr. Coyle a more perceptive
glance. ' I'm sure he wouldn't do anything dis-
honourable'.

4 Well — it won't look right. He must be made to
feel that — work it up. Give him a comrade's point
of view — that of a brother-in-arms.'

4 That's what I thought we were going to be ! '
young Lechmere mused romantically, much uplifted
by the nature of the mission imposed on him. ' He's
an awfully good sort.'

" No one will think so if he backs out ! ' said Spencer
Coyle.

Iv*

266 HENRY JAMES

' They mustn't say it to me ! ' his pupil rejoined
with a flush.

Mr. Coyle hesitated a moment, noting his tone and
aware that in the perversity of things, though this
young man was a born soldier, no excitement would
ever attach to his alternatives save perhaps on the
part of the nice girl to whom at an early day he was
sure to be placidly united. ' Do you like him very
much — do you believe in him ? '

Young Lechmere's life in these days was spent in
answering terrible questions ; but he had never been
subjected to so queer an interrogation as this. ' Be-
lieve in him ? Rather ! '

' Then save him ! '

The poor boy was puzzled, as if it were forced
upon him by this intensity that there was more in
such an appeal than could appear on the surface ;
and he doubtless felt that he was only entering into
a complex situation when after another moment,
with his hands in his pockets, he replied hopefully
but riot pompously : ' I daresay I can bring him
round ! '

n

Before seeing young Lechmere Mr. Coyle had deter-
mined to telegraph an inquiry to Miss Wingrave.
He had prepaid the answer, which, being promptly
put into his hand, brought the interview we have
just related to a close. He immediately drove off to
Baker Street, where the lady had said she awaited
him, and five minutes after he got there, as he sat
with Owen Wingrave's remarkable aunt, he repeated
over several times, in his angry sadness and with the
infallibility of his experience : ' He's so intelligent —
he's so intelligent ! ' He had declared it had been
a luxury to put such a fellow through.

4 Of course he's intelligent, what else could he be ?

OWEN WINGRAVE 267

We've never, that I know of, had but one idiot in the
family ! ' said Jane Wingrave. This was an allusion
that Mr. Coyle could understand, and it brought home
to him another of the reasons for the disappointment,
the humiliation, as it were, of the good people at Para-
more, at the same time that it gave an example of the
conscientious coarseness he had on former occasions
observed in his interlocutress. Poor Philip Wingrave,
her late brother's eldest son, was literally imbecile
and banished from view ; deformed, unsocial, irre-
trievable, he had been relegated to a private asylum
and had become among the friends of the family
only a little hushed lugubrious legend. All the hopes
of the house, picturesque Paramore, now unintermit-
tently old Sir Philip's rather melancholy home (his
infirmities would keep him there to the last), were
therefore collected on the second boy's head, which
nature, as if in compunction for her previous botch,
had, in addition to making it strikingly handsome,
filled with marked originalities and talents. These
two had been the only children of the old man's only
son, who, like so many of his ancestors, had given up
a gallant young life to the service of his country.
Owen Wingrave the elder had received his death-cut,
in close-quarters, from an Afghan sabre ; the blow
had come crashing across his skull. His wife, at that
time in India, was about to give birth to her third
child ; and when the event took place, in darkness
and anguish, the baby came lifeless into the world
and the mother sank under the multiplication of her
woes. The second of the little boys in England, who
was at Paramore with his grandfather, became the
peculiar charge of his aunt, the only unmarried one,
and during the interesting Sunday that, by urgent
invitation, Spencer Coyle, busy as he was, had, after
consenting to put Owen through, spent under that
roof, the celebrated crammer received a vivid impres-
sion of the influence exerted at least in intention by

268 HENRY JAMES

Miss Wingrave. Indeed the picture of this short
visit remained with the observant little man a curious
one — the vision of an impoverished Jacobean house,
shabby and remarkably ' creepy,' but full of character
still and full of felicity as a setting for the distinguished
figure of the peaceful old soldier. Sir Philip Win-
grave, a relic rather than a celebrity, was a small
brown, erect octogenarian, with smouldering eyes and
a studied courtesy. He liked to do the diminished
honours of his house, but even when with a shaky
hand he lighted a bedroom candle for a deprecating
guest it was impossible not to feel that beneath the
surface he was a merciless old warrior. The eye of
the imagination could glance back into his crowded
Eastern past — back at episodes in which his scrupulous
forms would only have made him more terrible.

Mr. Coyle remembered also two other figures — a
faded inoffensive Mrs. Julian, domesticated there by
a system of frequent visits as the widow of an officer
and a particular friend of Miss Wingrave, and a re-
markably clever little girl of eighteen, who was this
lady's daughter and who struck the speculative visitor
as already formed for other relations. She was very
impertinent to Owen, and in the course of a long walk
that he had taken with the young man and the effect
of which, in much talk, had been to clinch his high
opinion of him, he had learned (for Owen chattered
confidentially) that Mrs. Julian was the sister of a
very gallant gentleman, Captain Hume- Walker, of the
Artillery, who had fallen in the Indian Mutiny and
between whom and Miss Wingrave (it had been that
lady's one known concession) a passage of some deli-
cacy, taking a tragic turn, was believed to have been
enacted. They had been engaged to be married, but
she had given way to the jealousy of her nature —
had broken with him and sent him off to his fate,
which had been horrible. A passionate sense of
having wronged him, a hard eternal remorse had there-

OWEN WINGRAVE 269

upon taken possession of her, and when his poor sister,
linked also to a soldier, had by a still heavier blow
been left almost without resources, she had devoted
herself charitably to a long expiation. She had sought
comfort in taking Mrs. Julian to live much of the
time at Paramore, where she became an unremunerated
though not uncriticized housekeeper, and Spencer
Coyle suspected that it was a part of this comfort
that she could at her leisure trample on her. The im-
pression of Jane Wingrave was not the faintest he had
gathered on that intensifying Sunday — an occasion
singularly tinged for him with the sense of bereave-
ment and mourning and memory, of names never
mentioned, of the far-away plaint of widows and
the echoes of battles and bad news. It was" all mili-
tary indeed, and Mr. Coyle was made to shudder a
little at the profession of which he helped to open
the door to harmless young men. Miss Wingrave
moreover might have made such a. bad conscience
worse — so cold and clear a good one looked at him
out of her hard, fine eyes and trumpeted in her sonor-
ous voice.

She was a high, distinguished person ; angular but
not awkward, with a large forehead and abundant
black hair, arranged like that of a woman conceiving
perhaps excusably of her head as ' noble,' and irregu-
larly streaked to-day with white. If however she
represented for Spencer Coyle the genius of a military
race, it was not that she had the step of a grenadier
or the vocabulary of a camp-follower ; it was only
that such sympathies were vividly implied in the
general fact to which her very presence and each of
her actions and glances and tones were a constant
and direct allusion — the paramount valour of her
family. If she was military, it was because she sprang
from a military house and because she wouldn't for
the world have been anything but what the Wingraves
had been. She was almost vulger about her ancestors

270 HENRY JAMES

and if one had been tempted to quarrel with her, one
would have found a fair pretext in her defective sense
of proportion. This temptation however said no-
thing to Spencer Coyle, for whom as a strong character
revealing itself in colour and sound she was a spec-
tacle and who was glad to regard her as a force exerted
on his own side. He wished her nephew had more
of her narrowness instead of being almost cursed with
the tendency to look at things in their relations. He
wondered why when she came up to town she always
resorted to Baker Street for lodgings. He had never
known nor heard of Baker Street as a residence — he
associated it only with bazaars and photographers.
He divined in her a rigid indifference to everything
that was not the passion of her life. Nothing really
mattered to her but that, and she would have occupied
apartments in Whitechapel if they had been a feature
in her tactics. She had received her visitor in a
large cold, faded room, furnished with slippery seats
and decorated with alabaster vases and wax-flowers.
The only little personal comfort for which she appeared
to have looked out was a fat catalogue of the Army
and Navy Stores, which reposed on a vast, desolate
table-cover of false blue. Her clear forehead — it was
like a porcelain slate, a receptacle for addresses and
sums — had flushed when her nephew's crammer told
her the extraordinary news ; but he saw she was
fortunately more angry than frightened. She had
essentially, she would always have, too little imagina-
tion for fear, and the healthy habit moreover of fac-
ing everything had taught her that the occasion usually
found her a quantity to reckon with. Mr. Coyle saw
that her only fear at present could have been that of
not being able to prevent her nephew from being
absurd and that to such an apprehension as this she
was in fact inaccessible. Practically too she was not
troubled by surprise ; she recognized none of the
futile, none of the subtle sentiments. If Philip had

OWEN WINGRAVE 271

for an hour made a fool of himself she was angry ;
disconcerted as she would have been on learning that
he had confessed to debts or fallen in love with a low
girl. But there remained in any annoyance the saving
fact that no one could make a fool of Tier.

i I don't know when I've taken such an interest in
a young man — I think I never have, since I began
to handle them,' Mr. Coyle said. ' I like him, I
believe in him — it's been a delight to see how he wras
going.'

' Oh, I know how they go ! ' Miss Wingrave threw
back her head with a familiar briskness, as if a rapid
procession of the generations had flashed before her,
rattling their scabbards and spurs. Spencer Coyle
recognized the intimation tha.t she had nothing to
learn from anybody about the natural carriage of a
Wingrave, and he even felt convicted by her ne^t
words of being, in her eyes, with the troubled story
of his check, his weak complaint of his pupil, rather
a poor creature. ' If you like him,' she exclaimed,
* for mercy's sake keep him quiet ! '

Mr. Coyle began to explain to her that this was less
easy than she appeared to imagine ; but he perceived
that she understood very little of what he said. The
more he insisted that the boy had a kind of intellectual
independence, the more this struck her as a conclusive
proof that her nephew was a Wingrave and a soldier.
It was not till he mentioned to her that Owen had
spoken of the profession of arms as of something that
would be ' beneath ' him, it was not till her attention
was arrested by this intenser light on the complexity
of the problem that Miss Wingrave broke out after a
moment's stupefied reflection : ' Send him to see me
immediately ! '

* That's exactly what I wanted to ask your leave to
do. But I wanted also to prepare you for the worst,
to make you understand that he strikes me as really
obstinate and to suggest to you that the most powerful

272 HENRY JAMES

arguments at your command — especially if you should
be able to put your hand on some intensely practical
one — will be none too effective.'

' I think I've got a powerful argument.' Miss Win-
grave looked very hard at her visitor. He didn't know
in the least what it was, but he begged her to put it
forward without delay. He promised that their young
man should come to Baker Street that evening, men-
tioning however that he had already urged him to
spend without delay a couple of days at Eastbourne.
This led Jane Wingrave to inquire with surprise what
virtue there might be in that expensive remedy, and to
reply with decision when Mr. Coyle had said ' The
virtue of a little rest, a little change, a little relief to
overwrought nerves,' ' Ah, don't coddle him — he's
costing us a great deal of money ! I'll talk to him
and I'll take him down to Paramore ; then I'll send
him back to you straightened out.'

Spencer Coyle hailed this pledge superficially with
satisfaction, but before he quitted Miss Wingrave he
became conscious that he had really taken on a new
anxiety — a restlessness that made him say to
himself, groaning inwardly : * Oh, she is a grenadier
at bottom, and she'll have no tact. I don't know what
her powerful argument is ; I'm only afraid she'll be
stupid and make him worse. The old man's better —
he's capable of tact, though he's not quite an extinct
volcano. Owen will probably put him in a rage. In
short the difficulty is that the boy's the best of
them.'

Spencer Coyle felt afresh that evening at dinner that
the boy was the best of them. Young Wingrave (who,
he was pleased to observe, had not yet proceeded to the
seaside) appeared at the repast as usual, looking in-
evitably a little self-conscious, but not too original for
Bayswater. He talked very naturally to Mrs. Coyle,
who had thought him from the first the most beautiful
young man they had ever received ; so that the person

OWEN WINGKAVE 273

most ill at ease was poor Lechmere, who took great
trouble, as if from the deepest delicacy, not to meet the
eye of his misguided mate. Spencer Coyle however
paid the penalty of his own profundity in feeling more
and more worried ; he could so easily see that there
were all sorts of things in his young friend that the
people of Paramore wouldn't understand. He began
even already to react against the notion of his being
harassed — to reflect that after all he had a right to his
ideas — to remember that he was of a substance too fine
to be in fairness roughly used. It was in this way that
the ardent little crammer, with his whimsical percep-
tions and complicated sympathies, was generally
condemned not to settle down comfortably either into
his displeasures or into his enthusiasms. His love of
the real truth never gave him a chance to enjoy them.
He mentioned to Wingrave after dinner the propriety
of an immediate visit to Baker Street, and the young
man, looking ' queer,' as he thought — that is smiling
again with the exaggerated glory he had shown in their
recent interview — went off to face the ordeal. Spencer
Coyle noted that he was scared — lie was afraid of his
aunt ; but somehow this didn't strike him as a sign of
pusillanimity. He should have been scared, he was
well aware, in the poor boy's place, and the sight of his
pupil marching up to the battery in spite of his terrors
was a positive suggestion of the temperament of the
soldier. Many a plucky youth would have shirked
this particular peril.

1 He has got ideas ! ' young Lechmere broke out to
his instructor after his comrade had quitted the house.
He was evidently bewildered and agitated — he had
an emotion to work off. He had before dinner gone
straight at his friend, as Mr. Coyle had requested, and
had elicited from him that his scruples were founded
011 an overwhelming conviction of the stupidity — the
' crass barbarism' he called it — of war. His great
complaint was that people hadn't invented anything

274 HENRY JAMES

cleverer, and he was determined to show, the only way
he could, that he wasn't such an ass.

4 And he thinks all the great generals ought to have
been shot, and that Napoleon Bonaparte in particular,
she greatest, was a criminal, a monster for whom
language has no adequate name ! ' Mr. Coyle rejoined,
completing young Lechmere's picture. ' He favoured
you, I see, with exactly the same pearls of wisdom
that he produced for me. But I want to know what
you said.'

' I said they were awful rot ! ' Young Lechmere
spoke with emphasis, and he was slightly surprised to
hear Mr. Coyle laugh incongruously at this just declara-
tion and then after a moment continue :

' It's all very curious — I daresay there's something
in it. But it's a pity ! '

' He told me when it was that the question began to
strike him in that light. Four or five years ago, when
he did a lot of reading about all the great swells and
their campaigns — Hannibal and Julius Caesar, Marl-
borough and Frederick and Bonaparte. He has done
a lot of reading, and he says it opened his eyes. He
says that a wave of disgust rolled over him. He
talked about the " immeasurable misery " of wars,
and asked me why nations don't tear to pieces the
governments, the rulers that go in for them. He hates
poor old Bonaparte worst of all.'

' Well, poor old Bonaparte was a brute. He was a
frightful ruffian, Mr. Coyle unexpectedly declared.
' But I suppose you didn't admit that.'

4 Oh, I daresay he was objectionable, and I'm very
glad we laid him on his back. But the point I made
to Wingrave was that his own behaviour would excite
no end of remark.' Young Lechmere hesitated an
instant, then he added : ' I told him he must be pre-
pared for the worst.'

' Of course he asked you what you meant by the
"worst," ' said Spencer Coyle.

OWEN WINGRAVE 275

4 Yes, he asked me that, and do you know what I
said ? I said people would say that his conscientious
scruples and his wave of disgust are only a pretext.
Then he asked " A pretext for what ? "

4 Ah, he rather had you there ! ' Mr. Coyle exclaimed
with a little laugh that was mystifying to his pupil.

1 Not a bit — for I told him.'

4 What did you tell him ? '

Once more, for a few seconds, with his conscious eyes
in his instructor's, the young man hung fire.

* Why, what we spoke of a few hours ago. The

appearance he'd present of not having ' The

honest youth faltered a moment, then brought it out :
* The military temperament, don't you know ? But
do you know what he said to that ? ' young Lechmere
went on.

' Damn the military temperament ! ' the crammer
promptly replied.

Young Lechmere stared. Mr. Coyle's tone left him
uncertain if he were attributing the phrase to Wingrave
or uttering his own opinion, but he exclaimed :

4 Those were exactly his words ! '

4 He doesn't care,' said Mr. Coyle.

4 Perhaps not. But it isn't fair for him to abuse us
fellows. I told him it's the finest temperament in the
world, and that there's nothing so splendid as pluck
and heroism.'

' Ah ! there you had him.?

4 1 told him it was unworthy of him to abuse a gallant,
a magnificent profession. I told him there's no type
so fine as that of the soldier doing his duty.'

4 That's essentially your type, my dear boy.' Young
Lechmere blushed ; he couldn't make out (and the
danger was naturally unexpected to him) whether at
that moment he didn't exist mainly for the recreation
of his friend. But he was partly reassured by the genial
way this friend continued, laying a hand on his
shoulder : 4 Keep at him that way ! we may do some-

276 HENRY JAMES

thing. I'm extremely obliged to you.' Another doubt
however remained unassuaged — a doubt which led him
to exclaim to Mr. Coyle before they dropped the pain-
ful subject :

' He doesn't care ! But it's awfully odd he
shouldn't ! '

4 So it is, but remember >what you said this after-
noon— I mean about your not advising people to make
insinuations to you.''

' I believe I should knock a fellow down ! ' said
young Lechmere. Mr. Coyle had got up ; the conver-
sation had taken place while they sat together after
Mrs. Coyle' s withdrawal from the dinner- table and the
head of the establishment administered to his disciple,
on principles that were a part of his thoroughness, a
glass of excellent claret. The disciple, also on his feet,
lingered an instant, not for another ' go,' as he would
have called it, at the decanter, but to wipe his micro-
scopic moustache with prolonged and unusual care.
His companion saw he had something to bring out which
required a final effort, and waited for him an instant
with a hand on the knob of the door. Then as young
Lechmere approached him, Spencer Coyle grew
conscious of an unwonted intensity in the round and
ingenuous face* The boy was nervous, but he tried to
behave like a man of the world. ' Of course, it's
between ourselves,' he stammered, ' and I wouldn't
breathe such a word to any one who wasn't interested
in poor Wingrave as you are. But do you think he
funks it ? '

Mr. Coyle looked at him so hard for an instant that
he was visibly frightened at what he had said.

1 Funks it ! Funks what ? '

' Why, what we're talking about — the service.'
Young Lechmere gave a little gulp and added with a
naivete almost pathetic to Spencer Coyle : * The
dangers, you know ! '

' Do you mean he's thinking of his skin ? '

OWEN WINGRAVE 277

Young Lechmere's eyes expanded appealingly, and
what his instructor saw in his pink face — he even
thought he saw a tear — was the dread of a disappoint-
ment shocking in the degree in which the loyalty of
admiration had been great.

' Is he — is he afraid ? ' repeated the honest lad, with
a quaver of suspense.

' Dear no ! ' said Spencer Coyle, turning his back.

Young Lechmere felt a little snubbed and even a
little ashamed ; but he felt still more relieved.

in

Less than a week after this Spencer Coyle received
a note from Miss Wingrave, who had immediately
quitted London with her nephew. She proposed that
he should come down to Paramore for the following
Sunday — Owen was really so tiresome. On the spot,
in that house of examples and memories and in com-
bination with her poor dear father, who was ' dreadfully
annoyed,' it might be worth their while to make a last
stand. Mr. Coyle read between the lines of this letter
that the party at Paramore had got over a good deal of
ground since Miss Wingrave, in Baker Street, had
treated his despair as superficial. She was not an
insinuating woman, but she went so far as to put the
question on the ground of his conferring a particular
favour on an afflicted family ; and she expressed the
pleasure it would give them if he should be accom-
panied by Mrs. Coyle, for whom she inclosed a separate
invitation. She mentioned that she was also writing,
subject to Mr. Coyle' s approval, to young Lechmere.
She thought such a nice manly boy might do her
wretched nephew some good. The celebrated crammer
determined to embrace this opportunity ; and now it
was the case not so much that he was angry as that he
was anxious. As he directed his answer to Miss
Wingrave' s letter he caught himself smiling at the

278 HENRY JAMES

thought that at bottom he was going to defend his
young friend rather than to attack him. He said to
his wife, who was a fair, fresh, slow woman — a person
of much more presence than himself — that she had
better take Miss Wingrave at her word : it was such an
extraordinary, such a fascinating specimen of an old
English home. This last allusion was amicably sar-
castic— he had already accused the good lady more
than once of being in love with Owen Wingrave. She
admitted that she was, she even gloried in her passion ;
which shows that the subject, between them, was
treated in a liberal spirit. She carried out the joke by
accepting the invitation with eagerness. Young
Lechmere was delighted to do the same ; his instructor
had good-naturedly taken the view that the little break
would freshen him up for his last spurt.

It was the fact that the occupants of Paramore did
indeed take their trouble hard that struck Spencer
Coyle after he had been an hour or two in that fine
old house. This very short second visit, beginning
on the Saturday evening, was to constitute the strangest
episode of his life. As soon as he found himself in
private with his wife — they had retired to dress for
dinner — they called each other's attention with effu-
sion and almost with alarm to the sinister gloom that
was stamped on the place. The house was admirable
with its old grey front which came forward in wings
so as to form three sides of a square, but Mrs. Coyle
made no scruple to declare that if she had known in
advance the sort of impression she was going to receive
she would never have put her foot in it. She charac-
terized it as ' uncanny,' she accused her husband of
not having warned her properly. He had mentioned
to her in advance certain facts, but while she almost
feverishly dressed she had innumerable questions to
ask. He hadn't told her about the girl, the extra-
ordinary girl, Miss Julian — that is, he hadn't told her
that this young lady, who in plain terms was a mere

OWEN WINGRAVE 279

dependent, would be in effect, and as a consequence
of the way 'she carried herself, the most important
person in the house. Mrs. Coyle was already prepared
to announce that she hated Miss Julian's affectations.
Her husband, above all, hadn't told her that they
should find their young charge looking five years older.

' I couldn't imagine that,' said Mr. Coyle, ' nor
that the character of the crisis here would be quite
so perceptible. But I suggested to Miss Wingrave
the other day that they should press her nephew in
real earnest, and she has taken me at my word.
They've cut off his supplies — they're trying to starve
him out. That's not what I meant — but indeed I
don't quite know to-day what I meant. Owen feels
the pressure, but he won't yield.' The strange thing
was that, now that he was there, the versatile little
coach felt still more that his own spirit had been
caught up by a wave of reaction. If he was there it
was because he was on poor Owen's side. His whole
impression, his whole apprehension, had on the spot
become much deeper. There was something in the
dear boy's very resistance that began to charm him.
When his wife, in the intimacy of the conference I have
mentioned, threw off the mask and commended even
with extravagance the stand his pupil had taken (he
was too good to be a horrid soldier and it was noble
of him to suffer for his convictions — wasn't he as
upright as a young hero, even though as pale as a
Christian martyr ?) the good lady only expressed
the sympathy which, under cover of regarding his
young friend as a rare exception, he had already
recognized in his own soul.

For, half an hour ago, after they had had super-
ficial tea in the brown old hall of the house, his young
friend had proposed to him, before going to dress,
to take a turn outside, and had even, on the terrace,
as they walked together to one of the far ends of it,
passed his hand entreatingly into his companion's

280 HENRY JAMES

arm, permitting himself thus a familiarity unusual
between pupil and master and calculated to show
that he had guessed whom he could most depend on
to be kind to him. Spencer Coyle, on his own side,
had guessed something, so that he was not surprised
at the boy's having a particular confidence to make.
He had felt on arriving that each member of the party
had wished to get hold of him first, and he knew that
at that moment Jane Wingrave was peering through
the ancient blur of one of the windows (the house
had been modernized so little that the thick dim
panes were three centuries old) to see if her nephew
looked as if he were poisoning the visitor's mind.
Mr. Coyle lost no time therefore in reminding the
youth (and he took care to laugh as he did so) that
he had not come down to Paramore to be corrupted".
He had come down to make, face to face, a last appeal
to him — he hoped it wouldn't be utterly vain. Owen
smiled sadly as they went, asking him if he thought
he had the general air of a fellow who was going to
knock under.

' I think you look strange — I think you look ill,'
Spencer Coyle said very honestly. They had paused
at the end of the terrace.

' I've had to exercise a great power of resistance,
and it rather takes it out of one.'

' Ah, my dear boy, I wish your great power — for
you evidently possess it — were exerted in a better
cause ! '

Owen Wingrave smiled down at his small instructor.
' I don't believe that ! ' Then he added, to explain
why : ' Isn't what you want, if you're so good as to
think well of my character, to see me exert most
power, in whatever direction ? Well, this is the way
I exert most.' Owen Wingrave went on to relate
that he had had some terrible hours with his grand-
father, who had denounced him in a way to make one's
hair stand up on one's head. He had expected them

OWEN WINGRAVE 281

not to like it, not a bit, but he had had no idea they
would make such a row. His aunt was different, but
she was equally insulting. Oh, they had made him
feel they were ashamed of him ; they accused him of
putting a public dishonour on their name. He was
the only one who had ever backed out — he was the
first for three hundred years. Every one had known
he was to go up, and now every one would know he
was a young hypocrite who suddenly pretended to
have scruples. They talked of his scruples as you
wouldn't talk of a cannibal's god. His grandfather
had called him outrageous names. ' He called me —

he called me ' Here the young man faltered, his

voice failed him. He looked as haggard as was pos-
sible to a young man in such magnificent health.

1 1 probably know ! ' said Spencer Coyle, with a
nervous laugh.

Owen Wingrave's clouded eyes, as if they were
following the far-off consequences of things, rested
for an instant on a distant object. Then they met
his companion's and for another moment sounded
them deeply. ' It isn't true. No, it isn't. It's not
that ! '

' I don't suppose it is ! But what do you propose
instead of it ? '

' Instead of what ? '

' Instead of the stupid solution of war. If you
take that away you should suggest at least a substi-
tute.'

' That's for the people in charge, for governments
and cabinets,' said Owen Wingrave. ' They'll arrive
soon enough at a substitute, in the particular case, if
they're made to understand that they'll be hung if
they don't find* one. Make it a capital crime — that'll
quicken the wits of ministers ! ' His eyes brightened
as he spoke, and he looked assured and exalted. Mr.
Coyle gave a sigh of perplexed resignation — it was
a monomania. He fancied after; this for a moment

282 HENRY JAMES

that Owen was going to ask him if he too thought
he was a coward ; but he was relieved to observe
that he either didn't suspect him of it or shrank
uncomfortably from putting the question to the test.
Spencer Coyle wished to show confidence, but s6me-
how a direct assurance that he didn't doubt of his
courage appeared too gross a compliment — it would
be like saying he didn't doubt of his honesty. The
difficulty was presently averted by Owen's continu-
ing : ' My grandfather can't break the entail, but I
shall have nothing but this place, which, as you know,
is small and, with the way rents are going, has quite
ceased to yield an income. He has some money —
not much, but such as it is he cuts me off. My aunt
does the same — she has let me know her intentions.
She was to have left me her six hundred a year. It
was all settled ; but now what's settled is that I
don't get a penny of it if I give up the army. I must
add in fairness that I have from my mother three
hundred a year of my own. And I tell you the simple
truth when I say that I don't care a rap for the loss
of the money.' The young man drew a long, slow
breath, like a creature in pain ; then he subjoined :
' That's not what worries me ! '

' What are you going to do ? ' asked Spencer Coyle.

' I don't know ; perhaps nothing. Nothing great,
at all events. Only something peaceful ! '

Owen gave a weary smile, as if, worried as he was,
he could yet appreciate the humorous effect of such
a declaration from a Wingrave ; but what it sug-
gested to his companion, who looked up at him with
a sense that he was after all not a Wingrave for nothing
and had a military steadiness under fire, was the
exasperation that such a programme, uttered in such
a way and striking them as the last word of the in-
glorious, might well have engendered on the part of
his grandfather and his aunt. ' Perhaps nothing ' —
when he might cawy on the great tradition ! Yes,

OWEN WINGRAVE 283

he wasn't weak, and he was interesting ; but there was
a point of view from which he was provoking. 4 What
is it then that worries you ? ' Mr. Coyle demanded.

' Oh, the house — the very air and feeling of it.
There are strange voices in it that seem to mutter
at me — to say dreadful things as I pass. I mean
the general consciousness and responsibility of what
I'm doing. Of course it hasn't been easy for me —
not a bit. I assure you I don't enjoy it.' With a
light in them that was like a longing for justice Owen
again bent his eyes on those of the little coach ; then
he pursued : 'I've started up all the old ghosts.
The very portraits glower at me on the walls. There's
one of my great- great-grandfather (the one the extra-
ordinary story you know is about — the old fellow
who hangs on the second landing of the big staircase)
that fairly stirs on the canvas — just heaves a little
— when I come near it. I have to go up and down
stairs — it's rather awkward ! It's what my aunt calls
the family circle. It's all constituted here, it's a kind
of indestructible presence, it stretches away into the
past, and when I came back with her the other day
Miss Wingrave told me I wouldn't have the impudence
to stand in the midst of it and say such things. I
had to say them to my grandfather ; but now that
I've said them it seems to me that the question's
ended. I want to go away — I don't care if I never
come back again.'

' Oh, you are a soldier ; you must fight it out ! '
Mr. Coyle laughed.

The young man seemed discouraged at his levity,
but as they turned round, strolling back in the direc-
tion from which they had come, he himself smiled
faintly after an instant and replied :

4 Ah, we're tainted — all ! '

They walked in silence part of the way to the old
portico ; then Spencer Coyle, stopping short after
having assured himself that he was at a sufficient

284 HENRY JAMES

distance from the house not to be heard, suddenly
put the question : ' What does Miss Julian say ? '

' Miss Julian ? ' Owen had perceptibly coloured.

' I'm sure she hasn't concealed her opinion.'

* Oh, it's the opinion of the family-circle, for she's
a member of it, of course. And then she has her own
as well.'

4 Her own opinion ? '

' Her own family-circle.'

' Do you mean her mother — that patient lady ? '

' I mean more particularly her father, who fell in
battle. And her grandfather, and his father, and her
uncles and great-uncles — they all fell in battle.'

' Hasn't the sacrifice of so many lives been suffi-
cient ? Why should she sacrifice you ? '

' Oh, she hates me ! ' Owen declared, as they re-
sumed their walk.

4 Ah, the hatred of pretty girls for fine young men ! '
exclaimed Spencer Coyle.

He didn't believe in it, but his wife did, it appeared,
perfectly, when he mentioned this conversation while,
in the fashion that has been described, the visitors
dressed for dinner. Mrs. Coyle had already dis-
covered that nothing could have been nastier than
Miss Julian's manner to the disgraced youth during
the half-hour the party had spent in the hall ; and
it was this lady's judgement that one must have had
no eyes in one's head not to see that she was already
trying outrageously to flirt with young Lechmere.
It was a pity they had brought that silly boy : he
was down in the hall with her at that moment. Spencer
Coyle' s version was different ; he thought there were
finer elements involved. The girl's footing in the
house was inexplicable on any ground save that of
her being predestined to Miss Wingrave's nephew.
As the niece of Miss Wingrave's own unhappy in-
tended she had been dedicated early by this lady to
the office of healing by a union with Owen the tragic

OWEN WINGRAVE 285

breach that had separated their elders ; and if in
reply to this it was to be said that a girl of spirit
couldn't enjoy in such a matter having her duty cut
out for her, Owen's enlightened friend was ready
with the argument that a young person in Miss Julian's
position would never be such a fool as really to quarrel
with a capital chance. She was familiar at Para-
more and she felt safe ; therefore she might trust
herself to the amusement of pretending that she had
her option. But it was all innocent coquetry. She
had a curious charm, and it was vain to pretend that
the heir of that house wouldn't seem good enough to
a girl, clever as she might be, of eighteen. Mrs. Coyle
reminded her husband that the poor young man
was precisely now not of that house: this problem
was among the questions that exercised their wits
after the two men had taken the turn on the terrace.
Spencer Coyle told his wife that Owen was afraid of
the portrait of his great-great-grandfather. He would
show it to her, since she hadn't noticed it, on their
way downstairs.

4 Why of his great-great-grandfather more than of
any of the others ? *

* Oh, because he's the most formidable. He's the
one who's sometimes seen.'

4 Seen where ? ' Mrs. Coyle had turned round with
a jerk.

4 In the room he was found dead hi — the White
Room they've always called it.'

1 Do you mean to say the house has a ghost ? ' Mrs.
Coyle almost shrieked. ' You brought me here with-
out telling me ? '

4 Didn't I mention it after my other visit ? 7

4 Not a word. You only talked about Miss Win-
grave.'

4 Oh, I was full of the story — you have simply
forgotten.'

4 Then you should have reminded me ! *

286 HENRY JAMES

' If I had thought of it I would have held my peace,
for you wouldn't have come.'

* I wish, indeed, I hadn't ! * cried Mrs. Coyle.
*'What is the story ? '

' Oh, a deed of violence that took place here ages
ago. I think it was in George the First's time.
Colonel Wingrave, one of their ancestors, struck in
a fit of passion one of his children, a lad just growing
up, a blow on the head of which the unhappy child
died. The matter was hushed up for the hour — some
other explanation was put about. The poor boy was
laid out in one of those rooms on the other side of the
house, and amid strange smothered rumours the
funeral was hurried on. The next morning, when the
household assembled, Colonel Wingrave was missing ;
he was looked for vainly, and at last it occurred to
some one that he might perhaps be in the room from
which his child had been carried to burial. The
seeker knocked without an answer — then opened the
door. Colonel Wingrave lay dead on the floor, in his
clothes, as if he had reeled and fallen back, without
a wound, without a mark, without anything in his
appearance to indicate that he had either struggled
or suffered. He was a strong, sound man — there was
nothing to account for such a catastrophe. He is
supposed to have gone to the room during the night,
just before going to bed, in some fit of compunction
or some- fascination of dread. It was only after this
that the truth about the boy came out. But no one
ever sleeps in the room.'

Mrs. Coyle had fairly turned pale. ' I hope not !
Thank heaven they haven't put its there ! '

' We're at a comfortable distance; but I've seen
the gruesome chamber.'

' Do you mean you've been in it ? '

' For a few moments. They're rather proud of it
and my young friend showed it to me when I was
here before.'

OWEN WINGRAVE 287

Mrs. Coyle stared. ' And what is it like ? '

' Simply like an empty, dull, old-fashioned bed-
room, rather big, with the things of the " period "
in it. It's panelled from floor to ceiling, and the
panels evidently, years and years ago, were painted
white. But the paint has darkened with time and
there are three or four quaint little ancient " samplers,"
framed and glazed, hung on the walls.'

Mrs. Coyle looked round with a shudder. ' I'm
glad there are no samplers here ! I never heard
anything so jumpy ! Come down to dinner.'

On the staircase as they went down her husband
showed her the portrait of Colonel Wingrave — rather
a vigorous representation, for the place and period,
of a gentleman with a hard, handsome face, in a red
coat and a peruke. Mrs. Coyle declared that his
descendant Sir Philip was wonderfully like him ; and
her husband could fancy, though he kept it to him-
self, that if one should have the courage to walk about
the old corridors of Paramore at night one might
meet a figure that resembled him roaming, with the
restlessness of a ghost, hand in hand with the figure
of a tall boy. As he proceeded to the drawing-room
with his wife he found himself suddenly wishing that
he had made more of a point of his pupil's going to
Eastbourne. The evening however seemed to have
taken upon itself to dissipate any such whimsical
forebodings, for the grimness of the family-circle, as
Spencer Coyle had preconceived its composition, was
mitigated by an infusion of the ' neighbourhood.'
The company at dinner was recruited by two cheer-
ful couples — one of them the vicar and his wife —
and by a silent young man who had come down to
fish. This was a relief to Mr. Coyle, who had begun
to wonder what was after all expected of him and
why he had been such a fool as to come, and who
now felt that for the first hours at least the situation
would not have directly to be dealt with. Indeed he

288 HENRY JAMES

found, as he had found before, sufficient occupation
for his ingenuity in reading the various symptoms
of which the picture before him was an expression.
He should probably have an irritating day on the
morrow : he foresaw the difficulty of the long decorous
Sunday and how dry Jane Wingrave's ideas, elicited
in a strenuous conference, would taste. She and her
father would, make him feel that they depended upon
him for the impossible, and if they should try to
associate him with a merely stupid policy he might
end by telling them what he thought of it — an acci-
dent not required to make his visit a sensible mistake.
The old man's actual design was evidently to let their
friends see in it a positive mark of their being all
right. The presence of the great London coach was
tantamount to a profession of faith in the results of
the impending examination. It had clearly been
obtained from Owen, rather to Spencer Coyle's sur-
prise, that he would do nothing to interfere with
the apparent harmony. He let the allusions to his
hard work pass, and, holding his tongue about his
affairs, talked to the ladies as amicably as if he had
not been ' cut off.' When Spencer Coyle looked at
him once or twice across the table, catching his eye,
which showed an indefinable passion, he saw a puzzling
pathos in his laughing face : one couldn't resist a
pang for a young lamb so visibly marked for sacri-
fice. ' Hang him — what a pity he's such a fighter ! '
he privately sighed, with a want of logic that was only
superficial.

This idea however would have absorbed him more
if so much of his attention had not been given to
Kate Julian, who, now that he had her well before him,
struck him as a remarkable and even as a possibly
fascinating young woman. The fascination resided
not in any extraordinary prettiness, for if she was
handsome, with her long Eastern eyes, her magnifi-
cent hair and her general unabashed originality, he

OWEN WINGRAVE 289

had seen complexions rosier and features that pleased
him more : it resided in a strange impression that
she gave of being exactly the sort of person whom,
in her position, common considerations, those of
prudence and perhaps even a little those of decorum,
would have enjoined on her not to be. She was what
was vulgarly termed a dependent — penniless, patro-
nized, tolerated ; but something in her aspect and
manner signified that if her situation was inferior,
her spirit, to make up for it, was above precautions or
submissions. It was not in the least that she was
aggressive, she was too indifferent for that ; it was
only as if, having nothing either to gain or to lose,
she could afford to do as she liked. It occurred to
Spencer Coyle that she might really have had more at
stake than her imagination appeared to take account
of ; whatever it was at any rate he had never seen
a young woman at less pains to be on the safe side.
He wondered inevitably how the peace was £ept
between Jane Wingrave and such an inmate as this ;
but those questions of course were unfathomable
deeps. Perhaps Kate Julian lorded it even over her
protectress. The other time he was at Paramore he
had received an impression that, with Sir Philip
beside her, the girl could fight with her back to the
wall. She amused Sir Philip, she charmed him, and
he liked people who weren't afraid ; between him
and his daughter moreover there was no doubt which
was the higher in command. Miss Wingrave took
many things for granted, and most of all the rigour of
discipline and the fate of the vanquished and the
captive.

But between their clever boy and so original a
companion of his childhood what odd relation would
have grown up ? It couldn't be indifference, and
yet on the part of happy, handsome, youthful crea-
tures it was still less likely to be aversion. They
weren't Paul and . Virginia, but they must have had

228 L

290 HENRY JAMES

their common summer and their idyll: no nice girl
could have disliked such a nice fellow for anything
btft not liking her, and no nice fellow could have
resisted such propinquity. Mr. Coyle remembered
indeed that Mrs. Julian had spoken to him as if the
propinquity had been by no means constant, owing
to her daughter's absences at school, to say nothing
of Owen's ; her visits to a few friends who were so
kind as to ' take her ' from time to time ; her sojourns
in London — so difficult to manage, but still managed
by God's help — for ' advantages,' for drawing and
singing, especially drawing or rather painting, in oils,
in which she had had immense success. But the
good lady had also mentioned that the young people
were quite brother and sister, which was a little, after
all, like Paul and Virginia. Mrs. Coyle had been
right, and it was apparent that Virginia was doing
her best to make the time pass agreeably for young
Lecnmere. There was no such whirl of conversation
as to render it an effort for Mr. Coyle to reflect on
these things, for the tone of the occasion, thanks
principally to the other guests, was not disposed to
stray — it tended to the repetition of anecdote and
the discussion of rents, topics that huddled together
like uneasy animals. He could judge how intensely
his hosts wished the evening to pass off as if nothing
had happened ; and this gave him the measure of
their private resentment. Before dinner was over he
found himself fidgety about his second pupil. Young
Lechmere, since he began to cram, had done all that
might have been expected of him ; but this couldn't
blind his instructor to a present perception of his
being in moments of relaxation as innocent as a babe.
Mr. Coyle had considered that the amusements of
Paramore would probably give him a fillip, and the
poor fellow's manner testified to the soundness of the
forecast. The fillip had been unmistakably adminis-
tered ; it had come in the form of a revelation. The

OWEN WINGRAVE 291

light on young Lechmere's brow announced with a
candour that was almost an appeal for compassion, or
at least a deprecation of ridicule, that he had never
seen anything like Miss Julian.

In the drawing-room after dinner the girl found
an occasion to approach Spencer Coyle. She stood
before him a moment, smiling while she opened and
shut her fan, and then she said abruptly, raising her
strange eyes : * I know what you've come for, but it
isn't any use.'

' I've come to look after, you a little. Isn't that
any use ? '

' It's very kind. But I'm not the question of the
hour. You won't do anything with Owen.'

Spencer Coyle hesitated a moment. ' What will
you do with his young friend ? '

She stared, looked round her.

' Mr. Lechmere ? Oh, poor little lad ! We've been
talking about Owen. He admires him so.'

' So do I. I should tell you that.' ,

1 So do we all. That's why we're in such despair.'

' Personally then you'd like him to be a soldier ? '
Spencer Coyle inquired.

4 I've quite set my heart on it. I adore the army
and I'm awfully fond of my old playmate,' said Miss
Julian.

Her interlocutor remembered the young man's own
different version of her attitude ; but he judged it loyal
not to challenge the girl.

4 It's not conceivable that your own playmate
shouldn't be fond of you. He must therefore wish to
please you ; and I don't see why — between you — you
don't set the matter right.'

' Wish to please me ! ' Miss Julian exclaimed.
' I'm sorry to say he shows no such desire. He thinks

292 HENRY JAMES

me an impudent wretch. I've told him what I think
of him, and he simply hates me.'

' But you think so highly ! You just told me you
admire him.'

' ' His talents, his possibilities, yes ; even his appear-
ance, if I may allude to such a matter. But I don't
admire his present behaviour.'

4 Have you had the question out with him ? '
Spencer Coyle asked.

' Oh, yes, I've ventured to be frank — the occasion
seemed to excuse it. He couldn't like what I said.'

' What did you say ? '

Miss Julian, thinking a moment, opened and shut
her fan again.

' Why, that such conduct isn't that of a gentleman ! '

Alter she had spoken her eyes met Spencer Coyle's,
who looked into their charming depths.

4 Do you want then so much to send him off to be
killed ? '

' How odd for you to ask that — in such a way ! ' she
replied with a laugh. ' I don't understand your
position : I thought your line was to make soldiers ! '

' You should take my little joke. But, as regards
Owen Wmgrave, there's no " making " needed,' Mr.
Coyle added. * To my sense ' — the little crammer
paused a moment, as if with a consciousness of respon-
sibility for his paradox — ' to my sense he is, 'in a high
sense of the term, a fighting man.'

* Ah, let him prove it ! ' the girl exclaimed, turning
away.

Spencer Coyle let her go ; there was something in
her tone that annoyed and even a little shocked him.
There had evidently been a violent passage between
these young people, and the reflection that such a
matter was after all none of his business only made
him more sore. It was indeed a military house, and
she was at any rate a person wrho placed her ideal of
manhood (young persons doubtless always had their

OWEN WINGRAVE 293

ideals of manhood) in the type of the belted warrior.
It was a taste like another ; but, even a quarter of an
hour later, finding himself near young Lechmere, in
whom this type was embodied, Spencer Coyle was still
so ruffled that he addressed the innocent lad with a
certain magisterial dryness. ' You're not to sit up
late, you know. That's not what I brought you down
for.' The dinner-guests were taking leave and the bed-
room candles twinkled in a monitory row. Young
Lechmere however was too agreeably agitated to be
accessible to a snub : he had a happy preoccupation
which almost engendered a grin.

' I'm only too eager for bedtime. Do you know
there's an awfully jolly room ? '

' Surely they haven't put you there ? '

* No indeed : no one has passed a night in it for ages.
But that's exactly what I want to do — it would be
tremendous fun.'

4 And have you been trying to get Miss Julian's
permission ? '

1 Oh, she can't give leave, she says. But she believes
in it, and she maintains that no man dare.'

' No man shall / A man in your critical position
in particular must have a quiet night,' said Spencer
Coyle.

Young Lechmere gave a disappointed but reasonable
sigh.

* Oh, all right. But mayn't I sit up for a little go
at Wingrave ? I haven't had any yet.'

Mr. Coyle looked at his watch.

' You may smoke one cigarette.'

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned round
to see his wife tilting candle-grease upon his coat.
The ladies were going to bed and it was Sir Philip's
inveterate hour ; but Mrs. Coyle confided to her hus-
band that after the dreadful things he had told her
she positively declined to be left alone, for no matter
how short an interval, in any part of the house. He

294 HENRY JAMES

promised to follow her in three minutes, and after the
orthodox handshakes the ladies rustled away. The
forms were kept up at Paramore as bravely as if the old
house had no present heartache. The only one of which
Spencer Coyle noticed the omission was some salutation
to himself from Kate Julian. She gave him neither a
word nor a glance, but he saw her look hard at Owen
Wingrave. Her mother, timid and pitying, was appar-
ently the only person from whom this young man
caught an inclination of the head. Miss Wingrave
marshalled the three ladies — her little procession of
twinkling tapers — up the wide oaken stairs and past
the watching portrait of her ill-fated ancestor. Sir
Philip's servant appeared and offered his arm to the
old man, who turned a perpendicular back on poor
Owen when the boy made a vague movement to antici-
pate this office. Spencer Coyle learned afterwards
that before Owen had forfeited favour it had always,
when he was at home, been his privilege at bedtime to
conduct his grandfather ceremoniously to rest. Sir
Philip's habits were contemptuously different now.
His apartments were on the lower floor, and he shuffled
stiffly off to them with his valet's help, after fixing
for a moment significantly on the most responsible
of his visitors the thick red ray, like the glow of stirred
embers, that always made his eyes conflict oddly with
his mild manners. They seemed to say to Spencer
Coyle, * We'll let the young scoundrel have it to-
morrow ! ' One might have gathered from them that
the young scoundrel, who had now strode to the other
end of the hall, had at least forged a cheque. Mr. Coyle
watched him an instant, saw him drop nervously into
a chair and then with a restless movement get up. The
same movement brought him back to where his late
instructor stood addressing a last injunction to young
Lechmere.

* I'm going to bed and I should like you particularly
to conform to what I said to you a short time ago.

OWEN WINGRAVE 295

Smoke a single cigarette with your friend here and then
go to your room. You'll have me down on you if I
hear of your having, during the night, tried any prepos-
terous games.' Young Lechmere, looking down with
his hands in his pockets, said nothing — he only poked
at the corner of a rug with his toe ; so that Spencer
Coyle, dissatisfied with so tacit a pledge, presently
went on, to Owen : ' I must request you, Wingrave, not
to keep this sensitive subject sitting up — and indeed to
put him to bed and turn his key in the door.' As Owen
stared an instant, apparently not understanding the
motive of so much solicitude, he added : ' Lechmere
has a morbid curiosity about one of your legends — of
your historic rooms. Nip it in the bud.'

4 Oh, the legend's rather good, but I'm afraid the
room's an awful sell ! ' Owen laughed.

' You know you don't believe that, my boy ! ' young
Lechmere exclaimed.

' I don't think he does,' said Mr. Coyle, noticing
Owen's mottled flush.

4 He wouldn't try a night there himself ! ' young
Lechmere pursued.

* I know who told you that,' rejoined Owen, lighting
a cigarette in an embarrassed way at the candle, with-
out offering one to either of his companions.

1 Well, what if she did ? ' asked the younger of these
gentlemen, rather red. ' Do you want them all your-
self ? ' he continued facetiously, fumbling in the cigar-
ette box.

Owen Wingrave only smoked quietly ; then he
exclaimed :

' Yes — what if she did ? But she doesn't know,'
he added.

' She doesn't know what ? '

' She doesn't know anything ! — I'll tuck him in ! '
Owen went on gaily to Mr. Coyle, who saw that his
presence, now that a certain note had been struck,
made the young men uncomfortable. He was

296 HENRY JAMES

curious, but there was a kind of discretion, with his
pupils, that he had always pretended to practise ;
a discretion that however didn't prevent him as he
took his way upstairs from recommending them not
to be donkeys.

At the top of the staircase, to his surprise, he met
Miss Julian, who was apparently going down again.
She had not begun to undress, nor was she perceptibly
disconcerted at seeing him. She nevertheless in a
manner slightly at variance with the rigour with which
she had overlooked him ten minutes before, dropped
the words : 'I'm going down to look for something.
I've lost a jewel.'

* A jewel ? '

* A rather good turquoise j out of my locket. As it's

the only ornament I have the honour to possess ! '

And she passed down.

' Shall I go with you and help you ? ' asked Spencer
Coyle.

The girl paused a few steps below him, looking back
with her Oriental eyes.

* Don't I hear voices hi the hall ? '

' Those remarkable young men are there.'

* They'll help me.' And Kate Julian descended.

Spencer Coyle was tempted to follow her, but remem-
bering his standard of tact he rejoined his wife in their
apartment. He delayed however to go to bed, and
though he went into his dressing-room, he couldn't
bring himself even to take off his coat. He pretended
for half an hour to read a novel ; after which, quietly,
or perhaps I should say agitatedly, he passed from the
dressing-room into the corridor.' He followed this
passage to the door of the room which he knew to have
been assigned to young Lechmere and was comforted
td see that it was closed. Half an hour earlier "he had
seen it standing open ; therefore he could take for
granted that the bewildered boy had come to bed. It
was of this he had wished to assure himself, and having

OWEN WINGRAVE 297

done so he was on the point of retreating. But at the
same instant he heard a sound in the room — the occu-
pant was doing, at the window, something which
showed him that he might knock without the reproach
of waking his pupil up. Young Lechmere came in
fact to the door in his shirt and trousers. He admitted
his visitor in some surprise, and when the door was
closed again Spencer Coyle said :

* I don't want to make your life a burden to you, but
I had it on my conscience to see for myself that you're
not exposed to undue excitement.'

' Oh, there's plenty of that ! ' said the ingenuous
youth. ' Miss Julian came down again.'
' To look for a turquoise ? '

* So she said.'

' Did she find it ? '

' I don't know. I came up. I left her with poor
Wingrave.'

' Quite the right thing,' said Spencer Coyle.

' 1 don't know,' young Lechmere repeated uneasily.
* I left them quarrelling.'

' What about ? '

4 1 don't understand. They're a quaint pair ! '

Spencer Coyle hesitated. He had, fundamentally,
principles and scruples, but what he had in particular
just now was a curiosity, or rather, to recognize it
for what it was, a sympathy, which brushed them
away.

' Does it strike you that she's down on him ? ' he"
permitted himself to inquire.

' Rather ! — when she tells him he lies ! '

' What do you mean ? '

4 Why, before me. It made me leave them ; it was
getting too hot. I stupidly brought up the question
of the haunted room again, and said how sorry I was
that I had had to promise you not to try my luck with
it.'

* You can't pry about in that gross way in other

L*

298 HENRY JAMES

people's houses — you can't take such liberties, you
know ! ' Mr Coyle interjected.

* I'm all right — see how good I am. I don't want
to go near the place ! ' said young Lechmere, con-
fidingly. * Miss Julian said to me "Oh, I daresay
you'd risk it, but"- — and she turned and laughed at
poor Owen — -"that's more than we can expect of a
gentleman who has taken his extraordinary line." I
could see that something had already passed between
them on the subject — some teasing or challenging of
hers. It may have been only chaff, but his chucking
the profession had evidently brought up the question
of his pluck.'

' And what did Owen say ? '

4 Nothing at first ; but presently he brought out
very quietly : " I spent all last night in the confounded
place." We both stared and cried out at this and I
asked him what he had seen there. He said he had
seen nothing, and Miss Julian replied that he ought to
tell his story better than that — he ought to make some-
thing good of it. " It's not a story — it's a simple fact,"
said he ; on which she jeered at him and wanted to
know why, if he had done it, he hadn't told her in the
morning, since he knew what she thought of him.
*' I know, but I don't care," said Wingrave. This
made her angry, and she asked him quite seriously
whether he would care if he should know she believed
him to be trying to deceive us.'

* Ah, what a brute ! ' cried Spencer Coyle.

* She's a most extraordinary girl — I don't know
what she's up to.'

' Extraordinary indeed — to be romping and bandying
words at that hour of the night with fast young men ! '

Young Lechmere reflected a moment. ' I mean
because I think she likes him.'

Spencer Coyle was so struck with this unwonted
symptom of subtlety that he flashed out : ' And do
you think he likes her ? '

OWEN WINGRAVE 299

But his interlocutor only replied with a puzzled
sigh and a plaintive ' I don't know — I give it up ! —
I'm sure he did see something or hear something,'
young Lechmere added.

' In that ridiculous place ? What makes you
sure ? '

' I don't know — he looks as if he had. He behaves
as if he had.'

' Why then shouldn't he mention it ? '

Young Lechmere thought a moment. * Perhaps
it's too gruesome ! '

Spencer Coyle gave a laugh. ' Aren't you glad
then you're not in it ? '

' Uncommonly ! '

* Go to bed, you goose,' said Spencer Coyle, with
another laugh. ' But before you go tell me what
he said when she told him he was trying to deceive
you.'

' " Take me there yourself, then, and lock me in ! "

' And did she take him ? '

4 1 don't know — I came up.'

Spencer Coyle exchanged a long look with his
pupil.

' I don't think they're in the hall now. Where's
Owen's own room ? '

* I haven't the least idea.'

Mr. Coyle was perplexed ; he was in equal ignor-
ance, and he couldn't go about trying doors. He
bade young Lechmere sink to slumber, and came
out into the passage. He asked himself if he should
be able to find his way to the room Owen had for-
merly shown him, remembering that in common with
many of the others it had its ancient name painted
upon it. But the corridors of Paramore were intri-
cate ; moreover some of the servants would still be
up, and he didn't wish to have the appearance of
roaming over the house. He went back to his own
quarters, where Mrs. Coyle soon perceived that his

$00 HENRY JAMES

inability to rest had not subsided. As she confessed
for her own part, in the dreadful place, to an increased
sense of * creepiness,' they spent the early part of the
night in conversation, so that a portion of their vigil
was inevitably beguiled by her husband's account of
his colloquy with little Lechmere and by their ex-
change of opinions upon it. Toward two o'clock Mrs.
Coyle became so nervous about their persecuted
young friend, and so possessed by the fear that that
wicked girl had availed herself of his invitation to
put him to an abominable test, that she begged her
husband to go and look into the matter at whatever
cost to his own equilibrium. But Spencer Coyle,
perversely, had ended, as the perfect stillness of the
night settled upon them, by charming himself into a
tremulous acquiescence in Owen's readiness to face
a formidable ordeal — an ordeal the more formidable
to an excited imagination as the poor boy now knew
from the experience .of the previous night how reso-
lute an effort he should have to make. ' I hope he is
there,' he said to his wife : ' it puts them all so in
the wrong ! ' At any rate he couldn't take upon
himself to explore a house he knew so little. He
was inconsequent — he didn't prepare for bed. He
sat in the dressing-room with his light and his novel,
waiting to find himself nodding. At last however
Mrs. Coyle turned over and ceased to talk, and at
last he too fell asleep in his chair. How long he
slept he only knew afterwards by computation ; what
he knew to begin with was that he had started up, in
confusion, with the sense of a sudden appalling sound.
His sense cleared itself quickly, helped doubtless by a
confirmatory cry of horror from his wife's room.
But he gave no heed to his wife ; he had already
bounded into the passage. There the sound was
repeated — it was the ' Help ! help ! ' of a woman in
agonized terror. It came from a distant quarter of
the house, but the quarter was sufficiently indicated.

OWEN WINGRAVE 301

Spencer Coyle rushed straight before him, with the
sound of opening doors and alarmed voices in his
ears and the faintness of the early dawn in his eyes.
At a turn of one of the passages he came upon the
white figure of a girl in a swoon on a bench, and in
the vividness of the revelation he read as he went
that Kate Julian, stricken in her pride too late with
a chill of compunction for what she had mockingly
done, had, after coming to release the victim of her
derision, reeled away, overwhelmed, from the catas-
trophe that was her work — the catastrophe that the
next moment he found himself aghast at on the
threshold of an open door. Owen Wingrave, dressed
as he had last seen him, lay dead on the spot on which
his ancestor had been found. He looked like a young
soldier on a battle-field.

FOUR MEETINGS

I SAW her only four times, but I remember them
vividly ; she made an impression upon me. I thought
her very pretty and very interesting — a charming
specimen of a type. I am very sorry to hear of her
death ; and yet, when I think of it, why should I be
sorry ? The last time I saw her she was certainly
not But I will describe all our meetings in order.

The first one took place in the country, at a little
tea-party, one snowy night. It must have been some
seventeen years ago. My friend Latouche, going to
spend Christmas with his mother, had persuaded me
to go with him, and the good lady had given in our
honour the entertainment of which I speak. To me
it was really entertaining ; I had never been in the
depths of New England at that season. It had been
snowing all day and the drifts were knee-high. I

302 HENRY JAMES

wondered how the ladies had made their way to the
house ; but I perceived that at Grim winter a con-
versazione offering the attraction of two gentlemen
from New. York was felt to be worth an effort.

Mrs. Latouche in the course of the evening asked
me if I ' didn't want to ' show the photographs to
some of the young ladies. The photographs were in
a couple of great portfolios, and had been brought
home by her son, who, like myself, was lately returned
from Europe. I looked round and was struck with
the fact that most of the young ladies were provided
with an object of interest more absorbing than the
most vivid sun -picture. But there was a person
standing alone near the mantel-shelf, and looking
round the room with a small, gentle smile which
seemed at odds, somehow, with her isolation. I
looked at her a moment, and then said, ' I should like
to show them to that young lady.'

' Oh yes,' said Mrs. Latouche, ' she is just the per-
son. She doesn't care for flirting ; I will speak to her.'

I rejoined that if she did not care for flirting, she
was, perhaps, not just the person ; but Mrs. Latouche
had already gone to propose the photographs to her.

' She's delighted,' she said, coming back. ' She is
just the person, so quiet and so bright.' And then
she told me the young lady was, by name, Miss Caro-
line Spencer, and with this she introduced me.

Miss Caroline Spencer was not exactly a beauty,
but she was a charming little figure. She must have
been close upon thirty, but she was made almost like
a little girl, and she had the complexion of a child.
She had a very pretty head, and her hair was arranged
as nearly as possible like the hair of a Greek bust,
though indeed it was to be doubted if she had ever
seen a Greek bust. She was * artistic,' I suspected,
so far as Grimwinter allowed such tendencies. She
had a soft, surprised eye, and thin lips, with very
pretty teeth. Round her neck she wore what ladies

FOUR MEETINGS 303

call, I believe, a ' ruche,' fastened with a very small
pin in pink coral, and in her hand she carried a fan
made of plaited straw and adorned with pink ribbon.
She wore a scanty black silk dress. She spoke with
a kind of soft precision, showing her white teeth
between her narrow but tender-looking lips, and she
seemed extremely pleased, even a little fluttered, at
tfce prospect of my demonstrations. These went
forward very smoothly, after I had moved the port-
folios out of their corner and placed a couple of chairs
near a lamp. The photographs were usually things
I knew — large views of Switzerland, Italy, and Spain,
landscapes, copies of famous buildings, pictures and
statues. I said what I could about them, and my
companion, looking at them as I held them up, sat
perfectly still, with her straw fan raised to her under-
lip. Occasionally, as I laid one of the pictures down,
she said very softly, * Have you seen that place ? '
I usually answered that I had seen it several times
(I had been a great traveller), and then I felt that
she looked at me askance for a moment with her
pretty eyes. I had asked her at the outset whether
she had been to Europe ; to this she answered, ' No,
no, no,' in a little quick, confidential whisper. But
after that, though she never took her eyes off the
pictures, she said so little that I was afraid she was
bored. Accordingly, after we had finished one port-
folio, I offered, if she desired it, to desist. I felt that
she was not bored, but her reticence puzzled me and
I wished to make her speak. I turned round to look
at her, and saw that there was a faint flush in each
of her cheeks. She was waving her little fan to and
fro. Instead of looking at me she fixed her eyes
upon the other portfolio, which was leaning against
the table.

1 Won't you show me that ? ' she asked, with a
little tremor in her voice. I could almost have be-
lieved she was agitated.

304 HENRY JAMES

' With pleasure,' I answered, ' if you are not
tired.'

' No, I am not tired,' she affirmed. ' I like it — I
love it.'

And as I took up the other portfolio she laid her
hand upon it, rubbing it softly.

' And have you been here too ? ' she asked.

On my opening the portfolio it appeared that I
had been there. One of the first photographs was a
large view of the Castle of Chillon, on the Lake of
Geneva.

* Here,' I said, ' I have been many a time. Is it
not beautiful ? ' And I pointed to the perfect reflec-
tion of the rugged rocks and pointed towers in the
clear, still water. She did not say, ' Oh, enchanting ! '
and push it away to see the next picture. She looked
awhile, and then she asked if it was not where Boni-
vard, about whom Byron wrote, was confined. I
assented, and tried to quote some of Byron's verses,
but in this attempt I succeeded imperfectly.

She fanned herself a moment and then repeated
the lines correctly, in a soft, flat, and yet agreeable
voice. By the time she had finished, she was blush-
ing. I complimented her and told her she was per-
fectly equipped for visiting Switzerland and Italy.
She looked at me askance again, to see whether I was
serious, and I added, that if she wished to recognize
Byron's descriptions she must go abroad speedily ;
Europe was getting sadly dis-Byronised.

4 How soon must I go ? ' she asked.

' Oh, I will give you ten years.'

' I think I can go within ten years,' she answered
very soberly.

6 Well,' I said, * you will enjoy it immensely ; you
will find it very charming.' And just then I came
upon a photograph of some nook in a foreign city
which I had been very fond of, and which recalled
tender memories. I discoursed (as I suppose) with

FOUR MEETINGS 305

a certain eloquence ; my companion sat listening,
breathless.

1 Have you been very long in foreign lands ? ' she
asked, some time after I had ceased.

' Many years,' I said.

' And have you travelled everywhere ? '

* I have travelled a great deal. I am very fond
of it ; and, happily, I have been able.'

Again she gave me her sidelong gaze. ' And do
you know the foreign languages ? '
1 After a fashion.'

* Is it hard to speak them ? '

* I don't believe you would find it hard,' I gallantly
responded.

' Oh, I shouldn't want to speak — I should only
want to listen,' she said. Then, after a pause,
she added — * They say the French theatre is so
beautiful.'

' It is the best in the world.'

* Did you go there very often ? '

* When I was first in Paris I went every night.'

* Every night ! ' And she opened her clear eyes
very wide. ' That to me is — ' and she hesitated a
moment — ' is very wonderful.' A few minutes later
she asked — ' Which country do you prefer ? '

' There is one country I prefer ;to all others. I think
you would do the same.'

She looked at me a moment, and then she said
softly—' Italy ? '

' Italy,' I answered softly, too ; and for a moment
we looked at each other. She looked as pretty as if,
instead of showing her photographs, I had been making
love to her. To increase the analogy, she glanced
away, blushing. There was a silence, which she broke
at last by saying —

' That is the place, which — in particular — I thought
of going to.'

* Oh, that's the place — that's the place ! ' I said.

306 HENRY JAMES

She looked at two or three photographs in silence.
* They say it is not so dear.'

' As some other countries ? Yes, that is not the
least of its charms.'

' But it is all very dear, is it not ? '

' Europe, you mean ? '

' Going there and travelling. That has been the
trouble. I have very little money. I give lessons,'
said Miss Spencer.

4 Of course one must have money,' I said, ' but one
can manage with a moderate amount.'

' I think I should manage. I have laid something
by, and I am always adding a little to it. It's all for
that.' She paused a moment, and then went on with
a kind of suppressed eagerness, as if telling me the
story were a rare, but a possibly impure, satisfaction.
' But it has not been only the money ; it has been
everything. Everything has been against it. I have
waited and waited. It has been a mere castle in the
air. I am almost afraid to talk about it. Two or
three times it has been a little nearer, and then I have
talked about it and it has melted away. I have talked
about it too much,' she said, hypocritically ; for I saw
that such talking was now a small tremulous ecstasy.
4 There is a lady who is a great friend of mine ; she
doesn't want to go ; I always talk to her about it. I
tire her dreadfully. She told me once she didn't know
what would become of me. I should go crazy if I did
not go to Europe, and I should certainly go crazy if I
did.'

' Well,' I said, * you have not gone yet and neverthe-
less you are not crazy.'

She looked at me a moment, and said — ' I'm not so
sure. I don't think of anything else. I am always
thinking of it. It prevents me from thinking of things
that are nearer home — things that I ought to attend to
That is a kind of craziness.'

' The cure for it is to go,' I said.

FOUR MEETINGS 307

' I have a faith that I shall go. I have a cousin in
Europe ! ' she announced.

We turned over some more photographs, and I asked
her if she had always lived at Grimwinter.

' Oh, no, sir,' said Miss Spencer. * I have spent
twenty-three months in Boston.'

I answered, jocosely, that in that case foreign lands
would probably prove a disappointment to her ; but
I quite failed to alarm her.

' I know more about them than you might think,'
she said, with her shy, neat little smile. ' I mean by
reading ; I have read a great deal. I have not only
read Byron ; I have read histories and guide-books.
I know I shall like it ! '

' I understand your case,' I rejoined. ' You have
the native American passion — the passion for the
picturesque. With us, I think, it is primordial —
antecedent to experience. Experience comes and only
shows us something we have dreamt of.'

' I think that is very true,' said Caroline Spencer.
* I have dreamt of everything ; I shall know it all ! '

' I am afraid you have wasted a great deal of time.'

' Oh yes, that has been my great wickedness.'

The people about us had begun to scatter ; they were
taking their leave. She got up and put out her hand
to me, timidly, but with a peculiar brightness in her
eyes.

4 1 am going back there,' I said, as I shook hands
with her. ' I shall look out for you.5

' I will tell you,' she answered, ' if I am disappointed.'

And she went away, looking delicately agitated and
moving her little straw fan.

ii

A few months after this I returned to Europe, and
some three years elapsed. I had been living in Paris,
and, toward the end of October, I went from that city
to Havre, to meet my sister and her husband, who had

308 HENRY JAMES

written me that they were about to arrive there. On
reaching Havre I found that the steamer was already
in ; I was nearly two hours late. I repaired directly
to the hotel, where my relatives were already estab-
lished. My sister had gone to bed, exhausted and
disabled by her voyage ; she was a sadly incompetent
sailor, and her sufferings on this occasion had been
extreme. She wished, for the moment, for undis-
turbed rest, and was unable to see me more than five
minutes ; so it was agreed that we should remain at
Havre until the next day. My brother-in-law, who
was anxious about his wife, was unwilling to leave her
room ; but she insisted upon his going out with me to
take a walk and recover his land-legs. The early
autumn day was warm and charming, and our stroll
through the bright-coloured, busy streets of the old
French sea-port was sufficiently entertaining. We
walked along the sunny, noisy quays and then turned
into a wide, pleasant street which lay half in sun and
half in shade — a French provincial street, that looked
like an old water-colour drawing : tall, grey, steep-
roofed, red-gabled, many-storied houses ; green
shutters on windows and old scroll-work above them ;
flower-pots in balconies and white-capped women in
door-ways. We walked in the shade ; all this stretched
away on the sunny side of the street and made a picture.
We looked at it as we passed along ; then, suddenly,
my brother-in-law stopped — pressing my arm and
staring. I followed his gaze and saw that we had
paused just before coming to a cafe, where, under
an awning, several tables and chairs were disposed
upon the pavement. The windows were open behind ;
half-a-dozen plants in tubs were ranged beside the door ;
the pavement was besprinkled with clean bran. It
was a nice little, quiet, old-fashioned cafe ; inside, in
the comparative dusk, I saw a stout, handsome woman,
with pink ribbons in her cap, perched up with a mirror
behind her back, smiling at some one who was out of

FOUR MEETINGS 309

sight. All this, however, I perceived afterwards ;
what I first observed was a lady sitting alone, outside,
at one of the little marble-topped tables. My brother-
in-law had stopped to look at her. There was
something on the little table, but she was leaning back
quietly, with her hands folded, looking down the street,
away from us. I saw her only in something less than
profile ; nevertheless, I instantly felt that I had seen
her before.

' The little lady of the steamer ! ' exclaimed my
brother-in-law.

' Was she on your steamer ? ' I asked.

' From morning till night. She was never sick.
She used to sit perpetually at the side of the vessel
with her hands crossed that way, looking at the east-
ward horizon.'

' Are you going to speak to her ? '

* I don't know her. I never made acquaintance
with her. I was too seedy. But I used to watch her
and — I don't know why — to be interested in her.
She's a dear little Yankee woman. I have an idea
she is a school-mistress taking a holiday — for which
her scholars have made up a purse.'

She turned her face a little more into profile, looking
at the steep, grey house-fronts opposite to her. Then
I said — ' I shall speak to her myself.'

' I wouldn't ; she is very shy,' said my brother-in-
law.

* My dear fellow, I know her. I once showed her
photographs at a tea-party.'

And I went up to her. She turned and looked at

me, and I saw she was in fact Miss Caroline Spencer.

But she was not so quick to recognize me ; she looked.

startled. I pushed a chair to the table and sat

down.

' Well,' I said, * I hope you are not disappointed ! '
She stared, blushing a little ; then she gave a small

jump which betrayed recognition.

310 HENRY JAMES

1 It was you who showed me the photographs — at
Grimwinter ! '

' Yes, it was I. This happens very charmingly, for
I feel as if it were for me to give you a formal reception
here — an official welcome. I talked to you so much
about Europe.'

4 You didn't say too much. I am so happy ! ' she
softly exclaimed.

Very happy she looked. There was no sign of her
being older ; she was as gravely, decently, demurely
pretty as before. If she had seemed before a thin-
stemmed, mild-hued flower of Puritanism, it may be
imagined whether in her present situation this delicate
bloom was less apparent. Beside her an old gentleman
was drinking absinthe ; behind her the dame de comp-
toir in the pink ribbons was calling ' Alcibiade !
Alcibiade ! ' to the long- aproned waiter. I explained
to Miss Spencer that my companion had lately been
her ship-mate, and my brother-in-law came up and was
introduced to her. But she looked at him as if she
had never seen him before, and I remembered that he
had told me that her eyes were always fixed upon the
eastward horizon. She had evidently not noticed him ,
and, still timidly smiling, she made no attempt what-
ever to pretend that she had. I stayed with her at the
cafe door, and he went back to the hotel and to his wife.
I said to Miss Spencer that this meeting of ours in the
first hour of her landing was really very strange, but
that I was delighted to be there and receive her first
impressions.

4 Oh, I can't tell you,' she said ; 1 1 feel as if I were
in a dream. I have been sitting here for an hour, and
I don't want to move. Everything is so picturesque.
I don't know whether the coffee has intoxicated me ;
it's so delicious.'

' Really,' said I, ' if you are so pleased with this poor
prosaic Havre, you will have no admiration left for
better things. Don't spend all your admiration the

FOUR MEETINGS 311

first day ; remember it's your intellectual letter of
credit. Remember all the beautiful places and things
that are waiting for you ; remember that lovely Italy ! '

' I'm not afraid of running short,' she said gaily,
still looking at the opposite houses. ' I could sit here
all day, saying to myself that here I am at last. It's
so dark, and old, and different.'

' By the way,' I inquired, ' how come you to be
sitting here ? Have you not gone to one of the inns ? '
For I was half amused, half alarmed at the good con-
science with which this delicately pretty woman had
stationed herself in conspicuous isolation on the edge
of the side-walk.

' My cousin brought me here,' she answered. ' You
know I told you I had a cousin in Europe. He met
me at the steamer this morning.'

' It was hardly worth his while to meet you if he
was to desert you so soon.'

'Oh, he has only left me for half an hour,' said
Miss Spencer. ' He has gone to get my money.'

' Where is your money ? '

She gave a little laugh. ' It makes me feel very
fine to tell you ! It is in some circular notes.'

' And where are your circular notes .? '

* In my cousin's pocket.'

This statement was very serenely uttered, but — I
can hardly say why — it gave me a sensible chill. At
the moment I should have been utterly unable to
give the reason of this sensation, for I knew nothing
of Miss Spencer's cousin. Since he was her cousin,
the presumption was in his favour. But I felt sud-
denly uncomfortable at the thought that, half an
hour after her landing, her scanty funds should have
passed into his hands.

' Is he to travel with you ? ' I asked.

' Only as far as Paris. He is an art-student in
Paris. I wrote to him that I was coming, but I never
expected him to come off to the ship. I supposed

312 HENRY JAMES

he would only just meet me at the train in Paris. It
is very kind of him. But he is very kind — and very
bright.'

I instantly became conscious of an extreme curiosity
to see this bright cousin who was an art-student,

* He is gone to the banker's ? ' I asked.

' Yes, to the banker's. He took me to an hotel —
such a queer, quaint, delicious little place, with a
court in the middle, and a gallery all round, and a
lovely landlady, in such a beautifully fluted cap, and
such a perfectly fitting dress ! After a while we
came out to walk to the banker's, for I haven't got
any French money. But I was very dizzy from the
motion of the vessel, and I thought I had "better sit
down. He found this place for me here, and he went
off to the banker's himself. I am to wait here till
he comes back.'

It may seem very fantastic, but it passed through
my mind that he would never come back. I settled
myself in my chair beside Miss Spencer and deter-
mined to await the event. She was extremely obser-
vant ; there was something touching in it. She
noticed everything that the movement of the street
brought before us — the peculiarities of costume, the
shapes of vehicles, the big Norman horses, the fat
priests, the shaven poodles. We talked of these
things, and there was something charming in her
freshness of perception and the way her book-nourished
fancy recognized and welcomed everything.

' And when your cousin comes back what are you
going to do ? ' I asked.

She hesitated a moment. * We don't quite know.'

' When do you go to Paris ? If you go by the four
o'clock tram I may have the pleasure of making the
journey with you.'

' 1 don't think we shall do that. My cousin thinks
I had better stay here a few days.'

' Oh ! ' said I ; and for five minutes said nothing

FOUR MEETINGS 313

more. I was wondering what her cousin was, in
vulgar parlance, ' up to.' I looked up and down the
street, but saw nothing that looked like a bright
American art-student. At last I took the liberty of
observing that Havre was hardly a place to choose as
one of the aesthetic stations of a European tour. It
was a place of convenience, nothing more ; a place of
transit, through which transit should be rapid. I
recommended her to go to Paris by the afternoon
train, and meanwhile to amuse herself by driving to
the ancient fortress at the mouth of the harbour —
that picturesque, circular structure which bore the
name of Francis the First and looked like a small
castle of St. Angelo. (It has lately been demolished.)

She listened with much interest ; then for a moment
she looked grave.

' My cousin told me that when he returned he
should have something particular to say to me, and
that we could do nothing or decide nothing until I
should have heard it. But I will make him tell me
quickly, and then we will go to the ancient fortress.
There is no hurry to get to Paris ; there is plenty of
time.'

She smiled with her softly severe little lips as she
spoke those last words. But I, looking at her with a
purpose, saw just a tiny gleam of apprehension in her
eye.

* Don't tell me,' I said, ' that this wretched man is
going to give you bad news ! '

' I suspect it is a little bad, but I don't believe it
is very bad. At any rate, I must listen to it.'

I looked at her again an instant. ' You didn't
come to Europe to listen,' I said. c You came to see ! '
But now I was sure her cousin would come back ;
since he had something disagreeable to say to her, he
certainly would turn up. We sat a while longer, and
I asked her about her plans of travel. She had them
on her fingers' ends, and she told over the names

314 HENRY JAMES

with a kind of solemn distinctness : from Paris to
Dijon and to Avignon, from Avignon to Marseilles
and the Cornice road ; thence to Genoa, to Spezia,
to Pisa, to Florence, to Rome. It apparently had
never occurred to her that there could be the least
mcommodity in her travelling alone ; and since she
was unprovided with a companion I of course scrupu-
lously abstained from disturbing her sense of security.

At last her cousin came back. I saw him turn
towards us out of a side-street, and from the moment
my eyes rested upon him I felt that this was the bright
American art-student. He wore a slouch hat and a
rusty black velvet jacket, such as I had often encoun-
tered in the Rue Bonaparte. His shirt-collar revealed
a large section of a throat which, at a distance, was
not strikingly statuesque. He was tall and lean ; he
had red hair and freckles. So much I had time to
observe while he approached the caf6, staring at me
with natural surprise from under his umbrageous
coiffure. When he caine up to us I immediately
introduced myself to him as an old acquaintance of
Miss Spencer. He looked at me hard with a pair of
little red eyes, then he made me a solemn bow in the
French fashion, with his sombrero.

' You were not on the ship ? ' he said.

* No, I was not on the ship. I have been in Europe
these three years.'

He bowed once more, solemnly, and motioned me
to be seated again. I sat down, but it was only for
the purpose of observing him an instant — I saw it
was time I should return to my sister. Miss Spencer's
cousin was a queer fellow. Nature had not shaped
him for a Raphaelesque or Byronic attire, and his
velvet doublet and naked throat were not in harmony
with his facial attributes. His hair was cropped close
to his head ; his ears were large and ill- ad justed to
the same. He had a lackadaisical carriage and a
sentimental droop which ^were peculiarly at variance

FOUR MEETINGS 315

with his keen, strange-coloured eyes. Perhaps I was
prejudiced, but I thought his eyes treacherous. He
said nothing for some time ; he leaned his hands on
his cane and looked up and down the street. Then at
last, slowly lifting his cane and pointing with it,
' That's a very nice bit,' he remarked, softly. He
had his head on one side, and his little eyes were half
closed. I followed the direction of his stick ; the
object it indicated was a red cloth hung out of an old
window. ' Nice bit of colour,' he continued ; and
without moving his head he transferred his half-closed
gaze to me. ' Composes well,' he pursued. ' Make a
nice thing.' He spoke in a hard, vulgar voice.

' I see you have a great deal of eye,' I replied.
' Your cousin tells me you are studying art.' He
looked at me in the same way without answering, and
I went on with deliberate urbanity — ' I suppose you
are at the studio of one of those great men.'

Still he looked at me, and then he said softly —
' Gerome.'

' Do you like it ? ' I asked.

1 Do you understand French ? ' he said.

' Some kinds,' I answered.

He kept his little eyes on me ; then he said —
* J' adore la peinture ! '

4 Oh, I understand that kind ! ' I rejoined. Miss
Spencer laid her hand upon her cousin's arm with a
little pleased and fluttered movement ; it was delight-
ful to be among people who were on such easy terms
with foreign tongues. I got up to take leave, and
asked Miss Spencer where, in Paris, I might have the
honour of waiting upon her. To what hotel would
she go ?

She turned to her cousin inquiringly and he honoured
me again with his little languid leer. ' Do you know
the Hotel des Princes ? '

' I know where it is.'

4 1 shall take her there.'

316 HENRY JAMES

' I congratulate you,' I said to Caroline Spencer.
' I believe it is the best inn in the world ; and in case
I should still have a moment to call upon you here,
where are you lodged ? '

4 Oh, it's such a pretty name,' said Miss Spencer,
gleefully. ' A la Belle Normande.'

As I left them her cousin gave me a great flourish
with his picturesque hat.

ni

My sister, as it proved, was not sufficiently restored
to leave Havre by the afternoon train ; so that, as
the autumn dusk began to fall, I found myself at
liberty to call at the sign of the Fair Norman. I must
confess that I had spent much of the interval in
wondering what the disagreeable thing was that my
charming friend's disagreeable cousin had been telling
her. The * Belle Normande ' was a modest inn in
a shady by-street, where it gave me satisfaction to
think Miss Spencer must have encountered local
colour in abundance. There was a crooked little
court, where much of the hospitality of the house was
carried on ; there was a staircase climbing to bed-
rooms on the outer side of the wall ; there was a small
trickling fountain with a stucco statuette in the midst
of it ; there was a little boy in a white cap and apron
cleaning copper vessels at a conspicuous kitchen door ;
there was a chattering landlady, neatly laced, arrang-
ing apricots and grapes into an artistic pyramid upon
a pink plate. I looked about, and on a green bench
outside of an open door labelled Salle d, Manger, I
perceived Caroline Spencer. No sooner had I looked
at her than I saw that something had happened since
the morning. She was leaning back on her bench,
her hands were clasped in her lap, and her eyes were
fixed upon the landlady, at the other side of the court,
manipulating her apricots.

FOUR MEETINGS 317

But I saw she was not thinking of apricots. She
was staring absently, thoughtfully ; as I came near
her I perceived that she had been crying. I sat down
on the bench beside her before she saw me ; then,
when she had done so, she simply turned round, with-
out surprise, and rested her sad eyes upon me. Some-
thing very bad indeed had happened ; she was com-
pletely changed.

I immediately charged her with it. ' Your cousin
has been giving you bad news ; you are in great dis-
tress.'

For a moment she said nothing, and I supposed
that she was afraid to speak, lest her tears should
come back. But presently I perceived that in the
short time that had elapsed since my leaving her in
the morning she had shed them all, and that she was
now softly stoical — intensely composed.

1 My poor cousin is in distress,5 she said at last.
* His news was bad.' Then, after a brief hesitation —
1 He was in terrible want of money.'

' In want of yours, you mean ? '

* Qf any that he could get — honestly. Mine was
the only money.'

' And he has taken yours ? '

She hesitated again a moment, but her glance,
meanwhile, was pleading. ' I gave him what I
had.'

I have always remembered the accent of those
words as the most angelic bit of human utterance I
had ever listened to ; but then, almost with a sense
of personal outrage, I jumped up. ' Good heavens ! '
I said, ' do you call that getting it honestly ? '

I had gone too far ; she blushed deeply. ' We
will not speak of it,' she said.

' We must speak of it,' I answered, sitting down
again. ' I am your friend ; it seems to me you need
one. What is the matter with your cousin ? '

' He is in debt.'

318 HENRY JAMES

' No doubt ! But what is the special fitness of
your paying his debts ? '

4 He has told me all his story ; I am very sorry for him.'

* So am I ! But I hope he will give you back your
money.'

' Certainly he will ; as soon as he can.'

* When will that be ? '

1 When he has finished his great picture.'

* My dear young lady, confound his great picture !
Where is this desperate cousin ? '

She certainly hesitated now. Then — ' At his
dinner,' she answered.

I turned about and looked through the open door
into the satte a manger. There, alone at the end of a
long table, I perceived the object of Miss Spencer's
compassion — the bright young art-student. He was
dining too attentively to notice me at first ; but in
the act of setting down a well-emptied wine-glass he
caught sight of my observant attitude. He paused
in his repast, and, with his head on one side and his
meagre jaws slowly moving, fixedly returned my gaze.
Then the landlady came lightly brushing by with her
pyramid of apricots.

* And that nice little plate of fruit is for him ? ' I
exclaimed*

Miss Spencer glanced at it tenderly. ' They do that
so prettily ! ' she murmured.

I felt helpless and irritated. ' Come now, really,'
I said ; * do you approve of that long strong fellow
accepting your funds ? ' She looked away from me ;
I was evidently giving her pain. The case was hope-
less ; the long strong fellow had ' interested ' her.

' Excuse me if I speak of him so unceremoniously/
I said. ' But you are really too generous, and he is
not quite delicate enough. He made his debts himself
— he ought to pay them himself.'

' He has been foolish,' she answered ; ' I know that.
He has told me everything. We had a long talk this

FOUR MEETINGS 319

morning ; the poor fellow threw himself upon my
charity. He has signed notes to a large amount.'

' The more fool he ! '

*" He is in extreme distress ; and it is not only himself.
It is his poor wife.'

' Ah, he has a poor wife ? '

c I didn't know it — but he confessed everything. He
married two years since, secretly.'

' Why secretly ? '

Caroline Spencer glanced about her, as if she feared
listeners. Then softly, in a little impressive tone —
' She was a Countess ! '

' Are you very sure of that ? '

* She has written me a most beautiful letter.'
c Asking you for money, eh ? '

* Asking me for confidence and sympathy,' said Miss
Spencer. ' She has been disinherited by her father.
My cousin told me the story and she tells it in her own
way, in the letter. It is like an old romance. Her
father opposed the marriage, and when he discovered
that she had secretly disobeyed him he cruelly cast her
off. It is really most romantic. They are the oldest
family in Provence.'

I looked and listened, in wonder. It really seemed
that the poor woman was enjoying the ' romance '
of having a discarded Countess-cousin, out of Provence,
so deeply as almost to lose the sense of what the
forfeiture of her money meant for her.

* My dear young lady,' I said, l you don't want to
be ruined for picturesqueness' sake ? '

' I shall not be ruined. I shall come back before long
to stay with them. The Countess insists upon that.'
' Come back ! You are going home, then ? '
She sat for a moment with her eyes lowered, then
with an heroic suppression of a faint tremor of the
voice — ' I have no money for travelling ! ' she answered.

* You gave it all up ? '

' I have kept enough to take me home.'

320 HENRY JAMES

I gave an angry groan, and at this juncture Miss
Spencer's cousin, the fortunate possessor of her sacred
savings and of the hand of the Proven9al Countess,
emerged from the little dining-room. He stood on
the threshold for an instant, removing the stone from
a plump apricot which he had brought away from the
table ; then he put the apricot into his mouth, and
while he let it sojourn there, gratefully, stood looking
at us, with his long legs apart and his hands dropped
into the pockets of his velvet jacket. My companion
got up, giving him a thin glance which I caught in its
passage, and which expressed a strange commixture
of resignation and fascination — a sort of perverted
exaltation. Ugly, vulgar, pretentious, dishonest as I
thought the creature, he had appealed successfully to
her eager and tender imagination. I was deeply
disgusted, but I had no warrant to interfere, and at
any rate I felt that it would be vain.

The young man waved his hand with a pictorial
gesture. ' Nice old court,' he observed. ' Nice mellow
old place. Good tone in that brick. Nice crooked old
stair-case.'

Decidedly, I couldn't stand it ; without responding
I gave my hand to Caroline Spencer. She looked at
me an instant with her little white face and expanded
eyes, and as she showed her pretty teeth I suppose she
meant to smile.

4 Don't be sorry for me,' she said ; ' I am very sure
I shall see something of this dear old Europe yet.'

I told her that I would not bid her good-bye — I
should find a moment to come back the next morning.
Her cousin, who had put on his sombrero again,
flourished it off at me by way of a bow — upon which I
took my departure.

The next morning I came back to the inn, where I
met in the court the landlady, more loosely laced than
in the eVening. On my asking for Miss Spencer —
4 Partie, monsieur,' said the hostess. ' She went away

FOUR MEETINGS 321

last night at ten o'clock, with her — her — not her
husband, eh ? — in fine her Monsieur. They went down
to the American ship.' I turned away ; the poor gdrl
had been about thirteen hours in Europe.

rv

I myself, more fortunate, was there some five years
longer. During this period I lost my friend Latouche,
who died of a malarious fever during a tour in the
Levant. One of the first things I did on my return
was to go up to Grimwinter to pay a consolatory visit
to his poor mother. I found her in deep affliction,
and I sat with her the whole of the morning that fol-
lowed my arrival (I had come in late at night), listening
to her tearful descant and singing the praises of my
friend. We talked of nothing else, and our conversa-
tion terminated only with the arrival of a quick little
woman who drove herself up to the door in a ' carry-all,'
and whom I saw toss the reins upon the horse's back
with the briskness of a startled sleeper throwing back
the bed-clothes. She jumped out of the carry-all and
she jumped into the room. She proved to be the
minister's wife and the great town- gossip, and she had
evidently, in the latter capacity, a choice morsel to
communicate. I was as sure of this as I was that poor
Mrs. Latouche was not absolutely too bereaved to
listen to her. It seemed to me discreet to retire ; I
said I believed I would go and take a walk before dinner.

' And, by the way,' I added, ' if you will tell me
where my old friend Miss Spencer lives I will walk to
her house.'

The minister's wife immediately responded. Miss
Spencer lived in the fourth house beyond the Baptist
church ; the Baptist church was the one on the right,
with that queer green thing over the door ; they called
it a portico, but it looked more like an old-fashioned
bedstead.

228 M

322 HENRY JAMES

' Yes, do go and see poor Caroline,' said Mrs.
Latouche. ' It will refresh her to see a strange face.'

4 1 should think she had had enough of strange
faces ! ' cried the minister's wife.

1 1 mean, to see a visitor,' said Mrs. Latouche, amend-
ing her phrase.

' I should think she had had enough of visitors ! '
her companion rejoined. ' But you don't mean to
stay ten years,' she added glancing at me.

' Has she a visitor of that sort ? ' I enquired, per-
plexed.

' You will see the sort ! ' said the minister's wife.
' She's easily seen ; she generally sits in the front
yard. Only take care what you say to her, and be very
sure you are polite.'

' Ah, she is so sensitive ? '

The minister's wife jumped up and dropped me a
curtsey — a most ironical curtsey.

* That's what she is, if you please. She's a
Countess ! '

And pronouncing this word with the most scathing
accent, the little woman seemed fairly to laugh in the
Countess's face. I stood a moment, staring, wonder-
ing, remembering.

* Oh, I shall be very polite ! ' I cried ; and, grasping
my hat and stick, I went on my way.

I found Miss Spencer's residence without difficulty.
The Baptist church was easily identified, and the small
dwelling near it, of a rusty white, with a large central
chimney stack and a Virginia creeper, seemed naturally
and properly the abode of a frugal old maid with a taste
for the picturesque. As I approached I slackened
my pace, for I had heard that some one was always
sitting in the front yard, and I wished to reconnoitre.
I looked cautiously over the low white fence which
separated the small garden-space from the unpaved
street ; but I descried nothing in the shape of a
Countess. A small straight path led up to the crooked

FOUR MEETINGS 323

door-step, and on either side of it was a little grass-plot,
fringed with currant-bushes. In the middle of the
grass, on either side, was a large quince-tree, full of
antiquity and contortions, and beneath one of the
quince-trees were placed a small table and a couple of
chairs. On the table lay a piece of unfinished em-
broidery and two or three books in bright-coloured
paper covers. I went in at the gate and paused half-
way along the path, scanning the place for some farther
token of its occupant, before whom — I could hardly
have said why — I hesitated abruptly to present myself.
Then I saw that the poor little house was very shabby.
I felt a sudden doubt of my right to intrude; for
curiosity had been my motive, and curiosity here
seemed singularly indelicate. While I hesitated, a
figure appeared in the open door-way and stood there
looking at me. I immediately recognized Caroline
Spencer, but she looked at me as if she had never
seen me before. Gently, but gravely and timidly, I
advanced to the door-step, and then I said, with an
attempt at friendly badinage — •

' 1 waited for you over there to come back, but you
never came.'

' Waited where, sir ? ' she asked softly, and her light-
coloured eyes expanded more than before.

She was much older ; she looked tired and wasted.

' Well,5 I said, ' I waited at Havre.'

She stared ; then she recognized me. She smiled
and blushed and clasped her two hands together. ' I
remember you now,' she said. * I remember that day.'
But she stood there, neither coming out nor asking me
to come in. She was embarrassed.

I, too, felt a little awkward. I poked my stick into
the path. ' I kept looking out for you, year after year,'
I said.

' You mean in Europe ? ' murmured Miss Spencer.

' In Europe, of course ! Here, apparently, you are
easy enough to find.'

324 HENRY JAMES

She leaned her hand against the unpainted door-post,
and her head fell a little to one side. She looked at me
for a moment without speaking, and I thought I recog-
nized the expression that one sees in women's eyes
when tears are rising. Suddenly she stepped out upon
the cracked slab of stone before the threshold and
closed the door behind her. Then she began to smile
intently, and I saw that her teeth were as pretty as
ever. But there had been tears too.

' Have you been there ever since ? ' she asked, almost
in a whisper.

I Until three weeks ago. And you — you never came
back ? '

Still looking at me with her fixed smile, she put her
hand behind her and opened the door again. ' I am
not very polite,' she said. ' Won't you come in ? '

I 1 am afraid I incommode you.'

' Oh no ! ' she answered, smiling more than ever.
And she pushed back the door, with a sign that I should
enter.

I went in, following her. She led the way to a small
room on the left of the narrow hall, which I supposed
to be her parlour, though it was at the back of the
house, and we passed the closed door of another
apartment which apparently enjoyed a view of the
quince-trees. This one looked out upon a small wood-
shed and two clucking hens. But I thought it very
pretty, until I saw that its elegance was of the most
frugal kind ; after which, presently, I thought it
prettier still, for I had never seen faded chintz and old
mezzotint engravings, framed in varnished autumn
leaves, disposed in so graceful a fashion. Miss Spencer
sat down on a very small portion of the sofa, with her
hands tightly clasped in her lap. She looked ten years
older, and it would have sounded very perverse now
to speak of her as pretty. But I thought her so ; or at
least I thought her touching. She was peculiarly
agitated. I tried to appear not to notice it ; but

FOUR MEETINGS 325

suddenly, in the most inconsequent fashion — it was
an irresistible memory of our little friendship at Havre
— I said to her — ' I do incommode you. You are
distressed.'

She raised her two hands to her face, and for a
moment kept it buried in them. Then, taking them

away ' It's because you remind me . . .' she

said.

' I remind you, you mean, of that miserable day at
Havre ? '

She shook her head. * It was not miserable. It
was delightful.'

' I never was so shocked as when, on going back to
your inn the next morning, I found you had set sail
again.'

She was silent a moment ; and then she said

* Please let us not speak of that.'

' Did you come straight back here ? ' I asked.

' I was back here just thirty days after I had gone
away.'

' And here you have remained ever since ? '

' Oh yes ! ' she said gently.

' When are you going to Europe again ? '

This question seemed brutal ; but there was some-
thing that irritated me in the softness of her resignation,
and I wished to extort from her some expression of
impatience.

She fixed her eyes for a moment on a small sun-spot
on the carpet ; then she got up and lowered the window-
blincj a little, to obliterate it. Presently, in the same
mild voice, answering my question, she said — ' Never ! '

' I hope your cousin repaid you your money.'

' I don't care for it now,' she said, looking away from
me.

' You don't care for your money ? '

* For going to Europe.'

' Do you mean that you would not go if you
could ? '

32G HENRY JAMES

' I can't — I can't,' said Caroline Spencer. ' It is all
over ; I never think of it.'

* He never repaid you, then ! ' I exclaimed.

' Please — please,' she began.

But she stopped ; she was looking toward the door.
There had been a rustling and a sound of steps in the
hall.

I also looked toward the door, which was open, and
now admitted another person — a lady who paused just
within the threshold. Behind her came a young man.
The lady looked at me with a good deal of fixedness —
long enough for my glance to receive a vivid impression
of herself. Then she turned to Caroline Spencer, and,
with a smile and a strong foreign accent

' Excuse my interruption ! ' she said. ' I knew not
you had company — the gentleman came in so quietly.'

With this, she directed her eyes toward me again.

She was very strange ; yet my first feeling was that
I had seen her before. Then I perceived that I had
only seen ladies who were very much like her. But I
had seen them very far away from Grimwinter, and it
was an odd sensation to be seeing her here. Whither
was it the sight of her seemed to transport me ? To
some dusky landing before a shabby Parisian qiiatrieme
— to an open door revealing a greasy ante-chamber,
and to Madame leaning over the banisters while she
holds a faded dressing-gown together and bawls down
to the portress to bring up her coffee. Miss Spencer's
visitor was a very large woman, of middle age, with a
plump, dead-white face and hair drawn back a la chin-
oise. She had a small, penetrating eye, and what is
called in French an agreeable smile. She wore an
old pink cashmere dressing-gown, covered with white
embroideries, and, like the figure in my momentary
vision, she was holding it together in front with a bare
and rounded arm and a plump and deeply-dimpled
hand.

' It is only to spick about my cafe,' she said to Miss

FOUR MEETINGS 327

Spencer with her agreeable smile. ' I should like it
served in the garden under the leetle tree.'

The young man behind her had now stepped into
the room, and he also stood looking at me. He was a
pretty-faced little fellow, with an air of provincial
foppishness — a tiny Adonis of Grimwater. .He had a
small, pointed nose, a small, pointed chin, and, as I
observed, the most diminutive feet. He looked at me
foolishly, with bis mouth open.

' You shall have your coffee,' said Miss Spencer, who
had a faint red spot in each of her cheeks.

' It is well ! ' said the lady in the dressing-gown'.
* Find your bouk,' she added, turning to the young man.

He looked vaguely round the room. ' My grammar,
d'ye mean ? ' he asked, with a helpless intonation.

But the large lady was looking at me curiously, and
gathering in her dressing-gown with her white arm.

' Find your bouk, my friend,' she repeated.

' My poetry, d'ye mean ? ' said the young man, also
gazing at me again.

4 Never mind your bouk,' said his companion. ' To-
day we will talk. We will make some conversation.
But we must not interrupt. Come,' and she turned
away. * Under the leetle tree,' she added, for the
benefit of Miss Spencer.

Then she gave me a sort of salutation, and a ' Mon-
sieur ! ' — with which she swept away again, followed
by the young man.

Caroline Spencer stood there with her eyes fixed upon
the ground.

' Who is that ? ' I asked.

' The Countess, my cousin."

' And who is the young man ? '

' Her pupil, Mr. Mixter.'

This description of the relation between the two
persons who had just left the room made me break into
a little laugh. Miss Spencer looked at me gravely.

' She gives French lessons ; she has lost her fortune '

328 HENRY JAMES

4 1 see,' I said. ' She is determined to be a burden
to no one. That is very proper.'

Miss Spencer looked down on the ground again. ' I
must go and get the coffee,' she said.

' Has the lady many pupils ? ' I asked.

4 She has only Mr. Mixter. She gives all her time
to him.'

At this I could not laugh, though I smelt provocation.
Miss Spencer was too grave. ' He pays very well,'
she presently added, with simplicity. ' He is very
rich. He is very kind. He takes the Countess to
drive.' And she was turning away.

' You are going for the Countess's coffee ? ' I said.

* If you will excuse me for a few moments.'

* Is there no one else to do it ? '

She looked at me with the softest serenity. * I keep
no servants.'

* Can she not wait upon herself ? '
' She is not used to that.'

' I see,' said I, as gently as possible. * But before
you go, tell me this : who is this lady ? '

' I told you about her before — that day. She is the
wife of my cousin, whom you saw.'

' The lady who was disowned by her family in conse-
quence of her marriage ? '

' Yes ; they have never seen her again. They have
cast her off.'

4 And where is her husband ? '

' He is dead.'

* And where is your money ? '

The poor girl flinched, there was something too
methodical hi my questions. ' I don't know,' she said
wearily.

But I continued a moment. * On her husband's
death this lady came over here ? '

' Yes, she arrived one day.'

* How long ago ? '

* Two years.'

FOUR MEETINGS 329

' She has been here ever since ? '

' Every moment.'

4 How does she like it ? '

* Not at all.'

* And how do you like it ? '

Miss Spencer laid her face in her two hands an instant,
as she had done ten minutes before. Then, quickly,
she went to get the Countess's coffee.

I remained alone in the little parlour ; I wanted to
see more — to learn more. At the end of five minutes
the young man whom Miss Spencer had described as
the Countess's pupil came in. He stood looking at me
for a moment with parted lips. I saw he was a very
rudimentary young man.

* She wants to know if you won't come out there ? '
he observed at last.

* Who wants to know ? '

1 The Countess. That French lady.'
' She has asked you to bring me ? '

* Yes, sir,' said the young man feebly, looking at my
six feet of stature.

I went out with him, and we found the Countess
sitting under one of the little quince-trees in front of
the house. She was drawing a needle through the
piece of embroidery which she had taken from the small
table. She pointed graciously to the chair beside her
and I seated myself. Mr. Mixter glanced about him,
and then sat down in the grass at her feet. He gazed
upward, looking with parted lips from the Countess
to me.

* I am sure you speak French,' said the Countess,
fixing her brilliant little eyes upon me.

' I do, madam, after a fashion,' I answered, in the
lady's own tongue.

4 Voila ! ' she cried most expressively. ' I knew it
so soon as I looked at you. You have been in my poor
dear country.'

' A long time.'

M*

330 HENRY JAMES

' You know Paris ? '

' Thoroughly, madam.' And with a certain con-
scious purpose I let my eyes meet her own.

She presently, hereupon, moved her own and glanced
down at Mr. Mixter. * What are we talking about ? '
she demanded of her attentive pupil.

He pulled his knees up, plucked at the grass with
his hand, stared, blushed a little. ' You are talking
French,' said Mr. Mixter.

' La belle decouverte ! ' said the Countess. ' Here
are ten months,' she explained to me, ' that I am giving
him lessons. Don't put yourself out not to say he's a
fool ; he won't understand you.'

* I hope your other pupils are more gratifying,' I
remarked.

' I have no others. They don't know what French
is in this place ; they don't want to know. You may
therefore imagine the pleasure it is to me to meet a
person who speaks it like yourself.' I replied that my
own pleasure was not less, and she went on drawing her
stitches through her embroidery, with her little finger
curled out. Every few moments she put her eyes close
to her work, near-sightedly. I thought her a very
disagreeable person ; she was coarse, affected, dis-
honest, and no more a Countess than I was a caliph.
4 Talk to me of Paris,' she went on. ' The very name
of it gives me an emotion ! How long since you were
there ? '

' Two months ago.'

' Happy man ! Tell me something about it. What
were they doing ? Oh, for an hour of the boule-
vard ! '

' They were doing about what they are always
doing — amusing themselves a good deal.'

' At the theatres, eh ? ' sighed the Countess. ' At
the cafes-concerts — at the little tables in front of the
doors ? Quelle existence ! You know I am a Paris-
ienne, monsieur,' she added, ' — to rny finger-tips.'

FOUR MEETINGS 331

' Miss Spencer was mistaken, then,' I ventured to
rejoin, ' in telling me that you are a Provencale.'

She stared a moment, then she put her nose to her
embroidery, which had a dingy, desultory aspect.
' Ah, I am a Proven9ale by birth ; but I am a Paris-
ienne by inclination.'

4 And by experience, I suppose ? ' I said.

She questioned me a moment with her hard little
eyes. ' Oh, experience ! I could talk of experience
if I wished. I never expected, for example, that
experience had this in store for me.' And she pointed
with her bare elbow, and with a jerk of her head, at
everything that surrounded her — at the little white
house, the quince-tree, the rickety paling, even at
Mr. Mixter.

' You are in exile ! ' I said smiling.

' You may imagine what it is ! These two years
that I have been here I have passed hours — hours !
One gets used to things, and sometimes I think I have
got used to this. But there are some things that are
always beginning over again. For example, my
coffee.'

' Do you always have coffee at this hour ? ' I inquired.

She tossed back her head and measured me.

' At what hour would you 'prefer me to have it ? I
must have my little cup after breakfast.'

' Ah, you breakfast at this hour ? '

' At mid-day — comme cela se fait. Here they break-
fast at a quarter past seven ! That " quarter past "
is charming ! '

4 But you were telling me about your coffee,' I
observed, sympathetically.

' My cousine can't believe in it : she can't understand
it. She's an excellent girl ; but that little cup of black
coffee, with a drop of cognac, served at this hour — they
exceed her comprehension. So I have to break the
ice every day, and it takes the coffee the time you see to
arrive. And when it arrives, monsieur ! If I don't

332 HENRY JAMES

offer you any of it you must riot take it ill. It will be
because I know you have drunk it on the boulevard.'

I resented extremely this scornful treatment of poor
Caroline Spencer's humble hospitality ; but I said
nothing, in order to say nothing uncivil. I only
looked on Mr. Mixter, who had clasped his arms round
his knees and was watching my companion's demon-
strative graces in solemn fascination. She presently
saw that I was observing him ; she glanced at me with
a little bold explanatory smile. * You know, he
adores me,' she murmured, putting her nose into her
tapestry again. I expressed the promptest credence,
and she went on. ' He dreams of becoming my lover !
Yes, it's his dream. He has read a French novel ; it
took him six months. But ever since that he has
thought himself the hero, and me the heroine ! '

Mr. Mixter had evidently not an idea that he was
being talked about ; he was too preoccupied with the
ecstasy of contemplation. At this moment Caroline
Spencer came out of the house, bearing a coffee-pot on
a little tray. I noticed that on her way from the door
to the table she gave me a single quick, vaguely appeal-
ing glance. I wondered what it signified ; I felt that
it signified a sort of half-frightened longing to know
what, as a man of the world who had been in France,
I thought of the Countess. It made me extremely
uncomfortable. I could not tell her that the Countess
was very possibly the runaway wife of a little hair-
dresser. I tried suddenly, on the contrary, to show a
high consideration for her. But I got up ; I couldn't
stay longer. It vexed me to see Caroline Spencer
standing there like a waiting-maid.

' You expect to remain some time at Grimwinter ? '
I said to the Countess.

She gave a terrible shrug.

' Who knows ? Perhaps for years. When one is
in misery ! . . . Chere belle,' she added* turning to
Miss Spencer, ' you have forgotten the cognac ! '

FOUR MEETINGS 333

I detained Caroline Spencer as, after looking a
moment in silence at the little table, she was turning
away to procure this missing delicacy. I silently gave
her my hand in farewell. She looked very tired, but
there was a strange hint of prospective patience in her
severely mild little face. I thought she was rather
glad I was going. Mr. Mixter had risen to his feet and
was pouring out the Countess's coffee. As I went back
past the Baptist church I reflected that poor Miss
Spencer had been right in her presentiment that she
should still see something of that dear old Europe.

EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

1850—1894

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR

DENIS DE BEATTLIEU was not yet two-and-twenty,
but he counted himself a grown man, and a very accom-
plished cavalier into the bargain. Lads were early
formed hi that rough, warfaring epoch ; and when
one has been in a pitched battle and a dozen raids,
has killed one's man in an honourable fashion, and
knows a thing or two of strategy and mankind, a certain
swagger hi the gait is surely to be pardoned. He had
put up his horse with due care, and supped with due
deliberation ; and then, in a very agreeable frame of
mind, went out to pay a visit in the grey of the evening.
It was not a very wise proceeding on the young man's
part. He would have done better to remain beside
the fire or go decently to bed. For the town was full
of the troops of Burgundy and England under a mixed
command ; and though Denis was there on safe-
conduct, his safe-conduct was like to serve him little
on a chance encounter.

It was September 1429; the weather had fallen
sharp ; a flighty piping wind, laden with showers, beat
about the township ; and the dead leaves ran riot along
the streets. Here and there a window was already
lighted up ; and the noise of men-at-arms making
merry over supper within came forth in fits and was
swallowed up and carried away by the wind. The night
fell swiftly ; the flag of England, fluttering on the
spire-top, grew ever fainter and fainter against the
flying clouds — a black speck 1'ke a swallow in the

334

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 335

tumultuous, leaden chaos of the sky. As the night fell
the wind rose, and began to hoot under archways and
roar amid the tree-tops in the valley below the town.

Denis de Beaulieu walked fast and was soon knocking
at his friend's door ; but though he promised himself
to stay only a little while and make an early return, his
welcome was so pleasant, and he found so much to
delay him, that it was already long past midnight
before he said good-bye upon the threshold. The wind
had fallen again in the meanwhile ; the night was as
black as the grave ; not a star, nor a glimmer of moon-
^hine, slipped through the canopy of cloud. Denis
was ill-acquainted with the intricate lanes of Chateau
Landon ; even by daylight he had found some trouble
hi picking his way ; and in this absolute darkness he
soon lost it altogether. He was certain of one thing
only — to keep mounting the hill ; for his friend's house
lay at the lower end, or tail, of Chateau Landon, while
the inn was up at the head, under the great church
• spire. With this clue to go upon he stumbled and
groped forward, now breathing more freely in open
places where there was a good slice of sky overhead,
now feeling along the wall in stifling closes. It is an
eerie and mysterious position to be thus submerged
in opaque blackness in an almost unknown town. The
silence is terrifying in its possibilities. The touch of
cold window bars to the exploring hand startles the man
like the touch of a toad ; the inequalities of the pave-
ment shake his heart into his mouth ; a piece of denser
darkness threatens an ambuscade or a chasm in the
pathway ; and where the air is brighter, the houses
put on strange and bewildering appearances, as if to
lead him farther from his way. For Denis, who had
to regain his inn without attracting notice, there
was real danger as well as mere discomfort in the walk ;
and he went warily and boldly at once, and at every
corner paused to make an observation.

He had been for some time threading a lane so

336 EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

narrow that he could touch a wall with either hand,
when it began to open out and go sharply downward.
Plainly this lay no longer in the direction of his inn ;
but the hope of a little more light tempted him forward
to reconnoitre. The lane ended in a terrace with a
bartizan wall, which gave an outlook between high
houses, as out of an embrasure, into the valley lying
dark and formless several hundred feet below. Denis
looked down, and could discern a few tree- tops waving
and a single speck of brightness where the river ran
across a weir. The weather was clearing up, and the
sky had lightened, so as to show the outline of the
heavier clouds and the dark margin of the hills. By
the uncertain glimmer, the house on his left hand should
be a place of some pretensions ; it was surmounted by
several pinnacles and turret-tops ; the round stern of
a chapel, with a fringe of flying buttresses, projected
boldly from the main block ; and the door was sheltered
under a deep porch carved with figures and overhung
by two long gargoyles. The windows of the chapel
gleamed through their intricate tracery with a light
as of many tapers, and threw out the buttresses and
the peaked roof in a more intense blackness against
the sky. It was plainly the hotel of some great family
of the neighbourhood ; and as it reminded Denis of a
town house of his own at Bourges, he stood for some
time gazing up at it and mentally gauging the skill
of the architects and the consideration of the two
families.

There seemed to be no issue to the terrace but the
" lane by which he had reached it ; he could only retrace
his steps, but he had gained some notion of his where-
abouts, and hoped by this means to hit the main
thoroughfare and speedily regain the inn. He was
reckoning without that chapter of accidents which was
to make this night memorable above all others in his
career ; for he had not gone back above a hundred
yards before he saw a light coming to meet him, and

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 337

heard loud voices speaking together in the echoing
narrows of the lane. It was a party of men-at-arms
going the night round with torches. Denis assured
himself that they had all been making free with the
wine-bowl, and were in no mood to be particular about
safe- conducts or the niceties of chivalrous war. It was
as like as not that they would kill him like a dog and
leave him where he fell. The situation was inspiriting
bwfc nervous. Their own torches would conceal him
from sight, he reflected ; and he hoped that they would
drown the noise of his footsteps with their own empty
voices. If he were but fleet and silent, he might evade
their notice altogether.

Unfortunately, as he turned to beat a retreat, his
foot rolled upon a pebble ; he fell against the wall with
an ejaculation, and his sword rang loudly on the stones.
Two or three voices demanded who went there — some
in French, some in English ; but Denis made no reply,
and ran the faster down the lane. Once upon the
terrace, he paused to look back. They still kept calling
after him, and just then began to double the pace in
pursuit, with a considerable clank of armour, and great
tossing of the torchlight to and fro in the narrow jaws
of the passage.

Denis cast a look around and darted into the
porch. There he might escape observation, or — if
that were too much to* expect — was in a capital
posture whether for parley or defence. So thinking,
he drew his sword and tried to set his back against the
door. To his surprise, it yielded behind his weight ;
and though he turned in a moment, continued to swing
back on oiled and noiseless hinges, until it stood wide
open on a black interior. When things fall out oppor-
tunely for the person concerned, he is not apt to be
critical about the how or why, his own immediate
personal convenience seeming a sufficient reason for
the strangest oddities and revolutions in our sublunary
things ; and so Denis, without a moment's hesitation,

338 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

stepped within and partly closed the door behind him
to conceal his place of refuge. Nothing was further
from his thoughts than to close it altogether ; but for
some inexplicable reason — perhaps by a spring or a
weight — the ponderous mass of oak whipped itself out
of his fingers and clanked to, with a formidable rumble
and a noise like the falling of an automatic bar.

The round, at that very moment, debouched upon
the terrace and proceeded to summon him with showts
and curses. He heard them ferreting in the dark
corners ; and the stock of a lance even rattled along the
outer surface of the door behind which he stood ; but
these gentlemen were in too high a humour to be long
delayed, and soon made off down a corkscrew pathway
which had escaped Denis's observation, and passed out
of sight and hearing along the battlements of the
town.

Denis breathed again. He gave them a few minutes'
grace for fear of accidents, and then groped about for
some means of opening the door and slipping forth
again. The inner surface was quite smooth, not a
handle, not a moulding, not a projection of any sort.
He got his finger-nails round the edges and pulled, but
the mass was immovable. He shook it, it was as firm
as a rock. Denis de Beaulieu frowned and gave vent
to a little noiseless whistle. What ailed the door ? he
wondered. Why was it open ? How came it to shut
so easily and so effectually after him ? There was
something obscure and underhand about all this that
was little to the young man's fancy. It looked like a
snare ; and yet who could suppose a snare in such a
quiet by-street and in a house of so prosperous and even
noble an exterior ? And yet — snare or no snare,
intentionally or unintentionally — here he was, prettily
trapped ; and for the life of him he could see no way
out of it again. The darkness began to weigh upon him .
He gave ear ; all was silent without, but within and
close by he seemed to catch a faint sighing, a faint

THE SIRE BE MALETROIT'S DOOR 339

sobbing rustle, a little stealthy creak — as though many
persons were at his side, holding themselves quite still,
and governing even their respiration with the extreme
of slyness. The idea went to his vitals with a shock,
and he faced about suddenly as if to defend his life.
Then, for the first time, he became aware of a light
about the level of his eyes and at some distance in the
interior of the house — a vertical thread of light, widen-
ing towards the bottom, such as might escape between
two wings of arras over a doorway. To see anything
was a relief to Denis ; it was like a piece of solid ground
to a man labouring in a morass ; his mind seized upon
it with avidity ; and he stood staring at it and trying
to piece together some logical conception of his sur-
roundings. Plainly there was a flight of steps ascend-
ing from his own level to that of this illuminated door-
way ; and indeed he thought he could make out another
thread of light, as fine as a needle and as faint as
phosphorescence, which might very well be reflected
along the polished wood of a handrail. Since he had
begun to suspect that he was not alone, his heart had
continued to beat with smothering violence, and an
intolerable desire for action of any sort had possessed
itself of his spirit. He was in deadly peril, he believed.
What could be more natural than to mount the stair-
case, lift the curtain, and confront his difficulty at once ?
At least he would be dealing with something tangible ;
at least he would be no longer in the dark. He stepped
slowly forward with outstretched hands, until his foot
struck the bottom step ; then he rapidly scaled the
stairs, stood for a moment to compose his expression,
lifted the arras and went in.

He found himself in a large apartment of polished
stone. There were three doors ; one on eaeh of three
sides ; all similarly curtained with tapestry. The
fourth side was occupied by two large windows and a
great stone chimney-piece, carved with the arms of the
Maletroits. Denis recognized the bearings, and was

340 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

gratified to find himself in such good hands. The room
was strongly illuminated ; but it contained little
furniture except a heavy table and a chair or two, the
hearth was innocent of fire, and the pavement was but
sparsely strewn with rushes clearly many days old.

On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly
facing Denis as he entered, sat a little old gentleman
in a fur tippet. He sat with his legs crossed and his
hands folded, and a cup of spiced wine stood by his
elbow on a bracket on the wall. His countenance had
a strongly masculine cast ; not properly human, but
such as we see in the bull, the goat, or the domestic
boar ; something equivocal and wheedling, something
greedy, brutal, and dangerous. The upper lip was
inordinately full, as though swollen by a blow or a
toothache ; and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, and
the small, strong eyes were quaintly and almost
comically evil in expression. Beautiful white hair
hung straight all round his head, like a saint's, and fell
in a single curl upon the tippet. His beard and mous-
tache were the pink of venerable sweetness. Age,
probably in consequence of inordinate precautions,
had left no mark upon his hands ; and the Maletroit
hand was famous. It would be difficult to imagine
anything at once so fleshy and so delicate in design ;
the taper, sensual fingers were like those of one of
Leonardo's women ; the fork of the thumb made a
dimpled protuberance when closed ; the nails were
perfectly shaped, and of a dead, surprising whiteness.
It rendered his aspect tenfold more redoubtable, that a
man with hands like these should keep them devoutly
folded in his lap like a virgin martyr — that a man with
so intense and startling an expression of face should
sit patiently on his seat and contemplate people with
an unwinking stare, like a god, or a god's statue. His
quiescence seemed ironical and treacherous, it fitted
so poorly with his looks.

Such was Alain, Sire de Maletroit.

THE SIRE DE MALETKOIT'S DOOR 341

Denis and he looked silently at each other for a
second or two.

' Pray step in,' said the Sire de Maletroit. ' I have
been expecting you all the evening.'

He had not risen, but he accompanied his words
with a smile, and a slight but courteous inclination of
the head. Partly from the smile, partly from the
strange musical murmur with which the Sire prefaced
his observation, Denis felt a strong shudder of disgust
go through his marrow. And what with disgust and
honest confusion of mind, he could scarcely get words
together in reply.

' I fear,' he said, ' that this is a double accident. J
am not the person you suppose me. It seems you
were looking for a visit ; but for my part, nothing was
further from my thoughts — nothing could be more
contrary to my wishes — than this intrusion.'

' Well, well,' replied the old gentleman indulgently,
' here you are, which is the main point. Seat
yourself, my friend, and put yourself entirely at your
ease. We shall arrange our little affairs presently.'

Denis perceived that the matter was still compli-
cated with some misconception, and he hastened to
continue his explanations.

' Your door . . . ' he began.

' About my door ? ' asked the other, raising his
peaked eyebrows. * A little piece of ingenuity.' And
he shrugged his shoulders. * A hospitable fancy !
By your own account, you were not desirous of making
my acquaintance. We old people look for such reluc-
tance now and then ; and when it touches our honour,
we cast about until we find some way of overcoming
it. You arrive uninvited, but believe me, very
welcome.'

' You persist in error, sir,' said Denis. ' There can
be no question between you and me. I am a stranger
in this country-side. My name is Denis, damoiseau
de Beaulieu. If you see me in your house, it is only '

342 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

' My young friend,' interrupted the other, ' you will
permit me to have my own ideas on that subject. They
probably differ from yours at the present moment,'
he added with a leer, ' but time will show which of us
is in the right.'

Denis was convinced he had to do with a lunatic.
He seated himself with a shrug, content to wait the
upshot ; and a pause ensued, during which he thought
he could distinguish a hurried gabbling as of prayer
from behind the arras immediately opposite him.
Sometimes there seemed to be but one person engaged,
sometimes two ; and the vehemence of the voice, low
as it was, seemed to indicate either great haste or an
agony of spirit. It occurred to him that this piece of
tapestry covered the entrance to the chapel he had
noticed from without.

The old gentleman meanwhile surveyed Denis from
head to foot with a smile, and from time to time
emitted little noises like a bird or a mouse, which
seemed to indicate a high degree of satisfaction. This
state of matters became rapidly insupportable ; and
Denis, to put an end to it, remarked politely that the
wind had gone down.

The old gentleman fell into a fit of silent laughter,
so prolonged and violent that he became quite red in
the face. Denis got upon his feet at once, and put on
his hat with a flourish.

' Sir,' he said, ' if you are in your wits, you have
affronted me grossly. If you are out of them, I flatter
myself I can find better employment for my brains
than to talk with lunatics. My conscience is clear ; you
have made a fool of me from the first moment ; you
have refused to hear my explanations ; and now there
is no power under God will make me stay here any
longer ; and if I cannot make my way out in a more
decent fashion, I "will hack your door in pieces with my
sword."

The Sire de Maletroit raised his right hand and

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 343

wagged it at Denis with the fore and little fingers
extended.

' My dear nephew,' he said, ' sit down.'

' Nephew ! ' retorted Denis, ' you lie in your throat ';
and he snapped his fingers in his face.

' Sit down, you rogue ! ' cried the old gentleman,
in a sudden, harsh voice, like the barking of a dog.
' Do you fancy,' he went on, i that when I had made
my little contrivance for the door I had stopped short
with that ? If you prefer to be bound hand and foot
till your bones ache, rise and try to go away. If you
choose to remain a free young buck, agreeably convers-
ing with an old gentleman — why, sit where you are in
peace, and God be with you.'

4 Do you mean I am a prisoner ? ' demanded Denis.

* I state the facts,' replied the other. ' I would rather
leave the conclusion to yourself.'

Denis sat down again. Externally he managed to
keep pretty calm ; but within, he was now boiling
with anger, now chilled with apprehension. He no
longer felt convinced that he was dealing with a mad-
man. And if the old gentleman was sane, what, in
God's name, had he to look for ? What absurd or
tragical adventure had befallen him ? What counten-
ance was he to assume ?

While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras
that overhung the chapel door was raised, and a tall
priest in his robes came forth and, giving a long, keen
stare at Denis, said something in an undertone to Sire
de Maletroit.

4 She is in a better frame of spirit ? ' asked the latter.

* She is more resigned, messire,' replied the priest.
' Now the Lord help her, she is hard to please ! '

sneered the old gentleman. 4 A likely stripling — not
ill-born — and of her own choosing, too ? Why, what
more would the jade have ? '

4 The situation is not usual for a young damsel,' said
the other, ' and somewhat trying to her blushes.'

344 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

* She should have thought of that before she began
. the dance ? It was none of my choosing, God knows
that : but since she is in it, by our Lady, she shall carry
it to the end.' And then addressing Denis, ' Monsieur
de Beaulieu,' he asked, ' may I present you to my niece ?
She has been waiting your arrival, I may say, with
even greater impatience than myself.'

Denis had resigned himself with a "good grace — all
he desired was to know the worst of it as speedily as
possible ; so he rose at once, and bowed in acquiescence.
The Sire de Maletroit followed his example and limped,
with the assistance of the chaplain's arm, towards the
chapel door. The priest pulled aside the arras, and all
three entered. The building had considerable archi-
tectural pretensions. A light groining sprang from
six stout columns, and hung down in two rich pendants
from the centre of the vault. The place terminated
behind the altar in a round end, embossed and honey-
combed with a superfluity of ornament in relief, and
pierced by many little windows shaped like stars,
trefoils, or wheels. These windows were imperfectly
glazed, so that the night air circulated freely in the
chapel. The tapers, of which there must have been
half a hundred burning on the altar, were unmercifully
blown about ; and the light went through many
different phases of brilliancy and semi-eclipse. On
the steps in front of the altar knelt a young girl richly
attired as a bride. A chill settled over Denis as he
observed her costume ; he fought with desperate energy
against the conclusion that was being thrust upon his
mind ; it could not — it should not — be as he feared.

' Blanche,' said the Sire, in his most flute-like tones,
' I have brought a friend to see you, my little girl ; turn
round and give him your pretty hand. It is good to
be devout ; but it is necessary to be polite, my niece.'

The girl rose to her feet and turned towards the new-
comers. She moved all of a piece ; and shame and
exhaustion were expressed in every line of her fresh

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 345

young body ; and she held her head down and kept her
eyes upon the pavement, as she came slowly forward.
In the course of her advance, her eyes fell upon Denis
de Beaulieu's feet — feet of which he was justly vain, be
it remarked, and wore in the most elegant accoutrement
even while travelling. She paused — started, as if his
yellow boots had conveyed some shocking meaning —
and glanced suddenly up into the wearer's countenance.
Their eyes met ; shame gave place to horror and terror
in her looks ; the blood left her lips ; with a piercing
scream she covered her face with her hands and sank
upon the chapel floor.

' That is not the man ! ' she cried. * My uncle ; that
is not the man ! '

The Sire de Maletroit chirped agreeably. * Of course
not,' he said, ' I expected as much. It was so unfortu-
nate you could not remember his name.'

' Indeed,' she cried, ' indeed, I have never seen this
person till this moment — I have never so much as set
eyes upon him — I never wish to see him again. Sir,'
she said, turning to Denis, ' if you are a gentleman,
you will bear me out. Have I ever seen you — have
you ever seen me — before this accursed hour ? '

4 To speak for myself, I have never had that pleasure,'
answered the young man. ' This is the first time,
messire, that I have met with your engaging niece.'

The old gentleman shrugged his shoulders.

' I am distressed to hear it,' he said. ' But it is
never too late to begin. I had little more acquaintance
with my own late lady ere I married her ; which
proves,' he added with a grimace, ' that these im-
promptu marriages may often produce an excellent
understanding in the long-run. As the bridegroom is
to have a voice in the matter, I will give him two hours
to make up for lost time before we proceed with the
ceremony.' And he turned towards the door, followed
by the clergyman.

The girl was on her feet in a moment. ' My uncle,

346 ROBERT LOUTS STEVENSON

you cannot be in earnest,' she said. ' I declare before
God I will stab myself rather than be forced on that
young man. The heart rises at it ; God forbids such
marriages ; you dishonour your white hair. Oh, my
uncle, pity me ! There is not a woman in all the world
but would prefer death to such a nuptial. Is it
possible,' she added, faltering — •' is it possible that you
do not believe me — that you still think this ' — and she
pointed at Denis with a tremor of anger and contempt —
' that you still think this to be the man ? '

' Frankly,' said the old gentleman, pausing on the
threshold, ' I do. But let me explain to you once for
all, Blanche de Maletroit, my way of thinking about
this affair. When you took it into your head to
dishonour my family and the name that I have borne,
in peace and war, for more than threescore years, you
forfeited, not only the right to question my designs, but
that of looking me in the face. If your father had been
alive, he would have spat on you and turned you out
of doors. His was the hand of iron. You may bless
your God you have only to deal with the hand of
velvet, mademoiselle. It was my duty to get you
married without delay. Out of pure goodwill, I have
tried to find your own gallant for you. And I believe
I have succeeded. But before God and all the holy
angels, Blanche de Maletroit, if I have not, I care not
one jack-straw. So let me recommend you to be polite
to our young friend ; for upon my word, your next
groom may be less appetizing.'

And with that he went out, with the chaplain at his
heels ; and the arras fell behind the pair.

The girl turned upon Denis with flashing eyes.

' And what, sir,' she demanded, ' may be the meaning
of all this ? '

4 God knows,' returned Denis gloomily, ( I am a
prisoner in this house, which seems full of mad people.
More I know not ; and nothing do I understand.'

' And pray how came you here ? ' she asked.

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 347

He told her as briefly as he could. ' For the rest,'
he added, ' perhaps you will follow my example, and
tell me the answer to all these riddles, and what, in
God's name, is like to be the end of it.'

She stood silent for a little, and he could see her lips
tremble and her tearless eyes burn with a feverish
lustre. Then she pressed her forehead in both
hands.

' Alas, how my head aches ! ' she said wearily — ' to
say nothing of my poor heart ! But it is due to you
to know my story, unmaidenly as it must seem. I am
called Blanche de Maletroit: I have been without
father or mother for — oh ! for as long as I can recollect,
and indeed I have been most unhappy all my life.
Three months ago a young captain began to stand near
me every day in church. I could see that I pleased
him ; I am much to blame, but I was so glad that any
one should love me ; and when he passed me a letter,
I took it home with me and read it with great pleasure.
Since that time he has written many. He was so
anxious to speak with me, poor fellow ! and kept asking
me to leave the door open some evening that we might
have two words upon the stair. For he knew how
much my uncle trusted me.' She gave something like
a sob at that, and it was a moment before she could go
on. ' My uncle is a hard man, but he is very shrewd,'
she said at last. ' He has performed many feats in
war, and was a great person at court, and much trusted
by Queen Isabeau in old days. How he came to sus-
pect me I cannot tell ; but it is hard to keep anything
from his knowledge ; and this morning, as we came
from mass, he took my hand in his, forced it open, and
read my little billet, walking by my side all the while.
When he had finished, he gave it back to me with great
politeness. It contained another request to have the
door left open ; and this has been the ruin of us all.
My uncle kept me strictly in my room until evening,
and then ordered me to dress myself as you see me — •

348 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

a hard mockery for a young girl ; do you not think so ?
I suppose, when he could not prevail with me to tell
him the young captain's name, he must have laid a trap
for him : into which, alas ! you have fallen in the anger
of God. I looked for much confusion ; for how could
I tell whether he was willing to take me for his wife
on these sharp terms ? He might have been trifling
with me from the first ; or I might have made myself
too cheap in his eyes. But truly I had not looked for
such a shameful punishment as this ! I could not
think that God would let a girl be so disgraced before
a young man. And now I have told you all ; and I
can scarcely hope that you will not despise me.'

Denis made her a respectful inclination.

' Madam/ he said, ' you have honoured me by your
confidence. f It remains for me to prove that I am not
unworthy oi the honour. Is Messire de Maletroit at
hand ? '

' I believe he is writing in the salle without,' she
answered.

' May I lead you thither, madam ? ' asked Denis,
offering his hand with his most courtly bearing.

She accepted it ; and the pair passed out of the
chapel, Blanche in a very drooping and shamefast
condition, but Denis strutting and ruffling in the
consciousness of a mission, and the boyish certainty
of accomplishing it with honour.

The Sire de Maletroit rose to meet them with an
ironical obeisance.

' Sir,' said Denis, with the grandest possible air, ' I
believe I am to have some say in the matter of this mar-
riage ; and let me tell you at once, I will be no party
to forcing the inclination of this young lady. Had it
been freely offered to me, I should have been proud to
accept her hand, for I perceive she is as good as she is
beautiful ; but as things are, I have now the honour,
messire, of refusing.'

Blanche looked at him with gratitude in her eyes ;

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 349

but the old gentleman only smiled and smiled, until his
smile grew positively sickening to Denis.

' I am afraid,' he said, ' Monsieur de Beaulieu, that
you do not perfectly understand the choice I have to
offer you. Follow me, I beseech you, to this window.'
And he led the way to one of the large windows which
stood open on the night. ' You observe,' he went on,
' there is an iron ring in the upper masonry, and reeved
through that a very efficacious rope. Now, mark my
words : if you should find your disinclination to my
niece's person insurmountable, I shall have you hanged
out of this window before sunrise. I shall only proceed
to such an extremity with the greatest regret, you may-
believe me. For it is not at all your death that I desire,
but my mace's establishment in life. At the same time,
it must come to that if you prove obstinate. Your
family, Monsieur de Beaulieu, is very well in its way ;
but if you sprang from Charlemagne, you should not
refuse the hand of a Maletroit with impunity — not if
she had been as common as the Paris road — not if she
were as hideous as the gargoyle over my door. Neither
my niece nor you, nor my own private feelings, move
me at all in this matter. The honour of my house has
been compromised ; I believe you to be the guilty
person ; at least you are now in the secret ; and you
can hardly wonder if I request you to wipe out the stain.
If you will not, your blood be on your own head ! It
will be no great satisfaction to me to have your inter-
esting relics kicking their heels in the breeze below my
windows ; but half a loaf is better than no bread, and
if I cannot cure the dishonour, I shall at least stop the
scandal.'

There was a pause.

' I believe there are other ways of settling such
imbroglios among gentlemen,' said Denis. ' You wear
a sword, and I hear you have used it with distinction.'

The Sire de Maletroit made a signal to the chaplain,
who crossed the room with long silent strides and raised

350 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

the ajras over the third of the three doors. It was
only a moment before he let it fall again ; but Denis had
time to see a dusky passage full of armed men.

' When I was a little younger, I should have been
delighted to honour you, Monsieur de Beaulieu,' said
Sire Alain ; ' but I am now too old. Faithful retainers
are the sinews of age, and I must employ the strength
I have. This is one of the hardest things to swallow
as a man grows up in years ; but with a little patience,
even this becomes habitual. You and the lady seem
to prefer the salle for what remains of your two hours ;
and as I have no desire to cross your preference, I shall
"resign it to your use with all the pleasure in the world .
No haste ! ' he added, holding up his hand, as he saw
a dangerous look come into Denis de Beauiieu's face.
' If your mind revolts against hanging, it will be time
enough two hours hence to throw yourself out of the
window or upon the pikes of my retainers. Two hours
of life are always two hours. A great many things
may turn up in even as little a while as that. And,
besides, if I understand her appearance, my niece has
still something to say to you. You will not disfigure
your last hours by a want of politeness to a lady ? '

Denis looked at Blanche, and she made him an im-
ploring gesture.

It is likely that the old gentleman was hugely
pleased at this symptom of an understanding ; for he
smiled on both, and added sweetly : ' If you will give
me your word of honour, Monsieur de Beaulieu, to
await my return at the end of the two hours before
attempting anything desperate, I shall withdraw my
retainers, and let you speak in greater privacy with
mademoiselle.'

Denis again glanced at the girl, who seemed to
beseech him to agree.

' I give you my word of honour,' he said.

Messire de Maletroit bowed, and proceeded to limp
about the apartment, clearing his throat the while

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 351

with that odd musical chirp which had already grown
so irritating in the ears of Denis de Beaulieu. He first
possessed himself of some papers which lay upon the
table ; then he went to the mouth of the passage and
appeared to give an order to the men behind the arras ;
and lastly, he hobbled out through the door by which
Denis had come in, turning upon the threshold to
address a last smiling bow to the young couple, and
followed by the chaplain with a hand-lamp.

No sooner were they alone than Blanche advanced
towards Denis with her hands extended. Her face
was flushed and excited, and her eyes shone with tears.

' You shall not die ! ' she cried, ' you shall marry
me after all.'

* You seem to think, madam,' replied Denis, ' that I
stand much in fear of death.'

' Oh no, no,' she said, ' I see you are no poltroon.
It is for my own sake — I could not bear to have you
slain for such a scruple.'

4 1 am afraid,' returned Denis, ' that you underrate
the difficulty, madam. What you may be too generous
to refuse, I may be too proud to accept. In a moment
of noble feeling towards me, you forgot what you per-
haps owe to others.'

He had the decency to keep his eyes upon the floor
as he said this, and after he had finished, so as not
to spy upon her confusion. She stood silent for a
moment, then walked 'suddenly away, and falling on
her uncle's chair, fairly burst out sobbing. Denis was
in the acme of embarrassment. He looked round, as
if to seek for inspiration, and seeing a stool, plumped
down upon it for something to do. There he sat,
playing with the guard of his rapier, and wishing him-
self dead a thousand times over, and buried in the
nastiest kitchen -heap in France. His eyes wandered
round the apartment, but found nothing to arrest them.
There were such wide spaces between the furniture, the
light fell so baldly and cheerlessly over all, the dark

352 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

outside air looked in so coldly through the windows,
that he thought he had never seen a church so vast,
nor a tomb so melancholy. The regular sobs of
Blanche de Maletroit measured out the time like the
ticking of a clock. He read the device upon the shield
over and over again, until his eyes became obscured ;
he stared into shadowy corners until he imagined they
were swarming with horrible animals ; and every now
and again he awoke with a start, to remember that his
last two hours were running, and death was on the
march.

Oftener and oftener, as the time went on, did his
glance settle on the girl herself. Her face was bowed
forward and covered with her hands, and she was
shaken at intervals by the convulsive hiccup of grief.
Even 'thus she was not an unpleasant object to dwell
upon, so plump and yet so fine, with a warm brown
skin, and the most beautiful hair, Denis thought, in
the whole world of womankind. Her hands were like
her uncle's ; but they were more in place at the end of
her young arms, and looked infinitely soft and caressing.
He remembered how her blue eyes had shone upon
him, full of anger, pity, and innocence. And the more
he dwelt on her perfections, the uglier death looked,
and the more deeply was he smitten with penitence at
her continued tears. Now he felt that no man could
have the courage to leave a world which contained
so beautiful a creature ; and now he would have given
forty minutes of his last hour to unsay this cruel
speech.

Suddenly a hoarse and ragged peal of cockcrow
rose to their ears from the dark valley below the
windows. And this shattering noise in the silence of
all around was like a light in a dark place, and shook
them both out of their reflections.

1 Alas, can I do nothing to help you ? ' she said,
looking up.

1 Madam,' replied Denis, with a fine irrelevancy,

THE SIRE BE MALETROlT'S DOOR 353

' if I have said anything to wound you, believe me,
it was for your own sake and not for mine.'

She thanked him with a tearful look.

4 1 feel your position cruelly,' he went on. ' The
world has been bitter hard on you. Your uncle is a
disgrace to mankind. Believe me, madam, there is
no young gentleman in all France but would be glad
of my opportunity, to die in doing you a momentary
service/

' I know already that you can be very brave and
generous,' she answered. ' What I want to know is
whether I can serve you — now or afterwards,' she added,
with a quaver.

4 Most certainly,' he answered with a smile. ' Let
me sit beside you as if I were a friend, instead of a
foolish intruder ; try to forget how awkwardly we are
placed to one another ; make my last moments go
pleasantly ; and you will do me the chief service
possible.'

' You are very gallant,' she added, with a yet deeper
sadness . . . ' very gallant . . . and it somehow pains
me. But draw nearer, if you please ; and if you find
anything to say to me, you will at least make certain
of a very friendly listener. Ah ! Monsieur de Beaulieu,'
she broke forth — ' ah ! Monsieur de Beaulieu, how can
I look you in the face ? ' And she fell to weeping
again with a renewed effusion.

' Madam,' said Denis, taking her hand in both of
his, * reflect on the little time I have before me, and the
great bitterness into which I am cast by the sight of
your distress. Spare me, in my last moments, the
spectacle of what I cannot cure even with the sacrifice
of my life.'

' I am very selfish,' answered Blanche. ' I will be
braver, Monsieur de Beaulieu, for your sake. But think
if I can do you no kindness in the future — if you have
no friends to whom I could carry your adieux. Charge
me as heavily as you can ; every burden will lighten,

354 EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

by so little, the invaluable gratitude I owe you. Put
it in my power to do something more for you than
weep.'

' My mother is married again, and has a young family
to care for. My brother Guichard will inherit my fiefs ;
and if I am not in error, that will content him amply
for my death. Life is a little vapour that passeth
away, as we are told by those in holy orders. When
a man is in a f air way and sees all life open in front of
him, he seems to himself to make a very important
figure in the world. His horse whinnies to him ; the
trumpets blow and the girls look out of window
as he rides into town before his company ; he receives
many assurances of trust and regard — sometimes by
express in a letter — sometimes face to face, with persons
of great consequence falling on his neck. It is not
wonderful if his head is turned for a time. But once
he is dead, were he as brave as Hercules or as wise as
Solomon, he is soon forgotten. It is not ten years
since my father fell, with many other knights around
him, in a very fierce encounter, and I do not think that
any one of them, nor so much as the name of the fight,
is now remembered. No, no, madam, the nearer you
come to it, you see that death is a dark and dusty
corner, where a man gets into his tomb and has the
door shut after him till the Judgement Day. I have
few friends just now, and once I am dead I shall
have none.'

' Ah, Monsieur de Beaulieu ! ? she exclaimed, * you
forget Blanche de Maletroit.'

' You have a sweet nature, madam, and you are
pleased to estimate a little service far beyond its
worth.'

' It is not 'that,' she answered. * You mistake me
if you think I am so easily touched by my own concerns.
I say so, because you are the noblest man I have ever
met ; because I recognize in you a spirit that would
have made even a common person famous in the land.'

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 355

' And yet here I die in a mousetrap — with no more
noise about it than my own squeaking,' answered he.

A look of pain crossed her face, and she was silent
for a little while. Then a light came into her eyes, and
with a smile she spoke again.

' I cannot have my champion think meanly of him-
self. Any one who gives his life for another will be met
in Paradise by all the heralds and angels of the Lord
God. And you have no such cause to hang your head.
For . . . Pray, do you think me beautiful ? ' she asked,
with a deep flush.

' Indeed, madam, I do,' he said.

* I am glad of that,' she answered heartily. ' Do
you think there are many men in France who have
been asked in marriage by a beautiful maiden — with
her own lips — and who have refused her to her face ?
I know you men would half despise such a triumph ; but
believe me, we women know more of what is precious
in love. There is nothing that should set a person
higher in his own esteem ; and we women would prize
nothing more dearly.'

' You are very good,' he said ; * but you cannot
make me forget that I was asked in pity and not for
love.'

' 1 am not so sure of that,' she replied, holding down
her head. ' Hear me to an end, Monsieur de Beaulieu.
I know how you must despise me ; I feel you are right
to do so ; I am too poor a creature to occupy one
thought of your mind, although, alas ! you must die
for me this morning. But when I asked you to marry
me, indeed, and indeed, it was because I respected and
admired you, and loved you with my whole soul, from
the very moment that you took my part against my
uncle. If you had seen yourself, and how noble you
looked, you would pity rather than despise me. And
now,' she went on, hurriedly checking him with her
hand, ' although I have laid aside all reserve and told
you so much, remember that I know your sentiments

356 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

towards me already. I would not, believe me, being
nobly born, weary you with importunities into consent.
I too have a pride of my own : and I declare before
the holy mother of God, if you should now go back
from your word already given, I would no more marry
you than I would marry my uncle's groom.'

Denis smiled a little bitterly.

4 It is a small love,' he said, ' that shies at a little
pride.'

She made no answer, although she probably had her
own thoughts.

4 Come hither to the window,' he said, with a sigh.
' Here is the dawn.'

And indeed the dawn was already beginning. The
hollow of the sky was full of essential daylight, colour-
less and clean ; and the valley underneath was flooded
with a grey reflection. A few thin vapours clung in
the coves of the forest or lay along the winding course
of the river. The scene disengaged a surprising effect
of stillness, which was hardly interrupted when the
cocks began once more to crow among the steadings.
Perhaps the same fellow who had made so horrid a
clangour in the darkness not half an hour before, now
sent up the merriest cheer to greet the coming day. A
little wind went bustling and eddying among the tree-
tops underneath the windows. And still the daylight
kept flooding insensibly out of the east, which was soon
to grow incandescent and cast up that red-hot cannon-
ball, the rising sun.

Denis looked out over all this with a bit of a shiver.
He had taken her hand and retained it in his almost
unconsciously.

4 Has the day begun already ? ' she said ; and then,
illogically enough : i the night has been so long ! Alas !
what shall we say to my uncle when he returns ? '

4 What you will,' said Denis, and he pressed her
fingers in his.

She was silent.

THE SIRE DE MALETROIT'S DOOR 357

4 Blanche,' he said, with a swift, uncertain, passionate
utterance, * you have seen whether I fear death. You
must know well enough that I would as gladly leap
out of that window into the empty air as lay a finger
on you without your free and full consent. But if you
care for me at all, do not let me lose my life in a mis-
apprehension ; for I love you better than the whole
world ; and though I will die for you blithely, it would
be like all the joys of Paradise to live on and spend my
life in your service.'

As he stopped speaking, a bell began to ring loudly
in the interior of the house ; and a clatter of armour
in the corridor showed that the retainers were returning
to their post, and the two hours were at an end.

' After all that you have heard ? ' she whispered,
leaning towards him with her lips and eyes.

' I have heard nothing,' he replied.

' The captain's name was Florimond de Champ-
divers,' she said in his ear.

* I did not hear it,' he answered, taking her supple
body in his arms, and covered her wet face with kisses.

A melodious chirping was audible behind, followed
by a beautiful chuckle, and the voice of Messire de
Maletroit wished his new nephew a good morning.

OSCAR WILDE

1856—1900

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA

IT was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just
twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly
in the gardens of the palace.

Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of
Spain, she had only one birthday every year, just like
the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally
a matter of great importance to the whole country
that she should have a really fine day for the occasion.
And a really fine day it certainly was. The tall striped
tulips stood straight up upon their stalks, like long
rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass
at the roses, and said : ' We are quite as splendid as
you are now.' The purple butterflies fluttered about
with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in
turn ; the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the
wall, and lay basking in the white glare ; and the
pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and
showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow
lemons, that hung in such profusion from the moulder-
ing trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have
caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight,
and the magnolia trees opened their great globe-like
blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with a sweet
heavy perfume.

The little Princess herself walked up and down the
terrace with her companions, and played at hide and
seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown
358

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 359

statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to
play with children of her own rank, so she had always to
play alone, but her birthday was an exception, and the
King had given orders that she was to invite any of
her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse
themselves with her. There was a stately grace about
these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the
boys with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering
cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long
brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes
with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta
was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully
attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the
day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the
wide puffed sleeves heavily embroidered with silver,
and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine pearls.
Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out
beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was
her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an
aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale
little face, she had a beautiful white rose.

From a window in the palace the sad melancholy
King watched them. Behind him stood his brother,
Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his con-
fessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side.
Sadder even than usual was the King, for as he looked
at the Infanta bowing with childish gravity to the
assembling courtiers, or laughing behind her fan at the
grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied
her, he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who
but a short time before — so it seemed to him — had come
from the gay country of France, and had withered away
in the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying
just six months after the birth of her child, and before
she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard,
or plucked the second year's fruit from the old gnarled
fig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown
courtyard. So great had been his love for her that he

360 OSCAR WILDE

had not suffered even the grave to hide her from him.
She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who
in return for this service had been granted his life, which
for heresy and suspicion of magical practices had been
already forfeited, men said, to the Holy Office, and her
body was still lying on its tapestried bier in the black
marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had
borne her in on that windy March day nearly twelve
years before. Once every month the King, wrapped
in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand,
went in and knelt by her side calling out, * M i reina !
Mi reina ! ' and sometimes breaking through the formal
etiquette that in Spain governs every separate action
of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a King, he
would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony
of grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses "the cold
painted face.

To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen
her first at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when he was
but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They
had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the
Papal Nuncio in the presence of the French King and
all the Court, and he had returned to the Escurial
bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and the
memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his
hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had
followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a
small town on the frontier between the two countries,
and the grand public entry into Madrid with . the
customary celebration of high mass at the Church of
La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn auto-da-fe,
in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom
were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the
secular arm to be burned.

Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin,
many thought, of his country, then at war with England
for the possession of the empire of the New World.
He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 361

•

sight ; for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have
forgotten, all grave affairs of State ; and, with that
terrible blindness that passion brings upon its servants,
he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies
by which he sought to please her did but aggravate
the strange malady from which she suffered. When she
died he was, for a time, like one bereft of reason.
Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have
formally abdicated and retired to the great Trappist
monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular
Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta
at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in
Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many
of having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair
of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her on the
occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even
after the expiration of the three years of public mourn-
ing that he had ordained throughout his whole do-
minions by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers
to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor
himself sent to him, and offered him the hand of the
lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece, in marriage,
he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the
King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that
though she was but a barren bride, he loved her better
than Beauty ; an answer that cost his crown the rich
provinces of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the
Emperor's instigation, revolted against him under the
leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.

His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured
joys and the terrible agony of its sudden ending,
seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched the
Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the
Queen's pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful
way of tossing her head, the same proud curved beauti-
ful mouth, the same wonderful smile — vrai sourire de
France indeed — as she glanced up now and then at
the window, or stretched out her little hand for the

362 OSCAR WILDE

stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill
laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the
bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull
odour of strange spices, spices such as embalmers use,
seemed to taint — or was it fancy ? — the clear morning
air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the
Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn,
and the King had retired.

She made a little moue of disappointment, and
shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might have stayed
with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-
affairs matter ? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel
where the candles were always burning, and where she
was never allowed to enter ? How silly of him, when
the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was
so happy ! Besides, he would, miss the sham bull-fight
for which the trumpet was already sounding, to say
nothing of the puppet-show and the other wonderful
things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were
much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace,
and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her
pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she
walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion
of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the
garden, the other children following in strict order of
precedence, those who had the longest names going
first.

A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as
toreadors, came out to meet her, and the young Count
of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about
fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all the
grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her (
solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was
placed on a raised dais above the arena. The children
grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big fans
and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the
Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance.

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 363

Even the Duchess — the Camerera-Mayor as she was
called — a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow
ruff, did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and
something like a chill smile flitted across her wrinkled
face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.

It certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much
nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight
that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the
occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her
father. Some of the boys pranced about on richly-
caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins
with gay streamers of bright ribands attached to them ;
others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before
the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he
charged them ; and as for the bull himself, he was just
like a live bull, though he was only made of wicker-work
and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running
round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull
ever dreams of doing. He made a splendid fight of it
too, and the children got so excited that they stood
up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs
and cried out : Bravo toro / Bravo toro ! just as sensibly
as if they had been grown-up people. At last, how-
ever, after a prolonged combat, during which several
of the hobby-horses were gored through and through,
and their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-
Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having
obtained permission from the Infanta to give the coup
de grace, he plunged his wooden sword into the neck
of the animal with such violence that the head came
right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little
Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of the French Ambas-
sador at Madrid.

The arena was then cleared amidst much applause,
and the dead hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by
two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and
after a short interlude, during which a French posture-
master performed upon the tight- rope, some Italian

364 OSCAR WILDE

puppets appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of
Sophonisba on the stage of a small theatre that had
been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and
their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the
close of the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite
dim with tears. Indeed, some of the children really
cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats, and
the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he
could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed
to him intolerable that things made simply out of wood
and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires,
should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible mis-
fortunes.

An African juggler followed, who brought in a large
flat basket covered with a red cloth, and having placed
it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban
a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few
moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe
grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes
put out their strange wedge-shaped heads and rose
slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant
sways in the water. The children, however, were
rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick
darting tongues, and were much more pleased when the
juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand
and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real
fruit ; and when he took the fan of the little daughter
of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into
a blue bird that flew all around the pavilion and sang,
their delight and amusement knew no bounds. The
solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys
from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was
charming. The Infanta had never before seen this
wonderful ceremony which takes place every year
at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and
in her honour ; and indeed none of the royal family
of Spain 'had entered the great cathedral of Saragossa
since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 365

in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to ad-
minister a poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias.
So she had known only by hearsay of ' Our Lady's
Dance,' as it was called, and it certainly was a beautiful
sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of
white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats
were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge
plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of
their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight,
being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces
and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated by
the grave dignity with which they moved through the
intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate
grace of their slow gestures and stately bows ; and
when they had finished their performance and doffed
their great plumed hat* to the Infanta, she acknow-
ledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made
a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the
shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure
that she had given her.

A troop of handsome Egyptians — as the gipsies
were termed in those days — then advanced into the
arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle, began
to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies
to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath,
a low dreamy air. When they caught sight of Don
Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked
terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two
of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place
at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she
leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue
eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was
could never be cruel to anybody. So they played on
very gently and just touching the chords of the zithers
with their long pointed nails, and their heads began
to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly,
with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled
and Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pammel

366 OSCAR WILDE

of his dagger, they leapt to their feet and whirled madly
round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and
chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural
language. Then at another signal they all flung them-
selves again to the ground and lay there quite still, the
dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that
broke the silence. After that they had done this
several times, they disappeared for a moment and came
back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and
carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes.
The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity,
and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks
with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters,
and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and
went through a regular soldiers' drill just like the King's
own bodyguard. In fact ths gipsies were a great
success.

But the funniest part of the whole morning's enter-
tainment was undoubtedly the dancing of the little
Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling
on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen
head from side to side, the children went off into a
loud shout of delight, and the Infanta herself laughed
so much that the Camerera was obliged to remind her
that although there were many precedents in Spain
for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there
were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so
merry before those who were her inferiors in birth.
The Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and
even at the Spanish Court, always noted for its culti-
vated passion for the horrible, so fantastic a little
monster had never been seen. It was his first appear-
ance, too. He had been discovered only the day
before, running wild through the forest, by two of the
nobles who happened to have been hunting in a remote
part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town,
and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a
surprise for the Infanta ; his father, who was a poor

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 367

charcoal-burner, being but too well pleased to get rid
of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most
amusing thing about him was his complete unconscious-
ness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he
seemed quite happy and full of the highest spirits.
When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as
joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance
he made them each the funniest of bows, smiling and
nodding at them just as if he was really one of them-
selves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature,
in some humorous mood, had fashioned for others
to mock at. As for the Infanta, she absolutely fasci-
nated him. He could not keep his eyes off her, and
seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close
of the performance, remembering how she had seen
the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffar-
elli, the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent
from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the
King's melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she
took out of her hair the beautiful white rose, and partly
for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera, threw it
to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he took
the whole matter, quite seriously, and, pressing the
flower to his rough coarse lips, he put his hand upon his
heart, and sank on one knee before her, grinning from
ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes sparkling with
pleasure.

This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she
kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf had run out
of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle that
the dance should be immediately repeated. The
Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too
hot, decided that it would be better that her Highness
should return without delay to the Palace, where a
wonderful feast had been already prepared for her,
including a real birthday cake with her own initials
worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver
flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly

36$ OSCAR WILDE

rose up with much dignity, and having given orders
that the little Dwarf was to dance again for her after
the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the
young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming recep-
tion, she went back to her apartments, the children
following in the same order in which they had entered.

Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to
dance a second time before the Infanta, and by her own
express command, he was so proud that he ran out
into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd
ecstasy of pleasure, and making the most uncouth and
clumsy gestures of delight.

The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to
intrude into their beautiful home, and when they saw
him capering up and down the walks, and waving his
arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they
could not restrain their feelings any longer.

4 He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in
any place where we are,' cried the Tulips.

' He should drink poppy- juice, and go to sleep for a
thousand years,' said the great scarlet Lilies, and they
grew quite hot and angry.

' He is a perfect horror ! ' screamed the Cactus.
' Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is com-
pletely out of proportion with his legs. Really he
makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me
I will sting him with my thorns.'

* And he has actually got one of my best blooms,'
exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. ' I gave it to the
Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday present,
and he has stolen it from her.' And she called out :
* Thief, thief, thief ! ' at the top of her voice.

Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give
themselves airs, and were known to have a great many
poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when
they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked
that though he was certainly extremely plain, still he

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 36§

could not help it, they retorted with a good deal of
justice that that was his chief defect, and that there
was no reason why one should admire a person because
he was incurable ; and, indeed, some of the Violets
themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf
was almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown
much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least
pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throw-
ing himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes.

As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remark-
able individual, and had once told the time of day to
no less a person than the Emperor Charles V himself,
he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf's appearance,
that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with
his long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to
the great milk-white Peacock, who was sunning herself
on the balustrade, that every one knew that the chil-
dren of Kings were Kings, and that the children of
charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it
was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so ; a statement
with which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed
screamed out, ' Certainly, certainly,' in such a loud,
harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin
of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of
the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on
earth was the matter.

But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen
him often in the forest, dancing about like an elf after
the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of
some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels.
They did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even
the nightingale herself, who sang so sweetly in the
orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned
down to listen, was not much to look at after all ; and,
besides, he ha*d been kind to them, and during that
terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on
the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the
wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to

370 OSCAR WILDE

look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but
had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch
of black bread, and divided with them whatever poor
breakfast he had.

So they flew round and round him, just touching his
cheek with their wings as they passed, and chattered
to each other, and the little Dwarf was so pleased that
he could not help showing them the beautiful white
rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given
it to him because she loved him.

They did not understand a single word of what he
was saying, but that made no matter, for they put their
heads on one side, and looked wise, which is quite as
good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.

The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and
when he grew tired of running about and flung himself
down on the grass to rest, they played and romped all
over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way
they could. ' Every one cannot be as beautiful as a
lizard,' they cried ; ' that would be too much to expect.
And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not
so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts
one's eyes, and does not look at him.' The Lizards
were extremely philosophical by nature, and often sat
thinking for hours and hours together, when there
was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too
rainy for them to go out.

The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at
their behaviour, and at the behaviour of the birds.
4 It only shows,' they said, ' what a vulgarizing effect
this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-bred
people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do.
No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or
galloping madly through the grass after dragon-flies.
When we do want change of air, we send for the
gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is
dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards
have no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 371

a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like
the gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same
manner.' So they put their noses in the air, and looked
very haughty, and were quite delighted when after
some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from
the grass, and make his way across the terrace to the
palace.

' He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of
his natural life,' they said. ' Look at his hunched
back, and his crooked legs,' and they began to titter.

But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He
liked the birds and the lizards immensely, and thought
that the flowers were the most marvellous things in
the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but then
she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she
loved him, and that made a great difference. How he
wished that he had gone back with her ! She would
have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him,
and he would have never left her side, but would have
made her his playmate, and taught her allrkinds of
delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a
palace before, he knew a grea't many wonderful things.
He could make little cages out of rushes for the grass-
hoppers to sing in, and fashion the long- jointed bamboo
into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew the
cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the
tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the
trail of every animal, and could track the hare by its
delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves.
All the wild-dances he knew, the mad dance in red rai-
ment with the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals
over the corn, the dance with white snow-wreaths in
winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards in
spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their
nests, and once when a fowler had snared the parent
birds, he had brought up the young ones himself, and
had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a
pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed

372 OSCAR WILDE

out of his hands every morning. She would like the*in,
and the rabbits that scurried about in the long fern,
and the jays with their steely feathers and black bills,
and the hedgehogs that could curl themselves up into
prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled
slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the
young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the
forest and play with him. He would give her his own
little bed, and would watch outside the window till
dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle did not harm
her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And
at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her,
and they would go out and dance together all the day
long. It was really not a bit lonely in the forest.
Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white mule,
reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their
green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin,
the falconers passed by with hooded hawks on their
wrists. At vintage-time came the grape-treaders,
with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy
and carrying dripping skins of wine ; and the charcoal-
burners sat round their huge braziers at night, watching
the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting
chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their
caves and made merry with them. Once, too, he had
seen a beautiful procession winding up the long, dusty
road to Toledo. The monks went in front singing
sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of
gold, and then, in silver armour, with matchlocks and
pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked
three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted
all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted
candles in their hands. Certainly there was a great
deal to look at in the forest, and when she was tired he
would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry her in
his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that
he was not tall. He would make her a necklace of
red bryony berries, that would be quite as prett}7 as

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 373

the white berries that she wore on her dress, and when
she was tired of them she could throw them away, and
he would find her others. He would bring her acorn -
cups and dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms
to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.

But where was she ? He asked the white rose, and it
made him no answer. The whole palace seemed asleep,
and even where the shutters had not been closed, heavy
curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out
the glare. He wandered all round looking for some place
through which he might gain an entrance, and at last
he caught sight of a little private door that was lying
open. He slipped through, and found himself in a
splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the
forest, there was so much more gilding everywhere,
and even the floor was made of great coloured stones,
fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But
the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful
white statues that looked down on him from their
jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and strangely
smiling lipte.

At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered
curtain of black velvet, powdered with suns and stars,
the King's favourite devices, and broidered on the
colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind
that ? He would try, at any rate.

So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No ;
there was only another room, though a prettier room,
he thought, than the one he had just left. The walls
were hung with a many -figured green arras of needle -
wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some
Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years
in its composition. It had once been the chamber of
Jean le Fou, as he was called, that mad King who was
so enamoured of the chase that he had often tried in
his delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to
drag down the stag on which the great hounds were
leaping, sounding his hunting-horn, and stabbing with

374 OSCAR WILDE

his dagger at the pale, flying deer. It was now used as
the council-room, and on the centre table were lying
the red portfolios of the ministers, stamped with the
gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and emblems of
the house of Hapsburg.

The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him,
and was half-afraid to go on. The strange silent horse-
men that galloped so swiftly through the long glades
without making any noise, seemed to him like those
terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-
burners speaking — the Comprachos, who hunt only at
night, and if they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and
chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and
took courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell
her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was in the room
beyond.

He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened
the door. No ! She was not here either. The room
was quite empty.

It was a throne-room, used for the reception of
foreign ambassadors, when the King, which of late had
not been often, consented to give them a personal
audience ; the same room in which, many years before,
envoys had appeared from England to make arrange-
ments for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the
Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor's
eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather,
and a heavy gilt chandelier with branches for three
hundred wax lights hung down from the black and white
ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on
which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered
in seed pearls, stood the throne itself, covered with a
rich pall of black velvet studded with silver tulips and
elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On the
second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool
of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue,
and below that again, and beyond the limit of the
canopy, stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 375

alone had the right to be seated in the King's presence
on the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose
Cardinal's hat, with its tangled scarlet tassels, lay on
a purple tabouret in front. On the wall, facing the
throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V in
hunting-dress, with a great mastiff by his side ; and a
picture of Philip II receiving the homage of the
Netherlands occupied the centre of the other wall.
Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet,
inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from
Holbein's Dance of Death had been graved — by the
hand, some said, of that famous master himself.

But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this mag-
nificence. He would not have given his rose for all
the pearls on the canopy, nor one white petal of his
rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see
the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and
to ask her to come away with him when he had finished
his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air was close and
heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the
sunlight, with wandering hands of gold, moved the
tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in
the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in
the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that ;
hyacinths in early spring that flooded with waving
purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls ; yellow prim-
roses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled
roots of the oak-trees ; bright celandine, and blue
speedwell, and irises lilac and gold. There were grey
catkins on the hazels, and the foxgloves drooped with
the white of their dappled bee-haunted cells. The
chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn
its pallid moons of beauty. Yes : surely she would
come if he could only find her ! She would come with
him to the fair forest, and all day long he would dance
for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought,
and he passed into the next room.

Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most

376 OSCAR WILDE

beautiful. The walls were covered with a pink-
flowered Lucca damask, patterned with birds and
dotted with dainty blossoms of silver ; the furniture
was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths
and swinging Cupids ; in front of the two large fire-
places stood great screens broidered with parrots and
peacocks ; and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx,
seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor
was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the door-
way, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a little
figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy
broke from his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight.
As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he saw it
plainly.

The Infanta ! It was a monster, the most grotesque
monster he had ever beheld. Not properly shaped,
as all other people were, but hunchbacked, and crooked-
limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair.
The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned
also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held
its hands to its sides, just as he himself was doing. He
made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low
reverence. He went towards it, and it came to meet
him, copying each step that he made, and stopping
when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement,
and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the
hand of the monster touched his, and it was as cold as
ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand across, and
the monster's hand followed it quickly. He tried to
press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him.
The face of the monster wa,s now close to his own, and
seemed full of terror. He brushed his hair off his eyes.
It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow
for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at
him. He drew back, and it retreated.

What is it ? He thought for a moment, and looked
round at the rest of the room. It was strange, but
everything seemed to have its double in this invisible

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 377

wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was re-
peated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that
lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother
that slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the
sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as
herself.

Was it Echo ? He had called to her once in the
valley, and she had answered him word for word.
Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the voice ?
Could she make a mimic world just like the real world ?
Could the shadows of things have colour and life and
movement ? Could it be that ?

He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful
white rose, he turned round, and kissed it. The
monster had a rose of its own, petal for petal the same !
It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its heart
with horrible gestures.

When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild
cry of despair, and fell sobbing to the ground. So it
was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked, foul to
look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster,
and it was at him that all the children had been laugh-
ing, and the little Princess who he had thought loved
him — she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness,
and making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had
they not left him in the forest, where there was no
mirror to tell him how loathsome he was ? Why had
his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his
shame ? The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and
he tore the white rose to pieces. The sprawling
monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals
in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he
looked at it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain.
He crept away, lest he should see it, and covered his
eyes with his hands. He crawled, like some wounded
thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.

And at that moment the Infanta herself came in
with her companions through the open window, and

378 OSCAR WILDE

when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on the ground
and beating the floor with his clenched hands, hi the
most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off
into shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him
and watched him.

4 His dancing was funny,' said the Infanta ; * but
his acting is funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good
as the puppets, only of course not quite so natural.'
And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.

But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs
grew fainter and fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious
gasp, and clutched his side. And then he fell back
again,-and lay quite still.

* Thab is capital,' said the Infanta, after a pause ;
' but now you must dance for me.'

* Yes,' cried all the children, * you must get up and
dance, for you are as clever as the Barbary apes, and
much more ridiculous.'

But the little Dwarf made no answer.

And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to
her uncle, who was walking on the terrace with the
Chamberlain, reading some despatches that had just
arrived from Mexico, where the Holy Office had recently
been established. * My funny little dwarf is sulking,'
she cried, ' you must wake him up, and tell him to
dance for me.'

They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and
Don Pedro stooped down, and slapped the Dwarf on
the cheek with his embroidered glove. * You must
dance,' he said, * petit monstre. You must dance. The
Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be
amused.'

But the little Dwarf never moved.

1 A whipping-master should be sent for,* said Don
Pedro wearily, and he went back to the terrace. But
the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt beside the
little Dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And
after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA 379

up, and having made a low bow to the Infanta, he
said — • *

' M i bella Princesa, your funny little Dwarf will never
dance again. It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he
might have made the King smile.'

* But why will he not dance again ? ' asked the
Infanta, laughing.

' Because his heart is broken,' answered the
Chamberlain.

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf
lips curled in pretty disdain. t For the future let those
who come to play with me have no hearts,' she cried,
and she ran out into the garden.

GEOKGE GISSING

1857—1903

A POOR GENTLEMAN

IT was in the drawing-room, after dinner. Mrs.
Charman, the large and kindly hostess, sank into
a chair beside her little friend Mrs. Loring, and sighed
a question.

1 How do you like Mr. Tymperley ? '

' Very nice. Just a little peculiar.'

* Oh, he is peculiar ! Quite original. I wanted to
tell you about him before we went down, but there
wasn't time. Such a very old friend of ours. My
dear husband and he were at school together — Harro-
vians. The sweetest, the most affectionate character !
Too good for this world, I'm afraid ; he takes every-
thing so seriously. I shall never forget his grief at my
poor husband's death. — I'm telling Mrs. Loring about
Mr. Tymperley, Ada.'

She addressed her married daughter, a quiet young
woman who reproduced Mrs. Charman's good-natured
countenance, with something more of intelligence, the
reflective serenity of a higher type.

* I'm sorry to see him looking so far from well,'
remarked Mrs. Weare, in reply.

* He never had any colour, you know, and his life . . .
But I must tell you,' she resumed to Mrs. Loring.
* He's a bachelor, in comfortable circumstances, and —
would you believe it ? — he lives quite alone in one of
the distressing parts of London. Where is it, Ada ? '

4 A poor street in Islington.'

' Yes. There he lives, I'm afraid in shocking lodgings
• — it must be so unhealthy — just to become acquainted

380

A POOR GENTLEMAN '-. 381

with the life of poor people, and be helpful to them.
Isn't it heroic ? He seems to have given up his whole
life to it. One never meets him anywhere ; I think
ours is the only house where he's seen. A noble life !
He never talks about it. I'm sure you would never
have suspected such a thing from his conversation at
dinner ? *

' Not for a moment,' answered Mrs. Loring, aston-
ished. ' He wasn't very gossipy — I gathered that his
chief interests were fretwork and foreign politics.'

Mrs. Weare laughed. ' The very man ! When I
was a little girl he used to make all sorts of pretty
things for me with his fret-saw ; and when I grew old
enough, he instructed me in the Balance of Power. It's
possible, mamma, that he writes leading articles. We
should never hear of it.'

' My dear, anything is possible with Mr. Tymperley.
And such a change, this, after his country life. He had
a beautiful little house near ours, in Berkshire. I really
can't help thinking that my husband's death caused
him to leave it. He was so attached to Mr. Charman !
When my husband died, and we left Berkshire, we
altogether lost sight of him — oh, for a couple of years.
Then I met him by chance in London. Ada thinks
there must have been some sentimental trouble.'

' Dear mamma,' interposed the daughter, ' it was
you, not I, who suggested that.'

' Was it ? Well, perhaps it was. One can't help
seeing that he has gone through something. Of course
it may be only pity for the poor souls he gives his life
to. A wonderful man ! '

When masculine voices sounded at the drawing-room
door, Mrs. Loring looked curiously for the eccentric
gentleman. He entered last of all. A man of more
than middle-height, but much bowed in the shoulders ;
thin, ungraceful, with an irresolute step and a shy
demeanour ; his pale-grey eyes, very soft in expression,
looked timidly this way and that from beneath brows

382 GEORGE GISSING

nervously bent, and a self -obliterating smile wavered
upon his lips. His hair had begun to thin and to turn
grey, but he had a heavy moustache, which would better
have sorted with sterner lineaments. As he walked —
or sidled — into the room, his hands kept shutting and
opening, with rather ludicrous effect. Something
which was not exactly shabbiness, but a lack of lustre,
of finish, singled him among the group of men ; looking
closer, one saw that his black suit belonged to a fashion
some years old. His linen was irreproachable, but he
wore no sort of jewellery, one little black stud showing
on his front, and, at the cuffs, solitaires of the same
simple description.

He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat
alone, seemingly at peace, had not Mrs. Weare presently
moved to a seat beside him.

4 1 hope you won't be staying in town through
August, Mr. Tymperley ? '

' No !— Oh no !— -Oh no, I think not ! '

' But you seem uncertain. Do forgive me if I say
that I'm sure you need a change. Really, you know,
you are not looking quite the thing. Now, can't I per-
suade you to join us at Lucerne ? My husband would
be so pleased — delighted to talk with you about the
state of Europe. Give us a fortnight — do ! '

* My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself ! I
am deeply grateful. I can't easily express my sense of
your most friendly thoughtfulness. But, the truth is,
I am half engaged to other friends. Indeed, I think I
may almost say that I have practically , , . yes,
indeed, it amounts to that.'

He spoke in a thinly fluting voice, with a preciseness
of enunciation akin to the more feebly clerical, and
with smiles which became almost lachrymose in their
expressiveness as he dropped from phrase to phrase of
embarrassed circumlocution. And his long bony
hands writhed together till the knuckles were white.

* Well, so long as you are going away. I'm so afraid

A POOR GENTLEMAN 383

lest your conscientiousness should go too far. You
won't benefit anybody, you know, by making yourself
ill.'

* Obviously not ! — Ha, ha ! — I assure you that fact is
patent to me. Health is a primary consideration.
Nothing more detrimental to one's usefulness than an
impaired . . . Oh, to be sure, to be sure ! '

' There's the strain upon your sympathies. That
must affect one's health, quite apart from an unhealthy
atmosphere.'

* But Islington is not unhealthy, my dear Mrs. Weare !
Believe me, the air has often quite a tonic quality. We
are so high, you must remember. If only we could
subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of
domestic and industrial chimneys ! — Oh, I assure you,
Islington has every natural feature of salubrity.'

Before the close of the evening there was a little
music, which Mr. Tymperley seemed much to enjoy.
He let his head fall back, and stared upwards ; remain-
ing rapt in that posture for some moments after the
music ceased, and at length recovering himself with a
sigh.

When he left the house he donned an overcoat con-
siderably too thick for the season, and bestowed in the
pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hat was a hard
felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded
umbrella, and set forth at a brisk walk, as if for the
neighbouring station. But the railway was not his
goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial
night he walked and walked, at the steady pace of one
accustomed to pedestrian exercise : from Notting Hill
Gate to the Marble Arch ; from the Marble Arch to
New Oxford Street ; thence by Theobald's Road to
.Pentonville, and up, and up, until he attained the
heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long after
midnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale
moon showed to be decent, though not inviting. He
admitted himself with a latchkey to a little house which

384 GEORGE GISSING

smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in his
pocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back
bedroom, its size eight feet by seven and a half. A
few minutes more, and he lay sound asleep.

Waking at eight o'clock — he knew the time by a bell
that clanged hi the neighbourhood— Mr. Tymperley
clad himself with nervous haste. On opening his door,
he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a
breakfast reduced to its lowest terms : half a pint of
milk, bread, butter. At nine o'clock he went down-
stairs, tapped civilly at the door of the front parlour,
and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The
room was occupied by an oldish man and a girl, ad-
dressing themselves to the day's work of plain book-
binding.

' Good morning to you, sir,' said Mr. Tymperley,
bending his head. ' Good morning, Miss Suggs.
Bright ! Sunny ! How it cheers one ! '

He stood rubbing his hands, as one might on a morn-
ing of sharp frost. The bookbinder, with a dry nod for
greeting, forthwith set Mr. Tymperley a task, to which
that gentleman zealously applied himself. He was
learning the elementary processes of the art. He
worked with patience, and some show of natural
aptitude, all through the working hours of the day.

To this pass had things come with Mr. Tymperley,
a gentleman of Berkshire, once living in comfort and
modest dignity on the fruit of sound investments.
Schooled at Harrow, a graduate of Cambridge, he had
meditated the choice of a profession until it seemed, on
the whole, too late to profess anything at all ; and, as
there was no need of such exertion, he settled himself
to a life of innocent idleness, hard by the country-house
of his wealthy and influential friend, Mr. Charman.
Softly the years flowed by. His thoughts turned once
or twice to marriage, but a profound diffidence withheld
him from the initial step ; in the end, he knew himself
born for bachelorhood, and with that estate was con-

A POOR GENTLEMAN 385

tent. Well for him had he seen as clearly the delusive-
ness of other temptations ! In an evil moment he
listened to Mr. Charm an, whose familiar talk was of
speculation, of companies, of shining percentages.
Not on his own account was Mr. Tymperley lured : he
had enough and to spare ; but he thought of his sister,
married to an unsuccessful provincial barrister, and of
her six children, whom it would be pleasant to help,
like the opulent uncle of fiction, at their entering upon
the world. In Mr. Charman he put blind faith, with
the result that one morning he found himself shivering
on the edge of ruin ; the touch of confirmatory news,
and over he went.

No one was aware of it but Mr. Charman himself,
and he, a few days later, lay sick unto death. Mr.
Charman' s own estate suffered inappreciably from
what to his friend meant sheer disaster. And Mr.
Tymperley breathed not a word to the widow ; spoke
not a word to any one at all, except the lawyer, who
quietly wound up his affairs, and the sister whose chil-
dren must needs go without avuncular aid. During
the absence of his friendly neighbours after Mr. Char-
man's death, he quietly disappeared.

The poor gentleman was then close upon forty years
old. There remained to him a capital which he durst
not expend ; invested, it bore him an income upon
whi<#i a labourer could scarce have subsisted. The
only possible place of residence — because the only sure
place of hiding — was London, and to London Mr.
Tymperley betook himself. Not at once did he learn
the art of combating starvation with minim resources.
During his initiatory trials he was once brought so low,
by hunger and humiliation, that he swallowed some-
thing of his pride, and wrote to a certain acquaintance,
asking counsel and indirect help. But only a man in
Mr. Tymperley 's position learns how vain is well-
meaning advice, and how impotent is social influence.
Had he begged for money, he would have received, no

386 GEORGE GISSING

doubt, a cheque, with words of compassion ; but Mr.
Tymperley could never bring himself to that.

He tried to make profit of his former amusement,
fretwork, and to a certain extent succeeded, earning in
six months half a sovereign. But the prospect of
adding one pound a year to his starveling dividends did
not greatly exhilarate him.

All this time he was of course living in absolute
solitude. Poverty is the great secluder — unless one
belongs to the rank which is born to it ; a sensitive man
who no longer finds himself on equal terms with his
natural associates, shrinks into loneliness, and learns
with some surprise how very willing people are to forget
his existence. London is a wilderness abounding in
anchorites — voluntary or constrained. As he wan-
dered about the streets and parks, or killed time in
museums and galleries (where nothing had to be paid),
Mr. Tymperley often recognized brethren in seclusion ;
he understood the furtive glance which met his own, he
read the peaked visage, marked with understanding
sympathy the shabby-genteel apparel. No interchange
of confidences between these lurking mortals ; they
would like to speak, but pride holds them aloof ; each
goes on his silent and unfriended way, until, by good
luck, he finds himself in hospital or workhouse, when
at length the tongue is loosed, and the sore heart pours
forth its reproach of the world.

Strange knowledge comes to a man in this position.
He learns wondrous economies, arid will feel a sort of
pride in his ultimate discovery of how little money is
needed to support life. In his old days Mr. Tymperley
would have laid it down as an axiom that ' one ' cannot
live on less than such-and-such an income ; he found
that ' a man ' can live on a few coppers a day. He
became aware of the prices of things to eat, and was
taught the relative virtues of nutriment. Perforce a
vegetarian, he found that a vegetable diet was good for
his health, and delivered to himself many a scornful

A POOR GENTLEMAN 387

speech on the habits of the carnivorous multitude. He
of necessity abjured alcohols, and straightway longed
to utter his testimony on a teetotal platform. These
were his satisfactions. They compensate astonishingly
for the loss of many kinds of self-esteem.

But it happened one day that, as he was in the act
of drawing his poor little quarterly salvage at the Bank
of England, a lady saw him and knew him. It was
Mr. Charman' s widow.

' Why, Mr. Tymperley, what has become of you all
this time ? Why have I never heard from you ? Is it
true, as some one told me, that you have been living
abroad ? '

So utterly was he disconcerted, that in a mechanical
way he echoed the lady's last word : ' Abroad.'

' But why didn't you write to us ? ' pursued Mrs.
Charman, leaving him no time to say more. ' How
very unkind ! Why did you go away without a word ?
My daughter says that we must have unconsciously
offended you in some way. Do explain ! Surely there
can't have been anything '

' My dear Mrs. Charman, it is I alone who. am to
blame. I ... the explanation is difficult ; it involves
a multiplicity of detail. I beg you to interpret my
unjustifiable behaviour as — as pure idiosyncrasy.'

' Oh, you must come and see me. You know that
Ada's married ? Yes, nearly a year ago. How glad
she will be to see you again. So often she has spoken
of you. When can you dine ? To-morrow ? '

' With pleasure — with great pleasure.'

' Delightful ! '

She gave her address, and they parted.

Now, a proof that Mr. Tymperley had never lost all
hope of restitution to his native world lay in the fact
of his having carefully preserved an evening-suit, with
the appropriate patent-leather shoes. Many a time
had he been sorely tempted to sell these seeming super-
fluities ; more than once, towards the end of his pinched

388 GEORGE GISSING

quarter, the suit had been pledged for a few shillings ;
but to part with the supreme symbol of respectability
would have meant despair — a state of mind alien to
Mr. Tymperley's passive fortitude. His jewellery, even
watch and chain, had long since gone : such gauds
are not indispensable to a gentleman's outfit. He now
congratulated himself on his prudence, for the meeting
with Mrs. Charman had delighted as much as it embar-
rassed him, and the prospect of an evening in society
made his heart glow. He hastened home ; he
examined his garb of ceremony with anxious care, and
found no glaring defect in it. A shirt, a collar, a neck-
tie must needs be purchased ; happily he had the
means. But how explain himself ? Could he confess
his place of abode, his startling poverty ? To do so
would be to make an appeal to the compassion of his
old friends, and from that he shrank in horror. A
gentleman will not, if it can possibly be avoided, reveal
circumstances likely to cause pain. Must he, then,
tell or imply a falsehood ? The whole truth involved
a reproach of Mrs. Charman' s husband — a thought he
could not bear.

The next evening found him still worrying over this
dilemma. He reached Mrs. Charman' s house without
having come to any decision. In the drawing-room
three persons awaited him : the hostess, with her
daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Weare. The
cordiality of his reception moved him all but to tears ;
overcome by many emotions, he lost his head. He
talked at random ; and the result was so strange a
piece of fiction, that no sooner had he evolved it than
he stood aghast at himself.

It came in reply to the natural question where he was
residing.

4 At present ' — he smiled fatuously — ' I inhabit a
bed-sitting-room in a little street up at Islington.'

Dead silence followed. Eyes of wonder were fixed
upon him. But for those eyes, who knows what

A POOR GENTLEMAN 389

confession Mr. Tymperley might have made ? As it
was . . .

' I said, Mrs. Charman, that I had to confess to an
eccentricity. I hope it won't shock you. To be brief,
I have devoted my poor energies to social work. I live
among the poor, and as one of them, to obtain know-
ledge that cannot otherwise be procured.'

4 Oh, how noble ! ' exclaimed the hostess.

The poor gentleman's conscience smote him terribly.
He could say no more. To spare his delicacy, his
friends turned the conversation. Then or afterwards,
it never occurred to them to doubt the truth of what
he had said. Mrs. Charman had seen him transacting
business at the Bank of England, a place not suggestive
of poverty ; and he had always passed for a man some-
what original in his views and ways. Thus was Mr.
Tymperley committed to a singular piece of deception,
a fraud which could not easily be discovered, and which
injured only its perpetrator.

Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley
had seen his friends perhaps half a dozen times, his
enjoyment of their society pathetically intense, but
troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life.
It had come to be understood that he made it a matter
of principle to hide his light under a bushel, so he seldom
had to take a new step in positive falsehood. Of course
he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs.
Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have
assisted him to some not undignified mode of earning
his living. As it was, he had hit upon the idea of
making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his
taste. For some months he had lodged in the book-
binder's house ; one day courage came to him, and he
entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he
was to pay for instruction by a certain period of unre-
munerated work after he became proficient. That
stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt
much happier than in the time of brooding idleness.

390 GEORGE GISSING

He looked forward to the day when he would have a
little more money in his pocket, and no longer dread
the last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless
nights.

Mrs. Weare's invitation to Lucerne cost him pangs.
Lucerne ! Surely it was in some former state of exist-
ence that he had taken delightful holidays as a matter
of course. He thought of the many lovely places he
knew, and so many dream-landscapes ; the London
streets made them infinitely remote, utterly unreal.
His three years of gloom and hardship were longer than
all the life of placid contentment that came before.
Lucerne ! A man of more vigorous temper would have
been maddened at the thought ; but Mr. Tymperley
nursed it all day long, his emotions only expressing
themselves in a little sigh or a sadly wistful smile.

Having dined so well yesterday, he felt it his duty to
expend less than usual on to-day's meals. About
eight o'clock in the evening, after a meditative stroll
in the air which he had so praised, he entered the shop
where he was wont to make his modest purchases. A
fat woman behind the counter nodded familiarly to
him, with a grin at another customer. Mr. Tymperley
bowed, as was his courteous habit.

' Oblige me,' he said, * with one new-laid egg and a
small, crisp lettuce.'

' Only one to-night, eh ? ' said the woman.

* Thank you, only one,' he replied, as if speaking in
a drawing-room. ' Forgive me if I express a hope that
it will be, in the strict sense of the word, new-laid. The
last, I fancy, had got into that box by some oversight — •
pardonable in the press of business.'

4 They're always the same,' said the fat shopkeeper.
' We don't make no mistakes of that kind.'

' Ah ! Forgive me ! Perhaps I imagined '

Egg and lettuce were carefully deposited in a little
handbag he carried, and he returned home. An hour
later, when his meal was finished, and he sat on a

A POOR GENTLEMAN 391

straight-backed chair meditating in the twilight, a rap
sounded at his door, and a letter was handed to him.
So rarely did a letter arrive for Mr. Tymperley that his
hand shook as he examined the envelope. On opening
it, the first thing he saw was a cheque. This excited
him still more ; he unfolded the written sheet with
agitation. It came from Mrs. Weare, who wrote thus :

' MY DEAR MR. TYMPERLEY, — After our talk last
evening, I could not help thinking of you and your
beautiful life of self-sacrifice. I contrasted the lot of
these poor people with my own, which, one cannot but
feel, is so undeservedly blest and so rich in enjoyments.
As a result of these thoughts, I feel impelled to send you
a little contribution to your good work — a sort of
thank-offering at the moment of setting off for a happy
holiday. Divide the money, please, among two or
three of your most deserving pensioners ; or, if you
see fit, give it all to one. I cling to the hope that we
may see you at Lucerne. — With very kind regards.'

The cheque was for five pounds. Mr. Tymperley
held it up by the window, and gazed at it. By his
present standards of value five pounds seemed a very
large sum. Think of what one could do with it ! His
boots — which had been twice repaired — would not
decently serve him much longer. His trousers were
in the last stage of presentability. The hat he wore
(how carefully tended !) was the same in which he had
come to London three years ago. He stood in need,
verily, of a new equipment from head to foot ; and in
Islington five pounds would more than cover the whole
expense. When, pray, was he likely to have such a
sum at his free disposal ?

He sighed deeply, and stared about him in the dusk.

The cheque was crossed. For the first time in his
life Mr. Tymperley perceived that the crossing of a
cheque may occasion its recipient a great deal of
trouble. How was he to get it changed ? He knew

392 GEORGE GISSING

his landlord for a suspicious curmudgeon, and refusal
of the favour, with such a look as Mr. Suggs knew how
to give, would be a sore humiliation ; besides, it was
very doubtful whether Mr. Suggs could make any use
of the cheque himself. To whom else could he apply ?
Literally, to no one in London.

* Well, the first thing to do was to answer Mrs.
Weare's letter. He lit his lamp and sat down at the
crazy little deal table ; but his pen dipped several
times into the ink before he found himself able to write.

1 DEAB MRS, WBABE,' —

Then, so long a pause that he seemed to be falling
asleep. With a jerk, he bent again to his task.

* With sincere gratitude I acknowledge the receipt
of your most kind and generous donation. The
money . . .'

(Again his hand lay idle for several minutes.)

' shall be used as you wish, and I will render to you a
detailed account of the benefits conferred by it.'

Never had he found composition so difficult. He
felt that he was expressing himself wretchedly ; a clog
was on his brain. It cost him an exertion of physical
strength to conclude the letter. When it was done,
he went out, purchased a stamp at a tobacconist's shop,
and dropped the envelope into the post.

Little slumber had Mr. Tymperley that night. On
lying down, he began to wonder where he should find
the poor people worthy of sharing in this benefaction.
Of course he had no acquaintance with the class of
persons of whom Mrs. Weare was thinking. In a sense,
all the families round about were poor, but — he asked
himself — had poverty the same meaning for them as
for him ? Was there a man or woman in this grimy
street who, compared with himself, had any right to

A POOR GENTLEMAN 393

be called poor at all ? An educated man forced to
live among the lower classes arrives at many interesting
conclusions with regard to them ; one conclusion long
since fixed in Mr. Tymperley's mind was that the
' suffering ' of those classes is very much exaggerated
by outsiders using a criterion quite inapplicable. He
saw around him a world of coarse jollity, of contented
labour, and of brutal apathy. It seemed to him more
than probable that the only person in this street con-
scious of poverty, and suffering under it, was himself.

From nightmarish dozing, he started with a vivid
thought, a recollection which seemed to pierce his brain.
To whom did he owe his fall from comfort and self-
respect, and all his long miseries ? To Mrs. Weare's
father. And, from this point of view, might the cheque
for five pounds be considered as mere restitution?
Might it not strictly be applicable to his own necessities ?

Another little gap of semi- consciousness led to
another strange reflection. What if Mrs. Weare (a
sensible woman) suspected, or even had discovered,
the truth about him ? What if she secretly meant the
money for his own use ?

Earliest daylight made this suggestion look very
insubstantial ; on the other hand, it strengthened his
memory of Mr. Charman's virtual indebtedness to him.
He jumped out of bed to reach the cheque, and for an
hour lay with it hi his hand. Then he rose and dressed
mechanically.

After tKe day's work he rambled in a street of large
shops. A bootmaker's arrested him ; he stood before
the window for a long time, turning over and over in
his pocket a sovereign — no small fraction of the ready
coin which had to support him until dividend day.
Then he crossed the threshold.

Never did man use less discretion in the purchase of a
pair of boots. His business was transacted in a dream ;
he spoke without hearing what he said ; he stared at
objects without perceiving them. The result was that

394 GEORGE GISSING

not till he had got home, \vith his easy old footgear
under his arm, did he become aware that the new boots
pinched him most horribly. They creaked too :
heavens ! how they creaked ! But doubtless all new
boots had these faults ; he had forgotten ; it was so
long since he had bought a pair. The fact was, he felt
dreadfully tired, utterly worn out. After munching
a mouthful of supper he crept into bed.

All night long he warred with his new boots. Foot-
sore, he limped about the streets of a spectral city,
where at every corner some one seemed to lie in ambush
for him, and each time the lurking enemy proved to be
no other than Mrs. Weare, who gazed at him with scorn-
ful eyes and let him totter by. The creaking of the
boots was an articulate voice, which ever and anon
screamed at him a terrible name. He shrank and shiv-
ered and groaned ; but on he went, for in his hand he
held a crossed cheque, which he was bidden to get
changed, and no one would change it. What a night !

When he woke his brain was heavy as lead ; but his
meditations were very lucid. Pray, what did he mean
by that insane outlay of money, which he could not
possibly afford, on a new (and detestable) pair of boots ?
The old would have lasted, at all events, till winter
began. What was in his mind when he entered the
shop ? Did he intend . . . ? Merciful powers !

Mr. Tymperley was not much of a psychologist.
But all at once he saw with awful perspicacity the
moral crisis through which he had been living. And
it taught him one more truth on the subject of poverty.

Immediately after his breakfast he went downstairs
and tapped at the door of Mr. Suggs' sitting-room.

4 What is it ? ' asked the bookbinder, who was eating
his fourth large rasher, and spoke with his mouth full.

4 Sir, I beg leave of absence for an hour or two this
morning. Business of some moment demands my
attention.'

Mr. Suggs answered, with the grace natural to his

A POOR GENTLEMAN 395

order, ' I s'pose you can do as you like. I don't pay
you nothing.'

The other bowed and withdrew.

Two days later he again penned a letter to Mrs.
Weare. It ran thus :

' The money which you so kindly sent, and which
I have already acknowledged, has now been distributed.
To ensure a proper use of it, I handed the cheque, with
clear instructions, to a clergyman in this neighbourhood,
who has been so good as to jot down, on the sheet
enclosed, a memorandum of his beneficiaries, which I
trust will be satisfactory and gratifying to you.

' But why, you will ask, did I have recourse to a
clergyman. Why did I not use my own experience,
and give myself the pleasure of helping poor souls in
whom I have a personal interest — I who have devoted
my life to this mission of mercy ?

* The answer is brief and plain. I have lied to you.

* I am not living in this place of my free will. I am
not devoting myself to works of charity. I am — no,
no, I was — merely a poor gentleman, who, on a certain
day, found that he had wasted his substance in a foolish
speculation, and who, ashamed to take his friends into
his confidence, fled to a life of miserable obscurity.
You see that I have added disgrace to misfortune. I
will not tell you how very near I came to something
still worse.

' I have been serving an apprenticeship to a certain
handicraft which will, I doubt not, enable me so to
supplement my own scanty resources that I shall be
in better circumstances than hitherto. I entreat you
to forgive me, if you can, and henceforth to forget
Yours unworthily,

' S. V. TYMPERLEY,'

HENRY HARLAND

1861—1905

THE HOUSE OF EULALIE

IT was a pretty little house, in very charming country
— in an untravelled corner of Normandy, near the sea ;
a country of orchards and colza-fields, of soft green
meadows where cattle browsed, and of deep elm-shaded
lanes.

One was rather surprised to see this little house just
here, for all the other houses in the neighbourhood
were rude farm-houses or labourers' cottages ; and
this was a coquettish little chalet, white- walled, with
slim French windows, and balconies of twisted iron-
work, and Venetian blinds : a gay little pleasure-house,
standing in a bright little garden, among rose-bushes,
and parterres of geraniums, and smooth stretches of
greensward. Beyond the garden there was an orchard
— rows and couples of old gnarled apple-trees, bending
towards one another like fantastic figures arrested in
the middle of a dance. Then, turning round, you
looked over feathery colza-fields and yellow corn-fields,
a mile away, to the sea, and to a winding perspective of
white cliffs, which the sea bathed in transparent greens
and purples, luminous shadows of its own nameless
hues.

A board attached to the wall confirmed, in roughly-
painted characters, the information I had had from an
agent in Dieppe. The house was to let ; and I had
driven out — a drive of two long hours — to inspect it.
Now I stood on the doorstep and rang the bell. It
was a big bell, hung in the porch, with a pendent

396

THE HOUSE OP EULALIE 397

handle of bronze, wrought in the semblance of a rope
and tassel. Its voice would carry far on that still
country air.

It carried, at any rate, as far as a low thatched farm-
house, a hundred yards down the road. Presently
a man and a woman came out of the farm-house, gazed
for an instant in my direction, and then moved towards
me : an old brown man, an old grey woman, the man
in corduroys, the woman wearing a neat white cotton
cap and a blue apron, both moving with the burdened
gait of peasants.

' You are Monsieur and Madame Leroux ? ' I asked,
when we had accomplished our preliminary good-days ;
and I explained that I had come from the agent in
Dieppe to look over their house. For the rest, they
must have been expecting me ; the agent had said that
he would let them know.

But, to my perplexity, this business-like announce-
ment seemed somehow to embarrass them ; even, I
might have thought, to agitate, to distress them. They
lifted up their worn old faces, and eyed me anxiously.
They exchanged anxious glances with each other.
The woman clasped her hands, nervously working her
fingers. The man hesitated and stammered a little,
before he was able to repeat vaguely, ' You have com©
to look over the house, Monsieur ? '

' Surely,' I said, ' the agent has written to you ? 1
understood from him that you would expect me at this
hour to-day.'

' Oh yes,' the man admitted, ' we were expecting
you.' But he made no motion to advance matters. He
exchanged another anxious glance with his wife. She
gave her head a sort of helpless nod, and looked down.

' You see, Monsieur,' the man began, as if he were
about to elucidate the situation, ' you see— — ' But
then he faltered, frowning at the air, as one at a loss
for words.

' The house is already let, perhaps ? ' suggested I.

398 HENRY HARLAND

' No, the house is not let,' said he.

' You had better go and fetch the key,' his wife
said at last, in a dreary way, still looking down.

He truclged heavily back to the farm-house. While
he was gone we stood by the door in silence, the woman
always nervously working the fingers of her clasped
hands. I tried, indeed, to make a little conversation :
I ventured something about the excellence of the site,
the beauty of the view. She replied with a murmur of
assent, civilly but wearily ; and I did not feel en-
couraged to persist.

By -and -by her husband rejoined us, with the key ;
and they began silently to lead me through the house.

There were two pretty drawing-rooms on the ground
floor, a pretty dining-room, and a delightful kitchen,
with a broad hearth of polished red bricks, a tiled
chimney, and shining copper pots and pans. The
drawing-rooms and the dining-room were pleasantly
furnished in a light French fashion, and their windows
opened to the sun and to the fragrance and greenery of
the garden. I expressed a good deal of admiration ;
whereupon, little by little, the manner of my conductors
changed. From constrained, depressed, it became
responsive ; even, in the end, effusive. They met my
exclamations with smiles, my inquiries with voluble
eager answers. But it remained an agitated manner,
the manner of people who were shaken by an emotion.
Their old hands trembled as they opened the doors
for me or drew up the blinds ; their voices trembled.
There was something painful in their very smiles, as if
these were but momentary ripples on the surface of
a trouble.

' Ah,' I said to myself, ' they are hard-pressed for
money. They have put their whole capital into this
house, very likely. They are excited by the prospect
of securing a tenant.'

' Now, if ypu please, Monsieur, we will go upstairs,
and see the bedrooms,' the old man said.

THE HOUSE OF EULALIE 399

The bedrooms were airy, cheerful rooms, gaily
papered, with chintz curtains and the usual French
bedroom furniture. One of them exhibited signs of
being actually lived in ; there were things about it,
personal things, a woman's things. It was the last
room we visited, a front room, looking off to the sea.
There were combs and brushes on the toilet-table ;
there were pens, an inkstand, and a portfolio on the
writing-desk ; there were books in the bookcase.
Framed photographs stood on the mantelpiece. In
the closet dresses were suspended, and shoes and
slippers were primly ranged on the floor. The bed
was covered with a counterpane of blue silk ; a crucifix
hung on the wall above it ; beside it there was a prie-
dieu, with a little porcelain holy- water vase.

* Oh,' I exclaimed, turning to Monsieur and Madame
Leroux, * this room is occupied ? '

Madame Leroux did not appear to hear me. Her
eyes were fixed in a dull stare before her, her lips
were parted slightly. She looked tired, as if she
would be glad when our tour through the house was
finished. Monsieur Leroux threw his hand up towards
the ceiling in an odd gesture, and said, ' No, the room
is not occupied at present.'

We went back downstairs, and concluded an agree-
ment. I was to take the house for the summer.
Madame Leroux would cook for me. Monsieur Leroux
would drive into Dieppe on Wednesday to fetch me
and my luggage out.

On Wednesday we had been driving for something
like half an hour without speaking, when all at once
Leroux said to me, ' That room, Monsieur, the room
you thought was occupied '

' Yes ? ' I questioned, as he paused.

4 1 have a proposition to make,' said he. He spoke,
as it seemed to me, half shyly, half doggedly, gazing
the while at the ears of his horse.

400 HENRY HARLAND

* What is it ? ' I asked.

' If you will leave that room as it is, with the things
in it, we will make a reduction in the rent. If you
will let us keep it as it is ?' he repeated, with a curious
pleading intensity. * You are alone. The house will
be big enough for you without that room, will it not,
Monsieur ? '

Of course, I consented at once. If they wished to keep
the room as it was, they were to do so, by all means.
' Thank you, thank you very much. My wife will
be grateful to you,' he said.

For a little while longer we drove on without speak-
ing. Presently, ' You are our first tenant. We have
never let the house before,' he volunteered.
' Ah ? Have you had it long ? ' I asked.
' I built it. I built it, five, six, years ago,' said
he. Then, after a pause, he added, * I built it for my
daughter.'

His voice sank, as he said this. But one felt that it

was only the beginning of something he wished to say.

I invited him to continue by an interested * Oh ? '

' You see what we are, my wife and I,' he broke

out suddenly. ' We are rough people, we are peasants.

But my daughter, sir ' — he put his hand on my knee,

and looked earnestly into my face — * my daughter was

as fine as satin, as fine as lace.'

He turned back to his horse, and again drove for a
minute or two in silence. At last, always with his
eyes on the horse's ears, ' There was not a lady in. this
country finer than my daughter,' he went on, speaking
rapidly, in a thick voice, almost as if to himself. ' She
was beautiful, she had the sweetest character, she had
the best education. She was educated at the convent,
in Rouen, at the Sacre Cceur. Six years — from twelve
to eighteen — she studied at the convent. She knew
English, sir — your language. She took prizes for
history. And the piano ! Nobody living can touch
the piano as my daughter could. Well,' he demanded

THE HOUSE OF EULALIE 401

abruptly, with a kind of fierceness, * was a rough farm-
house good enough for her ? ' He answered his own
question. * No, Monsieur. You would not soil fine
lace by putting it in a dirty box. My daughter was
finer thar^, lace. \ Her hands were softer than Lyons
velvet, &nd oh,' he cried, ' the sweet smell they had,
her handsT It was good to smell her hands. I used
to kiss them and smell them, as you would smell a
rose.'*) His voice died away at the reminiscence, and
there was another interval of silence. By-and-by he
began again, ' I had plenty of money. I was the richest
farmer of this neighbourhood. I sent to Rouen for
the best architect they have there. Monsieur Clermont,
the best architect of Rouen, laureate of the Fine Arts
School of Paris, he built that house for my daughter ;
he built it and furnished it, to make it fit for a countess,
so that when she came home for good from the convent
she should have a home worthy of her. Look at this,
Monsieur. Would the grandest palace hi the world
be too good for her ? '

He had drawn a worn red leather case from his
pocket, and taken out a small photograph, which he
handed to me. It was the portrait of a girl, a delicate-
looking girl, of about seventeen. Her face was pretty,
with the irregular prettiness not uncommon in France,
and very sweet and gentle. The old man almost held
his breath while I was examining the photograph.
* Est-elle gentille ? Est-elle belle, Monsieur ? ' he
besought me, with a very hunger for sympathy, as I
returned it. One answered, of course, what one could,
as best one could. He, with shaking fingers, replaced
the photograph in its case. ' Here, Monsieur,' he
said, extracting from an opposite compartment a
little white card. It was the usual French memorial
of mourning : an engraving of the Cross and Dove,
under which was printed : ' Eulalie-Josephine-Marie
Leroux. Born the 16th May, 1874. Died the 12th
August, 1892. Pray for her,'

402 HENRY HARLAND

' The good God knows what He does. I built that
house for my daughter, and when it was built the good
God took her away. We were mad with grief, mv
wife and I ; but that could not save her, Perhaps we
are" still mad with grief,' the poor old man said simply.
' We can think of nothing else. We never wish to
speak of anything else. We could not live in the
house — her house, without her. We never thought
to let it. I built that house for my daughter, I fur-
nished it for her, and when it was ready for her — she
died. Was it not hard, Monsieur ? How could I let
the house to strangers ? But lately I have had losses.
I am compelled to let it, to pay my debts. I would
not let it to everybody. You are an Englishman.
Well, if I did not like you, I would not let it to you
for a million English pounds. But I am glad I have
let it to you. You will respect her memory. And
you will allow us to keep that room — her room. We
shall be able to keep it as it was, with her things in it.
Yes, that room which you thought was occupied — that
was my daughter's room.'

Madame Leroux was waiting for us in the garden
of the chalet. She looked anxiously up at her husband
as we arrived. He nodded his head, and called out,
' It's all right. Monsieur agrees.'

The old woman took my hands, wringing them
hysterically almost. ' Ah, Monsieur, you are very
good,' she said. She raised her eyes to mine. But
I could not look into her eyes. There was a sorrow
in them, an awf illness, a sacredness of sorrow, which,
I felt, it would be like sacrilege for me to look at.

We became good friends, the Leroux and I, during the
three months I passed as their tenant. Madame,
indeed, did for me and looked after me with a zeal
that was almost maternal. Both of them, as the old
man had said, loved above all things to talk of their
daughter, and I hope I was never loath to listen. Their

THE HOUSE OF EULALIE 403

passion, their grief, their constant thought of her,
appealed to me as very beautiful, as well as very
touching. And something like a pale spirit of the girl
seemed gently, sweetly, always to be present in the
house, the house that Love had built for her, not
guessing that Death would come, as soon as it was
finished, and call her away. ' Oh, but it is a joy,
Monsieur, that you have left us her room,' the old
couple were never tired of repeating. - One day Madame
took me up into the room, and showed me Eulalie's
pretty dresses, her trinkets, her books, the handsomely
bound books that she had won as prizes at the convent.
And on another day she showed me some of Eulalie's
letters, asking me if she hadn't a beautiful hand-
writing, if the letters were not beautifully expressed.
She showed me photographs of the girl at all ages ;
a lock of her hair ; her baby clothes ; the priest's
certificate of her first communion ; the bishop's
certificate of her confirmation. And she showed me
letters from the good sisters of the Sacred Heart, at
Rouen, telling of Eulalie's progress in her studies,
praising her conduct and her character. ' Oh, to think
that she is gone, that she is gone ! ' the old woman
wailed, in a kind of helpless incomprehension, incred-
ulity, of loss. Then, in a moment, she murmured,
with what submissiveness she could, ' Le bon Dieu sait
ce qu'il fait,5 crossing herself.

On the 12th of August, the anniversary of her death,
I went with them to the parish church, where a mass
was said for the repose of Eulalie's soul. And the
kind old cure afterwards came round, and pressed their
hands, and spoke words of comfort to them.

In September I left them, returning to Dieppe. One
afternoon I chanced to meet that same old cure in the
high street there. We stopped and spoke together —
naturally, of the Leroux, of what excellent people they
were, of how they grieved for their daughter, ' Their

404 HENRY HARLAND

love was more than love. They adored the child, they
idolized her. I have never witnessed such affection,'
the cure told me. ' When she died, I seriously feared
they would lose their reason. They were dazed, they
were beside themselves ; for a long while they were
quite as if mad. But God is merciful. They have
learnt to live with their affliction.'

' It is very beautiful,' said I, c the way they have
sanctified her memory, the way they worship it.
You know, of course, they keep her room, with her
things in it, exactly as she left it. That seems to me
very beautiful.'

* Her room ? ' questioned the cure, looking vague.
' What room ? '

' Oh, didn't you know ? ' I wondered. ' Her bed-
room in the chalet. They keep it as she left it, with all
her things about, her books, her dresses.'

' I don't think I follow you,' the cure said. c She
never had a bedroom in the chalet.'

' Oh, I beg your pardon. One of the front rooms on
the first floor was her room,' I informed him.

But he shook his head. ' There is some mistake.
She never lived in the chalet. She died in the old
house. The chalet was only just finished when she
died. The workmen were hardly out of it.'

' No,' I said, ' it is you who must be mistaken ; you
must forget. I am quite sure. The Leroux have
spoken of it to me times without number.'

* But, my dear sir,' the cure insisted, ' I am not
merely sure ; I know. I attended the girl in her last
agony. She died in the farm-house. They had not
moved into the chalet. The chalet was being fur-
nished. The last pieces of furniture were taken in
the very day before her death. The chalet was never
lived in. You are the only person who has ever lived
in the chalet. I assure you of the fact.'

* Well,' I said, ' that is very strange, that is very
strange indeed.' And for a minute I was bewildered,

THE HOUSE OF EULALIE 405

I did not know what to think. But only for a minute.
Suddenly I cried out, ' Oh, I see — I see. I understand.'

I saw, I understood. Suddenly I saw the pious,
the beautiful deception that these poor stricken souls
had sought to practise on themselves ; the beautiful,
the fond illusion they had created for themselves.
They had built the house for their daughter, and she
had died just when it was ready for her. But they
could not bear — they could not bear — to think that
not for one little week even, not even for one poor
little day or hour, had she lived in the house, enjoyed
the house. That was the uttermost farthing of their
sorrow, which they could not pay. They could not
acknowledge it to their own stricken hearts. So,
piously, reverently — with closed eyes, as it were, that
they might not know what they were doing — they
had carried the dead girl's things to the room they
had meant for her, they had arranged them there,
they had said, ' This was her room ; this was her room.'
They would not admit to themselves, they would not
let themselves stop to think, that she had never, even
for one poor night, slept in it, enjoyed it. They told
a beautiful pious falsehood to themselves. It was a
beautiful pious game of ' make-believe,' which, like
children, they could play together. And — the cure
had said it: God is merciful. In the end they had
been enabled to confuse their beautiful falsehood with
reality, and to find comfort in it ; they had been
enabled to forget that their * make-believe 'was a ' make-
believe,' and to mistake it for a beautiful comforting
truth. The uttermost farthing of their sorrow, which
they could not pay, was not exacted. They were
suffered to keep it ; and it became their treasure,
precious to them as fine gold.

Falsehood — truth ? Nay, I think there are illusions
that are not falsehoods — that are Truth's own smiles
of pity for us.

WILLIAM SYDNEY PORTER
(0. HENRY 0

1867—1910

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI

ONE dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all.
And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved
one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and
the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks
burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that
such close dealing implied. Three times Delia counted
it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next
day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on
the shabby little couch and howl. So Delia did it.
Which instigates the moral reflection that life is
made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles
predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding
from the first stage to the second, take a look at the
home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not
exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that
word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which
no letter would go, and an electric button from which
no mortal finger, could coax a ring. Also appertaining
thereunto was a card bearing the name ' Mr. James
Dillingham Young.

The ' Dillingham ' had been flung to the breeze
during a former period of prosperity when its possessor
was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income
was shrunk to $20, the letters of ' Dillingham ' looked
blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of

406

THE GIFT OF THE MAGT 407

contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But
whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home
and reached his flat above he was called ' Jim ' and
greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young,
already introduced to you as Delia. Which is all very
good.

Delia finished her cry and attended to her cheeks
with the powder rag. She stood by the window and
looked out dully at a grey cat walking a grey fence in
a grey backyard. To-morrow would be Christmas
Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim
a present. She had been saving every penny she could
for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week
doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she
had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy
a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour
she had spent planning for something nice for him.
Something fine and rare and sterling — something just
a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being
owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the
room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8
flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by
observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longi-
tudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of
his looks. Delia, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood
before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly,
but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds.
Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its
full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James
Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty
pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his
father's and his grandfather's. The other was Delia's
hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across
the airshaft, Delia would have let her hair hang out
of the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her

408 'O. HENRY'

Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been
the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the base-
ment, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time
he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Delia's beautiful hair fell about her, rippling
and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached
below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.
And then she did it up again nervously and quickly.
Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a
tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket ; on went her old
brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the
brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out of
the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: * Mme Sofronie.
Hair Goods of All Kinds.' One flight up Delia ran,
and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too
white, chilly, hardly looked the * Sofronie.'

' Will you buy my hair ? ' asked Delia.

' I buy hair,' said Madame. ' Take yer hat off and
let's have a sight at the looks of it.'

Down rippled the brown cascade.

' Twenty dollars,' said Madame, lifting the mass
with a practised hand.

* Give it to me quick,' said Delia.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.
Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the
stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for
Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any
of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out.
It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in
design, properly proclaiming its value by substance
alone and not by meretricious ornamentation — as all
good things should do. It was even worthy of The
Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must
be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value —
the description applied to both. Twenty- one dollars

*THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 409

they took from her for it, and she hurried home with
the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might
be properly anxious about the time in any company.
Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on
the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used
in place of a chain.

When Delia reached home her intoxication gave
way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her
curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work
repairing the ravages made by generosity added to
love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends
— a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with
tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully
like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection
in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

' If Jim doesn't kill me,' she said to herself, ' before
he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a
Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do — oh !
what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents ? '

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan
was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the
chops.

Jim was never late. Delia doubled the fob chain
in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the
door that he always entered. Then she heard his
step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she
turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of
saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday
things, and now she whispered : ' Please, God, make
him think I am still pretty.'

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it.
He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was
only twenty-two — and to be burdened with a family !
He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter
at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Delia,
and there was an expression in them that she could not

410 '0. HENRY'

read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor
surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the
sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply
stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on
his face.

Delia wriggled off the table and went for him.

4 Jim, darling,' she cried, ' don't look at me that way.
I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't
have lived through Christmas without giving you a
present. It'll grow out again — you won't mind, will
you ? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully
fast. Say " Merry Christmas ! " Jim, and let's be
happy. You don't know what a nice — what a beauti-
ful, nice gift I've got for you.'

4 You've cut off your hair ? ' asked Jim, laboriously,
as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet, even
after the hardest mental labour.

1 Cut it off and sold it,' said Delia. ' Don't you like
me just as well, anyhow ? I'm me without my hair,
ain't I ? '

Jim looked about the room curiously.

1 You say your hair is gone ? ' he said, with an air
almost of idiocy.

4 You needn't look for it,' said Delia. 4 It's sold,
I tell you — sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve,
boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the
hairs of my head were numbered,' she went on with a
sudden serious sweetness, 4 but nobody could ever
count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on,
Jim ? '

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He
enfolded his Delia. For ten seconds let us regard with
discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the
other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a
year — what is the difference ? A mathematician or a
wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi
brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them.
This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI 411

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and
threw it upon the table.

' Don't make any mistake, Dell,' he said, ' about me.
I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut
or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my
girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you
may see why you had me going a while at first.'

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and
paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy ; and
then, alas ! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears
and wails, necessitating the immediate employment
of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs — the set of combs, side and
back, that Delia had worshipped for long in a Broadway
window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise-shell, with
jewelled rims — just the shade to wear in the beautiful
vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew,
and her heart had simply craved and yearned over
them without the least hope of possession. And now,
they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned
the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length
she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and
say : ' My hair grows so fast, Jim ! '

And then Delia leaped up like a little singed cat
and cried, ' Oh, oh ! '

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She
held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The
dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection
of her bright and ardent spirit.

' Isn't it a dandy, Jim ? I hunted all over town
to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred
times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to
see how it looks on it.'

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch
and put his hands under the back of his head and
smiled.

' Dell,' said he, ' let's put our Christmas presents

412 'O. HENRY'

away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use
just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to
buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops
on.'

The magi, as you know, were wise men — wonderfully
wise men — who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger.
They invented the art of giving Christmas presents.
Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, pos-
sibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of dupli-
cation. And here I have lamely related to you the
uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat
who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest
treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise
of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts
these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive
gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are
wisest. They are the magi.

A MUNICIPAL REPORT

The cities ara full of pride,

Challenging each to each —
This from her mountainside,

That from her burthened beach.

K. KIPLING.

Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or
Nashville, Tennessee ! There are just three big cities in
the United States that are " story cities " — New York, of
course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco. —
FRANK NOBBIS.

EAST is East, and West is San Francisco, according to
Californians. Californians are a race of people ; they
are not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the
Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no
less loyal to their city ; but when you ask them why,
they stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd
Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail.

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 413

Of course they have, in the climate, an argument
that is good for half an hour while you are thinking
of your coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon
as they come to mistake your Silence for conviction,
madness comes upon them, and they picture the city
of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World.
So far, as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary.
But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended),
it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and
say : ' In this town there can be no romance — what
could happen here ? ' Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed
to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and
Band and McNally.

NASHVILLE, — A city, port of . delivery, and the
capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumber-
land River and on the N.C. & St. L. and the L. & N.
railroads. This city is regarded as the most import-
ant educational centre in the South.

•

I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the
thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a substi-
tution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe.

Take of London fog 30 parts ; malaria 10 parts ;
gas leaks 20 parts ; dewdrops gathered in a brick yard
at sunrise, 25 parts ; odour of honeysuckle 15 parts.
Mix.

The mixture will give you an approximate conception
of a Nashville drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-
ball nor as thick as pea-soup ; but 'tis enough — 'twill
serve.

I went to the hotel in a tumbril. It required strong
self -suppression for me to keep from climbing to the
top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton.
The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and
driven by something dark and emancipated.

I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I
hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with
approximate laggniappe, I assure you). I knew its

414 <O. HENRY'

habits ; and I did not want to hear it prate about its
old ' marster ' or anything that happened ' befo'
de wah.'

The hotel was one of the kind described as ' reno-
vated.' That means $20,000 worth of new marble
pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the
lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph
of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms
above. The management was without reproach, the
attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy, the
service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-
humoured as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth
travelling a thousand miles for. There is no other
hotel in the world where you can get such chicken
livers en brochette.

At dinner I asked a negro waiter if there was any-
thing doing in town. He pondered gravely for a
minute, and then replied : ' Well, boss, I don't really
reckon there's anything at all doin' after sundown.'

Sundown had been accomplished ; it had been
drowned in the drizzle long before. So that spectacle
was denied me. But I went forth upon the streets in
the drizzle to see what might be there.

It is built on undulating grounds ; and the streets
are lighted by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per
annum.

As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon
me charged a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus,
armed with — no, I saw with relief that they were not
rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan of black,
clumsy vehicles ; and at the reassuring shouts, ' Kyar
you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents,' I
reasoned that I was merely a ' fare ' instead of a
victim.

I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I
wondered how those streets ever came down again.
Perhaps they didn't until they were ' graded.' On a

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 415

few of the ' main streets ' I saw lights in stores here
and there ; saw street cars go by conveying worthy
burghers hither and yon ; saw people pass engaged in
the art of conversation, and heard a burst of semi-
lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream
parlour. The streets other than 'main5 seemed to
have enticed upon their borders houses consecrated to
peace and domesticity. In many of them lights shone
behind discreetly drawn window shades ; in a few
pianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music.
There was, indeed, little ' doing.' I wished I had come
before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.

In November, 1864, the Confederate General
Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut
up a National force under General Thomas. The
latter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates
in a terrible conflict.

All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed
the fine marksmanship of the South in its peaceful
conflicts in the tobacco-chewing regions. But in my
hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve
bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the
great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-
mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team
should have been able to throw a ball into one of them
at five paces distant. But, although a terrible battle
had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suf-
fered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched,
they stood. But shades of Jefferson Brick ! the tile
floor — the beautiful tile floor ! I could not avoid
thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to
draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about
hereditary marksmanship.

Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy)
Wentworth Caswell. I knew him for a type the
moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A
rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend,

416 '0. HENRY'

A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost every-
thing :

'Prophet, curse me the babbling lip,
And curse me the British vermin, the rat.*

Let us regard the word ' British ' as interchangeable
ad lib. A rat is a rat.

This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a
* starved dog that had forgotten where he had buried a
bone. He had a face of great acreage, red, pulpy, and
with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.
He possessed one single virtue — he was very smoothly
shaven. The mark of the beast is not indelible upon
a man until he goes about with a stubble. I think that
if he had not used his razor that day I would have
repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the
world would have been spared the addition of one
murder.

I happened to be standing within five feet of a cus-
pidor when Major Caswell opened fire upon it. I had
been observant enough to perceive that the attacking
force Was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles ; so
I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the
opportunity to apologize to a noncombatant. He had
the blabbing lip. In four minutes he had become my
friend and had dragged me to the bar.

I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner.
But I am not one by profession or trade. I eschew the
string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince Albert, the number
of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug
chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not
cheer. I slide a little lower on the leather- cornered
seat and, well, order another Wurzburger and wish that
Longstreet had — but what's the use ?

Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the
first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoed. When he fired
the last one at Appomattox I began to hope. But then
he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 417

was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the
Caswell family. Genealogy disposed of, he took up,
to my distaste, his private family matters. He spoke
of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and pro-
fanely denied any possible rumour that she may have
had relations in the land of Nod.

By this time I began to suspect that he was trying to
obscure by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks,
on the chance that I would be bewildered into paying
for them. But when they were down he crashed a
silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course,
another serving was obligatory. And when I had paid
for that I took leave of him brusquely ; for I wanted
no more of him. But before I had obtained my release
he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received,
and showed a handful of silver money.

When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me
courteously : ' If that man Caswell has annoyed you,
and if you would like to make a complaint, we will have
him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without
any known means of support, although he seems to
have some money most the time. But we don't seem
to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him out
legally.5

' Why, no,' said I, after some reflection ; * I don't
see my way clear to making a complaint. But I would
like to place myself on record as asserting that I do not
care for his company. Your town,' I continued,
' seems to be a quiet one. What manner of enter-
tainment, adventure, or excitement have you to offer
to the stranger within your gates ? '

4 Well, sir,' said the clerk, ' there will be a show here
next Thursday. It is — I'll look it up and have the
announcement sent up to your room with the ice water.
Good night.'

After I went up to my room I looked out of the win-
dow. It was only about ten o'clock, but I looked upon a
silent town. The drizzle continued, spangled with dim

418 «0. HENBY'

lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the
Ladies' Exchange.

' A quiet place,' I said to myself, as my first shoe
struck the ceiling of the occupant of the room beneath
mine. * Nothing of the lif e here that gives colour
and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a
good, ordinary, humdrum business town.'

Nashville occupies a foremost place among the
manufacturing centres of the country. It is the
fifth boot and shoe market in the United States, the
largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in
the South, and does an enormous wholesale drygoods,
grocery, and drug business.

I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and
assure ypu the digression brings as much tedium to me
as it does to you. I was travelling elsewhere on my own
business, but I had a commission from a Northern
literary magazine to stop over there and establish
a personal connection between the publication and
one of its contributors, Azalea Adair.

Adair (there was no clue to the personality except
the handwriting) had sent in some essays (lost art !)
and poems that had made the editors swear approvingly
over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had com-
missioned me to round up said Adair and corner by
contract his or her output at two cents a word before
some other publisher offered her ten or twenty.

At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken
livers en brochette (try them if you can find that hotel),
I strayed out into the drizzle, which was still on for an
unlimited run. At the first corner I came upon Uncle
Caesar. He was a stalwart negro, older than the
pyramids, with grey wool and a face that reminded me
of Brutus, and a second afterwards of the late King
Cettiwayo. He wore the most remarkable coat that
I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to his
ankles and had once been a Confederate grey in colours.

A MUNICIPAL REPORT ,419

But rain and sun and age had so variegated it that
Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale
monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it
has to do with the story — the story that is so long in
coming, because you can hardly expect anything to
happen at Nashville.

Once it must have been the military coat of an officer.
The cape of it had vanished, but all ad own its front it
had been frogged and tasselled magnificently. But
now the frogs and tassels were gone. In their stead
had been patiently stitched (I surmised by some
surviving ' black mammy ' ) new frogs made of cun-
ningly twisted common hempen twine. This twine
was frayed and dishevelled. It must have been added
to the coat as a substitute for vanished splendours,
with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followed
faithfully the curves of the long-missing frogs. And,
to cpmplete the comedy and pathos of the garment,
all its buttons were gone save one. The second button
from the top alone remained. The coat was fastened
by other twine strings tied through the button-holes
and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side.
There was never such a weird garment so fantastically
bedecked and of so many mottled hues. The lone
button was the size of a half-dollar, made of yellow
horn and sewed on with coarse twine.

This negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham him-
self might have started a hack line with it after he left
the ark with the two animals hitched to it. As I
approached he threw open the door, drew out a leather
duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep,
. rumbling tones :

* Step right in, suh ; ain't a speck of dust in it — jus'
got back from a funeral, suh.'

I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were
given an extra cleaning. I looked up and down the
street and perceived that there was little choice among
the vehicles for hire that lined the kerb. I looked

420 '0. HENRY'

in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea
Adair.

' I want to go to 861 Jessamine Street,' I said, and
was about to step into the hack. But for an instant
the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of the old negro barred
me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of
sudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment.
Then, with quickly-returning conviction, he asked
blandishingly : ' What are you gwine there for, boss ? '

' What is that to you ? ' I asked, a little sharply.

'Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome
kind of part of town and few folks ever has business
out there. Step right in. The seats is clean — jes'
got back from a funeral, suh.'

A mile and a half it must have been to our journey's
end. I could hear nothing but the fearful rattle of the
ancient hack over the uneven brick paving ; I could
smell nothing but the drizzle, now further flavoured
with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar
and oleander blossoms. All I could see through the
streaming windows were two rows of dim houses.

The city has an area of 10 square miles ; 181 miles
of streets, of which 137 miles are paved ; a system
of waterworks that cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of
mains.

Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed
mansion. Thirty yards back from the street it stood,
outmerged in a splendid grove of trees and untrimmed
shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and
almost hid the paling fence from sight ; the gate was
kept closed by a rope noose that encircled the gate-post .
and the first paling of the gate. But when you got
inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost
of former grandeur and excellence. But in the story,
I have not yet got inside.

When the hack had ceased from rattling and the
weary quadrupeds came to a rest I handed my jehu his

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 421

fifty cents with an additional quarter, feeling a glow of
conscious generosity as I did so. He refused it.
' It's two dollars, suh,' he said.

* How's that ? ' I asked. ' I plainly heard you call
out at the hotel : " Fifty cents to any part of the
town." '

' It's two dollars, suh,' he repeated obstinately.
6 It's a long ways from the hotel.'

* It is within the city limits and well within them,'
I argued. * Don't think that you have picked up a
greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over
there ? ' I went on, pointing toward the- east (I could
not see them, myself, for the drizzle) ; ' well, I was
born and raised on their other side. You old fool
nigger, can't you tell people from other people when you
see 'em ? '

The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. * Is you
from the South, suh ? I reckon it was them shoes of
yourn fooled me. There is somethin' sharp in the toes
for a Southern gen'l'man to wear.'

' Then the charge is fifty cents, I suppose ? ' said I
inexorably.

His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and
hostility, returned, remained ten seconds, and vanished.

' Boss,' he said, * fifty cents is right ; but I needs
two dollars, suh ; I'm obleeged to have two dollars.
I ain't demandin' it now, suh ; after I knows whar
you's from ; I'm jus' sayin' that I has to have two
dollars to-night, and business is mighty po'.'

Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features.
He had been luckier than he had hoped. Instead of
having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he
had come upon an inheritance.

' You confounded old rascal,' I said, reaching down
into my pocket, ' you ought to be turned over to the
police.'

For the first time I saw him smile. He knew ; he
knew; HE KNEW.

422 '0. HENRY'

I gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them
over I noticed that one of them had seen parlous times.
Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it had been
torn through in the middle, but joined again. A strip
of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its
negotiability.

Enough of the African bandit for the present : I left
him happy, lifted the rope and opened the creaky gate.

The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had
not touched it in twenty years. I could not see why a
strong wind should not have bowled it over like a house
of cards until- 1 looked again at the trees that hugged
it close — the trees that saw the battle of Nashville
and still drew their protecting branches around it
against storm and enemy and cold.

Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descend-
ant of the cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she
lived in, robed in the cheapest and cleanest dress I ever
saw, with an air as simple as a queen's, received me.

The reception-room seemed a mile square, because
there was nothing in it except some rows of books, on
unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a cracked marble-
top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa, and two
or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall,
a coloured crayon drawing of a cluster of pansies. I
looked around for the portrait of Andrew Jackson and
the pine-cone hanging basket, but they were not
there.

Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which
will be repeated to you. She was a product of the old
South, gently nurtured in the sheltered life. Her
learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid
originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had
been educated at home, and her knowledge of the
world was derived from inference and by inspiration.
Of such is the precious, small group of essayists made.
While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers,
trying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 423

dust from the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer,
Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne, and Hood. She
was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly
everybody nowadays knows too much — oh, so much
too much — of real life.

I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very
poor. A house and a dress she had, not much else, I
fancied. So, divided between my duty to the magazine
and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought .
Thomas in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to
her voice, which was like a harpsichord's, and found
that I could not speak of contracts. In the presence
of the nine Muses and the three Graces one hesitated to
lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be
another colloquy after I had regained my commercial-
ism. But I spoke of my mission, and three o'clock of
the next afternoon was set for the discussion of the
business proposition.

' Your town,' I said, as I began to make ready to
depart (which is the time for smooth generalities),
' seems to be a quiet, sedate place. A home town, I
should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever
happen.'

It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and
hollow ware with the West and South, and its
flouring mills have a daily capacity of more than
2,000 barrels.

Azalea Adair seemed to reflect.

' I have never thought of it that way,' she said, with
a kind of sincere intensity that seemed to belong to her.
' Isn't it in the still, quiet places that things do happen ?
I fancy that when God began to create the earth on
the first Monday morning one could have leaned out
one's windows and heard the drop of mud splashing
from His trowel as He built up the everlasting hills.
What did the noisiest project in the world — I mean the
building of the tower of Babel — result in finally ? A

424 '0. HENRY'

page and a half of Esperanto in the North American
Review :'

' Of course,' said I platitudinously, ' human nature
is the same everywhere ; but there is more colour — er — •
more drama and movement and-r-er — romance in some
cities than in others.'

' On the surface,' said Azalea Adair. ' I have
travelled many times around the world in a golden
airship wafted on two wings — print and dreams. I
have seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan
of Turkey bowstring with his own hands one of his
wives who had uncovered her face in public. I have
seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets
because his wife was going out with her face covered — •
with rice powder. In San Francisco's Chinatown I
saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch by inch,
in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would never
see her American lover again. She gave in when the
boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee.
At a euchre party in East Nashville the other night
I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her school-
mates and lifelong friends because she had married a
house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as
her heart ; but I wish you could have seen the fine little
smile that she carried from table to table. Oh, yes,
it is a humdrum towri. Just a few miles of red-brick
houses and mud and stores and lumber yards.'

Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house.
Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and went to inves-
tigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with
brightened eyes, a faint flush on her cheeks, and ten
years lifted from her shoulders.

' You must have a cup of tea before you go,' she said,
' and a sugar cake.'

She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled
a small negro girl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy,
glowering at me with thumb in mouth and bulging eyes.

Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 425

a dollar bill, a dollar bill with the upper right-hand
corner missing, torn in two pieces and pasted together
again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was one of
the bills I had given the piratical negro — there was no
doubt of it.

* Go up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy,'
she said, handing the girl the dollar bill, * and get me a
quarter of a pound of tea — -the kind he always sends
me — and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now hurry.
The supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,'
she explained to me.

Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her
hard, bare feet had died away on the back porch, a wild
shriek — I was sure it was hers — filled the hollow house.
Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry man's voice
mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible
words.

Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and
disappeared. For two minutes I heard the hoarse
rumble of the man's voice ; then something like an oath
and a light scuffle, and she returned calmly to her chair.

1 This is a roomy house,' she said, ' and I have a
tenant for part of it. I am sorry to have to rescind my
invitation to tea. It was impossible to get the kind I
always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow Mr. Baker
will be able to supply me.'

I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the
house. I inquired concerning street-car lines and took
my leave. After I was well on my way I remembered
that I had not learned Azalea Adair' s name. But
to-morrow would do.

That same day I started in on the course of iniquity
that this uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the
town only two days, but in that time I managed to lie
shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an accomplice —
after the fact, if that is the correct legal term — to a
murder.

As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Af rite

426 '0. HENRY'

coachman of the polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized
me, swung open the dungeony door of his peripatetic
sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
ritual : ' Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean — jus'
got back from a funeral. Fifty cents to any '

And then he knew me and grinned broadly. * 'Scuse
me, boss ; you is de gen'l'man what rid out with me dis
mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh.'

6 1 am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at
three,' said I, ' and if you will be here, I'll let you drive
me. So you know Miss Adair ? ' I concluded, thinking
of my dollar bill.

* I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,' he
replied.

' I judge that she is pretty poor,' I said. ' She hasn't
much money to speak of, has she ? '

For an instant I looked again at the fierce counten-
ance of King Cettiwayo, and then he changed back to
an extortionate old negro hack driver.

' She a'n't gwine to starve, suh,' he said slowly.
' She has reso'ces, suh ; she has reso'ces.'

' I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,' said I.

' Dat is puffeckly correct, suh,' he answered humbly.
' I jus' had to have dat two dollars dis mawnin', boss.'

I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired
the magazine : ' A. Adair holds out for eight cents a
word.'

The answer that came back was : ' Give it to her
quick, you duffer.'

Just before dinner ' Major ' Wentworth Caswell bore
down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend.
I have seen few men whom I have so instantaneously
hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was
standing at the bar when he invaded me ; therefore I
could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I would
have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping, thereby, to
escape another ; but he was one of those despicable,
roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 427

and fireworks attend upon every cent that they waste
in their follies.

With an air of producing millions he drew two one-
dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon
the bar. I looked once more at the dollar bill with the
upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the
middle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper.
It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no
other.

I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monot-
ony of a dreary, eventless Southern town had made me
tired and listless. I remember that just before I went
to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar bill
(which might%]iave formed the clue to a tremendously
fine detective story of San Francisco) by saying to
myself sleepily : ' Seems as if a lot of people here own
stock in the Hack-Driver's Trust. Pays dividends
promptly, too. Wonder if ' Then I fell asleep.

King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and
rattled my bones over the stones out to 861. He was
to wait and rattle me back again when I was ready.

Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer
than she had looked the day before. After she had
signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew
still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without
much trouble I managed to get her up on the ante-
diluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the side-
walk and yelled to the coffee- coloured Pirate to bring
a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not suspected in
him, he abandoned his team and struck off up the
street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In ten
minutes he returned with a grave, grey-haired, and
capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth
much less than eight cents each) I explained to him my
presence in the hollow house of mystery. He bowed
with stately understanding, and turned to the old negro.

' Uncle Caesar,' he said calmly, ' run up to my house
and ask Miss Lucy to give you a cream pitcher full of

428 '0. HENRY'

fresh milk and half a tumbler of port wine. And hurry
back. Don't drive — run. I want you to get back
sometime this week.'

It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a
distrust as to the speeding powers of the land-pirate's
steeds. After Uncle . Csesar was gone, lumberingly,
but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me over
with great politeness and as much careful calculation
until he had decided that I might do.

' It is only a case of insufficient nutrition,' he said.

* In other words, the result of poverty, pride, and
starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many devoted friends
who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept noth-
ing except from that old negro, Uncle Csesar, who was
once owned by her family.'

' Mrs. Caswell ! ' said I, in surprise. And then I
looked at the contract and saw that she had signed it

* Azalea Adair Caswell.'

' I thought she was Miss Adair,' I said.

' Married to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir,' said the
doctor. ' It is said that he robs her even of the small
sums that her old servant contributes toward her
support.'

When the milk and wine had been brought, the doctor
soon revived Azalea Adair. She sat up and talked of
the beauty of the autumn leaves that were then in
season, and their height of colour. She referred
lightly to her fainting seizure as the outcome of an old
palpitation of the heart. Impy fanned her as she lay
on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere, and I
followed him to the door. I told him that it was
within my power and intentions to make a reasonable
advance of money to Azalea Adair on future contri-
butions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased.

' By the way,' he said, ' perhaps you would like to
know that you have had royalty for a coachman. Old
Caesar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Caesar him-
self has royal ways, as you may have observed.'

A MUNICIPAL REPORT 429

As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Caesar's
voice inside ; ' Did he git bofe of dem two dollars from
you, Mis' Zalea ? '

' Yes, Caesar,' I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly.
And then I went in and concluded business negotiations
with our contributor. I assumed the responsibility of
advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle
Caesar drove me back to the hotel.

Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a
witness. The rest must be only bare statements of
facts.

At about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle
Caesar was at his corner. He threw open the door of
his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depress-
ing formula : ' Step right in, suh. Fifty cents to
anywhere in the city — hack's puffickly clean, suh — jus'
got back from a funeral '

And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight
was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more
faded shades of colour, the twine strings were more
frayed and ragged, the last remaining button — the
button of yellow horn — was gone. A motley descend-
ant of kings was Uncle Caesar !

About two hours later I saw an excited crowd
besieging the front of a drug store. In a desert where
nothing happens this was manna ; so I edged my way
inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes
and chairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of
Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor was testing him
for the immortal ingredient. His decision was that
it was conspicuous by its absence.

The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark
street and brought by curious and ennuied citizens
to the drug store. The late human being had been
engaged in terrific battle — the details showed that.
Loafer and reprobate though he had been, he had been
also a warrior. But he had lost. His hands were yet

430 '0. HENRY'

clenched so tightly that his fingers would not be opened.
The gentle citizens who had known him, stood about
and searched their vocabularies to find some good
words, if it were possible, to speak of him. One kind-
looking man said, after much thought : ' When "Cas"
was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in
school.'

While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of
4 the man that wras,' which hung down the side of a
white pine box, relaxed, and dropped something at
my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little
later on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned
that in his last struggle his hand must have seized
that object unwittingly and held it in a death grip.

At the hotel that night the main topic of conversa-
tion, with the possible exception of politics and pro-
hibition, was the demise of Major Caswell. I heard
one man say to a group of listeners :

' In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by
some of these no-account niggers for his money. He
had fifty dollars this afternoon which ho showed to
several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found
the money was not on his person.'

I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the
train was crossing the bridge over the Cumberland
River I took out of my pocket a yellow horn overcoat
button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends
of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the
window into the slow, muddy waters below.

1 ivonder wJuiVs doing in Buffalo !

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES

4 AUNT Ellen,' said Octavia cheerfully, as she threw
her black kid gloves carefully at the dignified Persian
cat on the window-seat, ' I'm a pauper.'

4 You are so extreme in your statements, Octavia,
dear,' said Aunt Ellen mildly, looking up from her

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 431

paper. ' If you find yourself temporarily in need of
some small change for bonbons, you will find my purse
in the drawer of the writing-desk.'

Octavia Beaupree removed her hat and seated her-
self on a footstool near her aunt's chair, clasping her
hands about her knees. Her slim and flexible figure,
clad in a modish mourning costume, accommodated
itself easily and gracefully to the trying position. Her
bright and youthful face, with its pair of sparkling,
life-enamoured eyes, tried to compose itself *to the
seriousness that the occasion seemed to demand.

4 You good auntie, it isn't a case of bonbons ; it is
abject, staring, unpicturesque poverty, with ready-
made clothes, gasolined gloves, and probably one
o'clock dinners all waiting with the traditional wolf
at the door. I've just come from my lawyer, auntie,
and, " Please, ma'am, I ain't got nothink 't all.
Flowers, lady ? Buttonhole, gentleman ? Pencils,
sir, three for five, to help a poor widow " ? Do I do it
nicely, auntie, or, as a bread-winning accomplishment,
were my lessons in elocution entirely wasted ? '

* Do be serious, my dear,' said Aunt Ellen, letting
her paper fall to the floor, * long enough to tell me what
you mean. Colonel Beaupree' s estate '

* Colonel Beaupree' s estate,' interrupted Octavia,
emphasizing her words with appropriate dramatic
gestures, ' is of Spanish castellar architecture.
Colonel Beaupree' s resources are — wind. Colonel
Beaupree' s stocks are — water. Colonel Beaupree' s
income is — all in. The statement lacks the legal
technicalities to which I have been listening for an
hour, but that is what it means when translated.'

* Octavia ! ' Aunt Ellen was now visibly possessed
by consternation. ' I can hardly believe it. And it
was the impression that he was worth a million. And
the De Peysters themselves introduced him ! '

Octavia rippled out a laugh, and then became
properly grave.

432 'O. HENRY*

' De mortuis nil, auntie — not even the rest of it. The
dear old colonel — what a gold brick he was, after all f
I paid for my bargain fairly — I'm all here, am I not ?
— items : eyes, fingers, toes, youth, old family, un-
questionable position in society as called for in the
contract — no wild-cat stock here.' Octavia picked up
the morning paper from the floor. c But I'm not going
to " squeal " — isn't that what they call it when you
rail at Fortune because you've lost the game ? ' She
turned the pages of the paper calmly. * " Stock
market " — no use for that. " Society's doings " —
that's done. Here is my page — the wish column. A
Van Dresser could not be said to " want " for anything,
of course. " Chambermaids, cooks, canvassers, steno-
graphers " '

' Dear,' said Aunt Ellen, with a little tremor in her
voice, ' please do not talk in that way. Even if your
affairs are in so unfortunate a condition, there is my
three thousand '

Octavia sprang up lithely, and deposited a smart kiss
on the delicate cheek of the prim little elderly maid.

' Blessed auntie, your three thousand is just sufficient
to insure your Hyson to be free from willow leaves and
keep the Persian in sterilized cream. I know I'd be
welcome, but I prefer to strike bottom like Beelzebub
rather than hang around like the Peri listening to
the music from the side entrance. I'm going to earn
my own living. There's nothing else to do. I'm a — •
Oh, oh, oh ! — I had forgotten. There's one thing saved
from the wreck. It's a corral — no, a ranch in — let me
gee — Texas ; an asset, dear old Mr. Bannister called it.
How pleased he was to show me something he could
describe as unencumbered ! I've a description of it
among those stupid papers he made me bring away with
me from his office. I'll try to find it.'

Octavia found her shopping-bag, and drew from it a
long envelope filled with typewritten documents.

' A ranch in Texas,' sighed Aunt Ellen. ' It sounds

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 433

to me more like a liability than an asset. Those are
the places where the centipedes are found, and cowboys,
and fandangos.'

' " The R-ancho de las Sombras," J read Octavia from
a sheet of violently purple typewriting, ' " is situated
one hundred and ten miles south-east of San Antonio,
and thirty-eight miles from its nearest railroad station,
Nopal, on the I. and G-.N. Ranch consists of 7,680
acres of well- watered land, with title conferred by State
patents, and twenty-two sections, or 14,080 acres,
partly under yearly running lease and partly bought
under State's twenty-year-purchase act. Eight thou-
sand graded merino sheep, with the necessary equipment
of horses, vehicles, and general ranch paraphernalia.
Ranch-house built of brick, with six rooms comfortably
furnished according to the requirements of the climate.
All within a strong barbed-wire fence.

' " The present ranch manager seems to be competent
and reliable, and is rapidly placing upon a paying basis
a business that, in other hands, had been allowed to
suffer from neglect and misconduct.

1 " This property was secured by Colonel Beaupree in
a deal with a Western irrigation syndicate, and the
title to it seems to be perfect. With careful manage-
ment and the natural increase of land values, it ought
to be made the foundation for a comfortable fortune
for its owner." '

When Octavia ceased reading, Aunt Ellen uttered
something as near a sniff as her breeding permitted.

' The prospectus,' she said, with uncompromising
metropolitan suspicion, ' doesn't mention the centi-
pedes, or the Indians. And you never did like mutton,
Octavia. I don't see what advantage you can derive
from this — desert.'

But Octavia was in a trance. Her eyes were steadily
regarding something quite beyond their focus. Her
lips were parted, and her face was lighted by the kind-
ling furor of the explorer, the ardent, stirring disquiet

434 *0. HENRY*

of the adventurer. Suddenly she clasped her hands
together exultantly.

4 The problem solves itself, auntie,' she cried. ' I'm
going to that ranch. I'm going to live on it. I'm
going to learn to like mutton, and even concede the
good qualities of centipedes — at a respectful distance.
It's just what I need. It's a new life that comes when
my old one is just ending. It's a release, auntie ; it
isn't a narrowing. Think of the gallops over those
leagues of prairies, with the wind tugging at the roots
of your hair, the coming close to the earth and learning
over again the stories of the growing grass and the little
wild flowers without names ! Glorious is what it will
be. Shall I be a shepherdess with a Watteau hat, and
a crook to keep the bad wolves from the lambs, or a
typical Western ranch girl, with short hair, like the
pictures of her in the Sunday papers ? I think the
latter. And they'll have my picture, too, with the
wild-cats I've slain, single-handed, hanging from my
saddle horn. " From the Four Hundred to the
Flocks " is the way they'll headline it, and they'll
print photographs of the old Van Dresser mansion and
the church where I was married. They won't have
my picture, but they'll get an artist to draw it. It'll
be wild and woolly, and I'll grow my own wool.'

* Octavia ! ' Aunt Ellen condensed into the one
word all the protests she was unable to utter.

' Don't say a word, auntie. I'm going. I'll see the
sky at night fit down on the world like a big butter-dish
cover, and I'll make friends again with the stars that I
haven't had a chat with since I was a wee child. I wish
to go. I'm tired of all this. I'm glad I haven't any
money. I could bless Colonel Beaupree for that ranch,
and forgive him for all his bubbles. What if the life
will be rough and lonely ! I — I deserve it. I shut
my heart to everything except that miserable ambition.
I — oh, I wish to go away, and forget — forget ! '

Octavia swerved suddenly to her knees, laid hei

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 435

flushed face in her aunt's lap, and shook with tur-
bulent sobs.

Aunt Ellen bent over her, and smoothed the
coppery-brown hair.

' I didn't know,' she said, gently ; ' 1 didn't know —
that. Who was it, dear ? '

When Mrs. Octavia Beaupree, nee Van Dresser,
stepped from the train at Nopal, her manner lost, for
the moment, some of that easy certitude which had
always marked her movements. The town was of
recent establishment, and seemed to have been hastily
constructed of undressed lumber and flapping canvas.
The element that had congregated about the station,
though not offensively demonstrative, was clearly
composed of citizens accustomed to and prepared for
rude alarms.

Octavia stood on the platform, against the telegraph
office, and attempted to choose by intuition, from the
swaggering, straggling string of loungers, the manager
of the Rancho de las Sombras, who had been instructed
by Mr. Bannister to meet her there. That tall, serious-
looking, elderly man in the blue flannel shirt and white
tie she thought must be he. But, no ; he passed by,
removing his gaze from the lady as hers rested on him,
according to the Southern custom. The manager,
she thought, with some impatience at being kept wait-
ing, should have no difficulty in selecting her. Young
women wearing the most recent thing in ash- coloured
travelling-suits were not so plentiful in Nopal !

Thus keeping a speculative watch on all persons of
possible managerial aspect, Octavia, with a catching
breath and a start of surprise, suddenly became aware
of Teddy Westlake hurrying along the platform in the
direction of the train — of Teddy Westlake or his sun-
browned ghost in cheviot, boots, and leather-girdled
hat — Theodore Westlake, Jr., amateur polo (almost)
champion, all-round butterfly and cumberer of the soil ;

436 C0. HENRY'

but a broader, surer, more emphasized and determined
Teddy than the one she had known a year ago when
last she saw him.

He perceived Octavia at almost the same time,
deflected his course, and steered for her in his old,
straightforward way. Something like awe came upon
her as the strangeness of his metamorphosis was
brought into closer range ; the rich, red-brown of his
complexion brought out so vividly his straw-coloured
moustache and steel-grey eyes. He seemed more
grown-up, and, somehow, farther away. But, when
he spoke, the old, boyish Teddy came back again.
They had been friends from childhood.

4 Why, 'Tave ! ' he exclaimed, unable to reduce his
perplexity to coherence. ' How — what — when —
where ? '

4 Train,' said Octavia ; ' necessity ; ten minutes ago ;
home. Your complexion's gone, Teddy. Now, how —
what — when — -where ? '

* I'm working down here,' said Teddy. He cast side
glances about the station as one does who tries to
combine politeness with duty.

* You didn't notice on the train,' he asked, ' an old
lady with grey curls and a poodle, who occupied two
seats with her bundles and quarrelled with the con-
ductor, did you ? '

' I think not,' answered Octavia, reflecting. * And
you haven't, by any chance, noticed a big, grey-
moustached man in a blue shirt and six-shooters, with
little flakes of merino wool sticking in his hair, have
you ? '

* Lots of 'em.' said Teddy, with symptoms of mental
delirium under the strain. ' Do you happen to know
any such individual ? '

4 No ; the description is imaginary. Is your interest
in the old lady whom you describe a personal one ? '

' Never saw her in my life. She's painted entirely
from fancy. She owns a little piece of property where

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 437

I earn iny bread and butter — the Rancho de las
Sombras. I drove up to meet her according to arrange-
ment with her lawyer.'

Octavia leaned against the wall of the telegraph
office. Was this possible ? And didn't he know ?

' Are you the manager of that ranch ? ' she asked
weakly.

' I am,' said Teddy, with pride.

* I am Mrs. Beaupree,' said Octavia faintly ; ' but
my hair never would curl, and I was polite to the
conductor.'

For a moment that strange, grown-up look came
back and removed Teddy miles away from her.

' I hope you'll excuse me,' he said, rather awkwardly.
* You see, I've been down here in the chaparral a year.
I hadn't heard. Give me your checks, please, and I'll
have your traps loaded into the wagon. Jose will
follow with them. We travel ahead in the buckboard.'

Seated by Teddy in a feather-weight buckboard,
behind a pair of wild, cream-coloured Spanish ponies,
Octavia abandoned all thought for the exhilaration of
the present. They swept out of the little town and
down the level road toward the south. Soon the road
dwindled and disappeared, and they struck across a
world carpeted with an endless reach of curly mesquite
grass. The wheels made no sound. The tireless
ponies bounded ahead at an unbroken gallop. The
temperate wind, made fragrant by thousands of acres
of blue and yellow wild flowers, roared gloriously in
their ears. The motion was aerial, ecstatic, with a
thrilling sense of perpetuity in its effect. Octavia sat
silent, possessed by a feeling of elemental, sensual bliss.
Teddy seemed to be wrestling with some internal
problem.

' I'm going to call you madama,' he announced as the
result of his labours. ' That is what the Mexicans will
call you — they're nearly all Mexicans on the ranch,
you know. That seems to be about the proper thing.'

438 <0. HENRY'

' Very well, Mr. Westlake,' said Octavia primly.

6 Oh, now,' said Teddy, in some consternation, « that's
carrying the thing too far, isn't it ? '

4 Don't worry me with your beastly etiquette. I'm
just beginning to live. Don't remind me of anything
artificial. If only this air could be bottled ! This
much alone is worth coming for. Oh, look ! there goes
a deer ! '

4 Jack-rabbit,' said Teddy, without turning his head.

1 Could I — might I drive ? ' suggested Octavia,
panting, with rose-tinted cheeks and the eye of an
eager child.

' On one condition. Could I — might I smoke ? '

' For ever ! ' cried Octavia, taking the lines with
solemn joy. ' How shall I know which way to drive ? '

i Keep her sou' by sou' east, and all sail set. You see
that black speck on the horizon under that lowermost
Gulf cloud ? That's a group of live-oaks and a land-
mark. Steer half-way between that and the little hill
to the left. I'll recite you the whole code of driving
rules for the Texas prairies : keep the reins from under
the horse's feet, and swear at 'em frequent.'

' I'm too happy to swear, Ted. Oh, why do people
buy yachts or travel in palace- cars, when a buckboard
and a pair of plugs and a spring morning like this can
satisfy all desire. ? '

* Now, I'll ask you,' protested Teddy, who was
futilely striking match after match on the dashboard,
' not to call those denizens of the air plugs. They can
kick out a hundred miles between daylight and dark.'
At last he succeeded in snatching a light for his cigar
from the flame held in the hollow of his hands.

* Room ! ' said Octavia intensely. ' That's what
produces the effect. I know now what I've wanted —
scope — range — room ! '

' Smoking-room,' said Teddy unsentimentally. k I
love to smoke in a buckboard. The wind blows the
smoke into you and out again. It saves exertion.'

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 439

The two fell so naturally into their old-time good-
fellowship that it was only by degrees that a sense of
the strangeness of the new relations between them came
to be felt.

' Madama,' said Teddy wonderingly, ' however did
you get it into your head to cut the crowd and come
down here ? Is it a fad now among the upper classes
to trot off to sheep ranches instead of to Newport ? '

* I was broke, Teddy,' said Octavia sweetly, with
her interest centred upon steering safely between a
Spanish dagger plant and a clump of chaparral ; ' I
haven't a thing in the world but this ranch — not even
any other home to go to.'

' Come, now,' said Teddy anxiously but incredu-
lously, ' you don't mean it ? '

' When my husband,' said Octavia, with a shy
slurring of the word, ' died three months ago I thought
I had a reasonable amount of the world's goods. His
lawyer exploded that theory in a sixty-minute fully
illustrated lecture. I took to the sheep as a last resort.
Do you happen to know of any fashionable caprice
among the gilded youth of Manhattan that induces
them to abandon polo and club windows to become
managers of sheep ranches ? '

8 It's easily explained in my case,' responded Teddy,
promptly. ' I had to go to work. I couldn't have
earned my board in New York, so I chummed a while
with old Sandford, one of the syndicate that owned the
ranch before Colonel Beaupree bought it, and got a
place down here. I wasn't manager at first. I jogged
around on ponies and studied the business in detail,
until I got all the points in my head. I saw where it
was losing and what the remedies were, and then
Sandford put me in charge. I get a hundred dollars
a month, and I earn it.'

' Poor Teddy ! ' said Octavia, with a smile.

' You needn't. I like it. I save half my wages, and
I'm as hard as a water plug. It beats polo.'

440 «O. HENRY'

* Will it furnish bread and tea and jam for another
outcast from civilization ? '

' The spring shearing,* said the manager, ' just
cleaned up a deficit in last year's business. Wasteful-
ness and inattention have been the rule heretofore.
The autumn clip will leave a small profit over all
expenses. Next year there will be jam.'

When, about four o'clock in the afternoon, the
ponies rounded a gentle, brush-covered hill, and then
swooped, like a double cream-coloured cyclone, upon
the Rancho de las Sombras, Octavia gave a little cry
of delight. A lordly grove of magnificent live-oaks
cast an area of grateful, cool shade, whence the ranch
had drawn its name, * de las Sombras ' — of the shadows.
The house, of red brick, one story, ran low and long
beneath the trees. Through its middle, dividing its
six rooms in half, extended a broad, arched passage-way,
picturesque with flowering cactus and hanging red
earthern jars. A ' gallery,' low and broad, encircled
the building. Vines climbed about it, and the adjacent
ground was, for a space, covered with transplanted
grass and shrubs. A little lake, long and narrow,
glimmered in the sun at the rear. Further away stood
the shacks of the Mexican workers, the corrals, wool
sheds, and shearing pens. To the right lay the low hills,
splattered with dark patches of chaparral : to the left
the unbounded green prairie blending against the blue
heavens.

* It's a home, Teddy,' said Octavia breathlessly ;
* that's what it is — it's a home.'

4 Not so bad for a sheep ranch,' admitted Teddy,
with excusable pride. ' I've been tinkering on it at
odd times.'

A Mexican youth sprang from somewhere in the grass,
and took charge of the creams. The mistress and the
manager entered the house.

' Here's Mrs. Maclntyre,' said Teddy, as a placid,
neat, elderly lady came out upon the gallery to meet

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 441

them. ' Mrs. Mac, here's the boss. Very likely she
will be wanting a hunk of bacon and a dish of beans
after her drive.'

Mrs. Maclntyre, the housekeeper, as much a fixture
on the place as the lake or the live-oaks, received the
imputation of the ranch's resources of refreshment with
mild indignation, and was about to give it utterance
when Octavia spoke.

. ' Oh, Mrs. Maclntyre, don't apologize for Teddy.
Yes, I call him Teddy. So does every one whom he
hasn't duped into taking him seriously. You see, we
used to cut paper dolls and play jackstraws together
ages ago. No one minds what he says.'

' No,' said Teddy, ' no one minds what he says, just
so he doesn't do it again.'

Octavia cast one of those subtle, sidelong glances
toward him from beneath her lowered eyelids — a glance
that Teddy used to describe as an upper-cut. But
there was nothing in his ingenuous, weather- tanned face
to warrant a suspicion that he was making an allusion — •
nothing. Beyond a doubt, thought Octavia, he had
forgotten.

' Mr. Westlake likes his fun,' said Mrs. Maclntyre, as
she conducted Octavia to her rooms. ' But,' she added
loyally, ' people around here usually pay attention to
what he says when he talks in earnest. I don't know
what would have become of this place without him.'

Two rooms at the east end of the house had been
arranged for the occupancy of the ranch's mistress.
When she entered them a slight dismay seized her at
their bare appearance and the scantiness of their furni-
ture ; but she quickly reflected that the climate was a
semi-tropical one, and was moved to appreciation of
the well- conceived efforts to conform to it. The sashes
had already been removed from the big windows, and
white curtains waved in the Gulf breeze that streamed
through the wide jalousies. The bare floor was amply
strewn with cool rugs ; the chairs were inviting, deep,

442 *0. HENRY'

dreamy willows ; the walls were papered with a light,
cheerful olive. One whole side of her sitting-room was
covered with books on smooth, unpainted pine shelves.
She flew to these at once. Before her was a well-
selected library. She caught glimpses of titles of
volumes of fiction and travel not yet seasoned from the
dampness of the press.

Presently, recollecting that she was now in a wilder-
ness given over to mutton, centipedes, and privations,
the incongruity of these luxuries struck her, and, with
intuitive feminine suspicion, she began turning to the
fly-leaves of volume after volume. Upon each one was
inscribed in fluent characters the name of Theodore
Westlake, Jr.

Octavia, fatigued by her long journey, retired early
that night. Lying upon her white, cool bed, she rested
deliciously, but sleep coquetted long with her. She
listened to faint noises whose strangeness kept her
faculties on the alert — the fractious yelping of the
coyotes, the ceaseless, low symphony of the wind, the
distant booming of the frogs about the lake, the lamen-
tation of a concertina in the Mexicans' quarters. There
were many conflicting feelings in her heart — thankful-
ness and rebellion, peace and disquietude, loneliness
and a sense of protecting care, happiness and an old,
haunting pain.

She did what any other woman would have done —
sought relief in a wholesome tide of unreasonable tears,
and her last words, murmured to herself before slumber,
capitulating, came softly to woo her, were, ' He has
forgotten.'

The manager of the Rancho de las Sombras was no
dilettante. He was a ' hustler.' He was generally
up. mounted, and away of mornings before the rest
of the household were 'awake, making the rounds of the
flocks and camps. This was the duty of the major-
domo, a stately old Mexican with a princely air and
manner, but Teddy seemed to have a great deal of con-

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 443

fidence in his own eyesight. Except in the busy
seasons, he nearly always returned to the ranch to
breakfast at eight o'clock, with Octavia and Mrs.
Maclntyre, at the little table set in the central hallway,
bringing with him a tonic and breezy cheerfulness full
of the health and flavour of the prairies.

A few days after Octavia' s arrival he made her get
out one of her riding-skirts, and curtail it to a shortness
demanded by the chaparral brakes.

With some misgivings she donned this and the pair
of buckskin leggings he prescribed in addition, and
mounted upon a dancing pony, rode with him to view
her possessions. He showed her everything — the flocks
of ewes, muttons and grazing lambs, the dipping vats,
the shearing pens, the uncouth merino rams in their
little pasture, the water-tanks prepared against the
summer drought — giving account of his stewardship
with a boyish enthusiasm that never flagged.

Where was the old Teddy that she knew so well ?
This side of him was the same, and it was a side that
pleased her ; but this was all she ever saw of him now.
Where was his sentimentality — those old, varying
moods of impetuous love-making, of fanciful, quixotic
devotion, of heart-breaking gloom, of alternating,
absurd tenderness and haughty dignity ? His nature
had been a sensitive one, his temperament bordering
closely on the artistic. She knew that, besides being a
follower of fashion and its fads and sports, he had
cultivated tastes of a finer nature. He had written
things, he had tampered with colours, he was something
of a student in certain branches of art, and once she had
been admitted to all his aspirations and thoughts.
But now — and she could not avoid the conclusion — •
Teddy had barricaded against her every side of himself
except one — the side that showed the manager of the
Raiicho de las Sombras and a jolly chum who had for-
given and forgotten. Queerly enough the words of Mr.
Bannister's description of her property came into her

444 '0. HENRY'

mind — * all inclosed within a strong barbed-wire
fence.'

1 Teddy's fenced, too,' said Octavia to herself.

It was not difficult for her to reason out the cause of
his fortifications. It had originated one night at the
Hammersmiths' ball. It occurred at a time soon after
she had decided to accept Colonel Beaupree and his
million, which was no more than her looks and the
entree she held to the inner circles were worth.
Teddy had proposed with all his impetuosity and fire,
and she looked him straight in the eyes, and said coldly
and finally : ' Never let me hear any such silly non-
sense from you again.' ' You won't,' said Teddy, with
a new expression around his mouth, and — now Teddy
was inclosed within a strong barbed-wire fence.

It was on this first ride of inspection that Teddy was
seized by the inspiration that suggested the name of
Mother Goose's heroine, and he at once bestowed it
upon Octavia. The idea, supported both by a simil-
arity of names and identity d^occupations, seemed to
strike him as a peculiarly happy one, and he never tired
of using it. The Mexicans on the r^nch also took up
the name, adding another syllable to accommodate
then: lingual incapacity for the final ' p,' gravely
referring to her as * La Madama Bo-Peepy.' Eventu-
ally it spread, and ' Madame Bo-Peep's ranch ' was as
often mentioned as the Ranoho de las Sombras.'

Came the long, hot season from May to September,
when work is scarce on the ranches. Octavia passed
the days in a kind of lotus-eater's dream. Books,
hammocks, correspondence with a few intimate friends,
a renewed interest hi her old water-colour box and easel
— these disposed of the sultry hours of daylight. The
evenings were always sure to bring enjoyment. Best
of all were the rapturous horseback rides with Teddy,
when the moon gave light over the wind-swept leagues,
chaperoned by the wheeling night-hawk and the startled
owl. Often the Mexicans would come up from their

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 445

shacks with their guitars and sing the weirdest of heart-
breaking songs. There were long, cosy chats on the
breezy gallery, and an interminable warfare of wits
between Teddy and Mrs. Maclntyre, whose abundant
Scotch shrewdness often more than overmatched the
lighter humour in which she was lacking.

And the nights came, one after another, and were
filed away by weeks and months — nights soft and
languorous and fragrant, that should have driven
Strephon to Chloe over wires however barbed, that
might have drawn Cupid himself to hunt, lasso in hand,
among those amorous pastures — but Teddy kept his
fences up.

One July night Madame Bo-Peep and her ranch
manager were sitting on the east gallery. Teddy had
been exhausting the science of prognostication as to the
probabilities of a price of twenty-four cents for the
autumn clip, and had then subsided into an anaesthetic
cloud of Havana smoke. Only as incompetent a judge
as a woman would have failed to note long ago that at
least a third of his salary must have gone up in the
fumes of those imported Regalias.

' Teddy,' said Octavia suddenly and rather sharply,
' what are you working down here on a ranch for ? '

' One hundred per,' said Teddy glibly, * and found.'

* I've a good mind to discharge you.'

* Can't do it,' said Teddy, with a grin.

' Why not ? ' demanded Octavia, with argumentative
heat.

* Under contract. Terms of sale respect all unex-
pired contracts. Mine runs until 12 p.m., December
thirty-first. You might get up at midnight on that
date and fire me. If you try it sooner I'll be in a
position to bring legal proceedings.'

Octavia seemed to be considering the prospects of
litigation.

' But,' continued Teddy cheerfully, t I've been
thinking of resigning anyway.'

446 *O. HENRY'

Octavia's rocking-chair ceased its motion. There
were centipedes in this country, she felt sure ; and
Indians ; and vast, lonely, desolate, empty wastes ;
all within strong barbed- wire fence. There was a Van
Dresser pride, but there was also a Van Dresser heart.
She must know for certain whether or not he had
forgotten.

' Ah, well, Teddy,' she said, with a fine assumption
of polite interest, ' it's lonely down here ; you're
longing to get back to the old life — to polo and lo*bsters
and theatres and balls.'

' Never cared much for balls,' said Teddy virtuously.

* You're getting old, Teddy. Your memory is
failing. Nobody ever knew you to miss a dance, unless
it occurred on the same night with another one which
you attended. And you showed such shocking bad
taste, too, in dancing too often with the same partner.
Let me see, what was that Forbes girl's name — the one
with wall eyes — Mabel, wasn't it ? '

4 No ; Adele. Mabel was the one with the bony
elbows. That wasn't wall in Adele's eyes. It was
soul. We used to talk sonnets together, and Verlaine.
Just then I was trying to run a pipe from the Pierian
spring.'

' You were on the floor with her,' said Octavia,
undeflected, ' five times at the Hammersmiths'.'

4 Hammersmiths' what ? ' questioned Teddy vacu-
ously.

' Ball — ball,' said Octavia viciously. ' What were
we talking of ? '

' Eyes, I thought,' said Teddy, after some reflection ;
' and elbows.'

' Those Hammersmiths,' went on Octavia, in her
sweetest society prattle, after subduing an intense
desire to yank a handful of sunburnt, sandy hair from
the head lying back contentedly against the canvas of
the steamer chair, * had too much money. Mines,
wasn't it ? It was something that paid something to

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 447

the ton. You couldn't get a glass of plain water in
their house. Everything at that ball was dreadfully
overdone.'

4 It was/ said Teddy.

4 Such a crowd there was ! ' Octavia continued,
conscious that she was talking the rapid drivel of a
school-girl describing her first dance. 4 The balconies
were as warm as the rooms. I — lost — something at
that ball.' The last sentence was uttered in a tone
calculated to remove the barbs from miles of wire.

* So did I,' confessed Teddy, in a lower voice.

* A glove/ said Octavia, falling back as the enemy
approached her ditches.

4 Caste/ said Teddy, halting his firing line without
loss. 4 1 hobnobbed half the evening with one of
Hammersmith's miners, a fellow who kept his hands
in his pockets, and talked like an archangel about
reduction plants and drifts and levels and sluice-boxes.'

4 A pearl-grey glove, nearly new/ sighed Octavia
mournfully.

4 A bang-up chap, that McArdle/ maintained Teddy
approvingly. * A man who hated olives and elevators ;
a man who handled mountains as croquettes, and built
tunnels in the air ; a man who never uttered a word
of silly nonsense in his life. Did you sign those lease-
renewal applications yet, madama ? They've got to
be on file in the land office by the thirty-first.'

Teddy turned his head lazily. Octavia' s chair was
vacant.

A certain centipede, crawling along the lines marked
out by fate, expounded the situation. It was early
one morning while Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre were
trimming the honeysuckle on the west gallery. Teddy
had risen and departed hastily before daylight in
response to word that a flock of ewes had been scattered
from their bedding ground during the night by a
thunder-storm.

448 <0. HENRY'

The centipede, driven by destiny, showed himself on
the floor of the gallery, and then, the screeches of the
two women giving him his cue, he scuttled with all his
yellow legs through the open door into the furthermost
west room, which was Teddy's. Arming themselves
with domestic utensils selected with regard to their
length, Octavia and Mrs. Maclntyre, with much clutch-
ing of skirts and skirmishing for the position of rear-
guard in the attacking force, followed.

Once outside, the centipede seemed to have disap-
peared, and his prospective murderers began a thorough
but cautious search for their victim.

Even in the midst of such a dangerous and absorbing
adventure Octavia was conscious of an awed curiosity
on finding herself in Teddy's sanctum. In that room
he sat alone, silently communing with those secret
thoughts that he now shared with no one, dreamed
there whatever dreams he now called on no one to
interpret.

It was the room of a Spartan or a soldier. In one
corner stood a wide, canvas-covered cot ; in another, a
small bookcase ; in another, a grim stand of Winches-
ters and shotguns. An immense table, strewn with
letters, papers, and documents and surmounted by a
set of pigeon-holes, occupied one side.

The centipede showed genius in concealing himself
in such bare quarters. Mrs. Maclntyre was poking a
broom-handle behind the bookcase. Octavia ap-
proached Teddy's cot. The room was just as the
manager had left it in his hurry. The Mexican maid
had not yet given it her attention. There was his big
pillow with the imprint of his head still in the centre.
She thought the horrid beast might have climbed the
cot and hidden itself to bite Teddy. Centipedes were
thus cruel and vindictive toward managers.

She cautiously overturned the pillow, and then
parted her lips to give the signal for reinforcements at
sight of a long, slender, dark object lying there. But,

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 449

repressing it in time, she caught up a glove, a pearl-
grey glove, flattened — it might be conceived — by many,
many months of nightly pressure beneath the pillow
of the man who had forgotten the Hammersmiths' ball.
Teddy must have left so hurriedly that morning that
he had, for once, forgotten to transfer it to its resting-
place by day. Even managers, who are notoriously
wily and cunning, are sometimes caught up with.

Octavia slid the grey glove into the bosom of her
summery morning gown. It was hers. Men who put
themselves within a strong barbed-wire fence, and
remember Hammersmith balls only by the talk of
miners about sluice-boxes, should not be allowed to
possess such articles.

After all, what a paradise this prairie country was !
How it blossomed like the rose when you found things
that were thought to be lost ! How delicious was that
morning breeze coming in the windows, fresh and sweet
with the breath of the yellow ratama blooms ! Might
one not stand, for a minute, with shining, far-gazing
eyes, and dream that mistakes might be corrected ?

Why was Mrs. Maclntyre poking about so absurdly
with a broom ?

4 I've found it,' said Mrs. Maclntyre, banging the
door. ' Here it is.'

6 Did you lose something ? ' asked Octavia, with
sweetly polite non-interest.

' The little devil ! ' said Mrs. Maclntyre, driven to
violence. ' Ye've no forgotten him alretty ? '

Between them they slew the centipede. Thus was
he rewarded for his agency toward the recovery of
things lost at the Hammersmiths' ball.

It seems that Teddy, in due course, remembered the
glove, and when he returned to the house at sunset
made a secret but exhaustive search for it. Not until
evening, upon the moonlit eastern gallery, did he find
it. It was upon the hand that he had thought lost to
him for ever, and so he was moved to repeat certain

228 n

450 '0, HENRY'

nonsense that he had been commanded never, never to
utter again. Teddy's fences were down.

This time there was no ambition to stand in the way,
and the wooing was as natural and successful as should
be between ardent shepherd and gentle shepherdess.

The prairies changed to a garden. The Rancho de
las Sombras became the Ranch of Light.

A few days later Octavia received a letter from Mr.
Bannister, in reply to one she had written to him asking
some questions about her business. A portion of the
letter ran as follows :

' I am at a loss to account for your references to the
sheep ranch. Two months after your departure to
take up your residence upon it, it was discovered that
Colonel Beaupree's title was worthless. A deed came
to light showing that he disposed of the property before
his death. The matter was 'reported to your manager,
Mr. Westlake, who at once repurchased the property.
It is entirely beyond my powers of conjecture to imagine
how you have remained in ignorance of this fact. I
beg that you will at once confer with that gentleman,
who will, at least, corroborate my statement.'

Octavia sought Teddy, with battle in her eye.

4 What are you working on this ranch for ? ' she
asked once more.

' One hundred ' he began to repeat, but saw in

her face that she knew. She held Mr. Bannister's
letter in her hand. He knew that the game was up.

' It's my ranch,' said Teddy, like a schoolboy detected
in evil. ' It's a mighty poor manager that isn't able
to absorb the boss's business if you give him time.'

4 Why were you working down here ? ' pursued
Octavia, still struggling after the key to the riddle of
Teddy.

' To tell the truth, 'Tave,' said Teddy, with quiet
candour, ' it wasn't for the salary. That about kept
me in cigars and sunburn lotions, I was sent south by

MADAME BO-PEEP, OF THE RANCHES 451

my doctor. 'Twas that right lung that was going to
the bad on account of over-exercise and strain at polo
and gymnastics. I needed climate and ozone and rest
and things of that sort.'

In an instant Octavia was close against the vicinity
of the affected organ. Mr. Bannister's letter fluttered
to the floor.

' It's— it's well now, isn't it, Teddy ? '

' Sound as a mesquite chunk. I deceived you in one
thing. I paid fifty thousand for your ranch as soon as
I found you had no title. I had just about that much
income accumulated at my banker's while I've been
herding sheep down here, so it was almost like picking
the thing up on a bar gain- counter for a penny. There's
another little surplus of unearned increment piling up
there, 'Tave. I've been thinking of a wedding trip in
a yacht with white ribbons tied to the mast, through the
Mediterranean, and then up among the Hebrides and
down Norway to the Zuyder Zee.'

' And I was thinking,' said Octavia softly, ' of a
wedding gallop with my manager among the flocks of
sheep and back to a wedding breakfast with Mrs. Mac-
Intyre on the gallery, with, maybe, a sprig of orange
blossom fastened to the red jar above the table.'

Teddy laughed, and began to chant :

' Little Bo -Peep has lost her sheep,
And doesn't know where to find 'em.
Let 'em alone, and they'll come home,
And '

Octavia drew his head down and whispered in his
ear.

But that is one of the tales they brought behind
them.

R. MUERAY GILCHRIST

1867-1917
THE GAP IN THE WALL

IT was a hot May forenoon and the sloping meadows
were pied with anemones. Four cuckoos were crying
against each other at the end of the hazy valley ; a
building magpie castanetted incessantly from the elm
planting.

Keziah Unwin was going down to Hatherton Flat
with a present of Rouen ducks' eggs for old Mrs.
Pursglove. The produce of the poultry on her father's
farm was Keziah' ss perquisite, and she was so accom-
plished in the art of rearing that her advice was sought
by all the countryside. There was no need for her to
save the money she earned, for she was the only child
of a well-to-do man ; so she spent it in the purchase of
good and pretty clothes, such as raised the standard
of the village taste.

She had donned a dainty gown of pale blue linen
that clung without wrinkles to her slender figure. A
little tippet of white lace covered her shoulders. Cousin
Sarah, who had opened a milliner's shop in the country
town, had sent her that Parisian hat which seemed like
nothing but a tangle of apple-blossom that had broken
off the parent tree and fallen prone on a cushion of
emerald moss.

It was only natural that such a beautiful girl should
be troubled with many suitors. Swain after swain
strolled into the house-place at night, ostensibly for the
sake of listening to her father's old tales, but really to
give themselves the wild delight of making sheep's eyes

452

THE GAP IN THE WALL 453

at the young mistress. She had listened to numerous
offers of marriage and had declined all, and now experi-
ence had taught her how to slay a would-be lover's
courage with well-planted barbs of good-natured ridi-
cule. Local history enshrines the story of young John
Hancock's proposal. Keziah revealed it to none, but
the discouraged youth wailed it out at the Bold Rodney
whilst in his cups. By unlucky stratagem having been
left alone with her for a while, he began to stammer his
feeble declaration. She affected great terror, but still
retained enough presence of mind to enable her to pour
a bucket of cold water over his head. When he became
normal again she prevented a repetition of his mis-
demeanour with the cruel words, ' Eh dear, I am glad !
I thowt yo' were i' a fit ! '

Once only had her heart been touched, and that was
when Rafe Paramour of Rocky Edge had put the
question. They had been school-mates together, and
in later years had romped like hoyden and hobble-de-
hoy seeking birds' nests in Milton Dale. She had
begun to care for him without knowing it, but when
he spoke she flouted him so mercilessly that he had
withdrawn at once. The lad had attributed her refusal
to the narrowness of his circumstances, and although
since then his love had increased, he had never noticed
her save in the coldest fashion.

At the curve of the highway where the hawthorns
grow thickest, she paused to reflect. If she continued
walking along the white, dusty road she would have
two miles farther to go ; but if she took a short cut,
which necessitated slipping through hedgerows and
climbing rough, loosely-built limestone walls, she could
reach Hatherton Flat in less than a quarter of an hour.

4 I'll risk et,' she said. ' They're Rafe Paramour's
fields, but he wunna be abaat to-day. I'm welly
sweltered wi' th' heat.'

So she laid the basket on the bank, and crept between
the gnarled trunks. In another minute she was

454 R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

walking leisurely on the bank of a brook, where May-
blobs and ladies' -smocks luxuriated. At the well-head,
where the water leaped from under a block of sandstone,
she turned and made for a gateway that opened to a
field of green wheat, and skirting this she reached the
first high wall.

It was a difficult place to climb, for the ground on
the farther side was on a higher level and the loose
coping overtopped the tallest flower in her hat. But
she was young and agile, and she did not flinch. She
placed the egg-basket on a safe stone and began to
ascend. It was more dangerous than she imagined,
and the scaly limestone crumbled beneat-h her feet.

She had almost reached the top when her heart gave
a great leap, for the wall had begun to rock with her
weight. She had only just time to fling herself on the
soft turf of the higher field when more than three yards
of masonry fell down into the green wheat.

She rose leisurely. Despite her alarm, her flushed
face bore a pleasant look of malice.

' Et'll be a nice job for Rafe to build et up again,'
she said. * Ef et'd bin onybody else's I'ld hev towd
as I'd done et, an' paid for et too, but sin et's his, et'll
part work out my spite.'

Suddenly she gave a little scream of fear, for almost
within touching distance was Rafe Paramour himself,
seated beneath a full-bloomed crab and busily whittling
thatch pegs. He was smiling wryly ; there was some-
thing ogre-like in his aspect.

She caught up the basket, which had escaped any
harm, and ran, but he sprang to his feet and followed
with great strides.

* I heerd what yo' said, Keziah,' he remarked firmly,
* an' I dunna think et were i' a kindly spirit. Haaso-
ever, et's th' custom here for him as pulls daan a wall
to build et up again. An' yo've got to do et.'

She turned and faced him defiantly.

' I wunna ! '

THE GAP IN THE WALL 455

4 But yo' will, for I'll mek yoV

Her colour deepened. ' Yo'll be th' first man as hes
e'er med me do owt I hedna a mind to,' she said.
* Stan' aside an' let me go.'

1 That I shanna. Yo're trespassin' ; dunna yo' see
yon board wi' " Trespassers will be prosecuted " en ?
Well, I'll prosecute yo' by mekin' yo' build the wall up.'

' I'll call aat, an' someone '11 come,' she said, half
tearfully.

4 Call till yo're tired, nob'dy '11 hear. Yo' mun just
buckle to ! '

' Yo're a brute, Rafe Paramour, to tek advantage o'
me i' this way ! I werena browt up to build walls.'

He gazed at her with whimsical tenderness. ' Et'll
be a lesson for yo', Keziah : yo' humbled my pride,
and I'll humble yo'rn. Them big stones go first ; set
to as quick as yo' like.'

For the first time since her refusal of his suit she
looked full into his face. He instantly assumed an
air of great firmness. It had never struck her before
that he was very handsome, but as he stood there with-
out jacket or waistcoat, and with snowy shirt all damp
with perspiration, she became convinced that there was
none in the neighbourhood half so worthy of the name
of man.

She drew off her yellow cotton gloves. There was a
suspicious quivering about her lips ; she did not know
which was nearer — laughing or crying — and her eyes
were sparkling brightly.

' I hate yo',' she murmured. ' Ef I mun do et, I
mun. I doubt et'll murder me ! '

He laughed outright. ' I dunna want that sin on my
conscience,' he said. ' I reckon 111 hev to let yo' off
th' hardest part o' the job. Yo' may pick up th' least
stones, an I'll pick up th' biggest.'

So they began to work in silence. He noticed, with
delight, that the stones she brought were no larger
than apples, and that it took her five minutes to bring

456 R. MURRAY GILCHRTST

each. Neither spoke until the first two rows were
laid.

' Et'll tek us a day at this rate,' Rafe said at last,
c an' et's dinner time now. I've gotten bread, and
cheese an' beer under th' trees. We'll share et.'

4 What 'Id fowk say ef they knew ? ' she whispered.
' I wouldna do et for th' world.'

' Yo' will do et,' he replied, resuming his sternness.
' None'll know fro' me.'

So she was forced to obey. The bread and cheese
stuck in her throat, and she scarcely drank from the
horn. She was soon ready to return to her work, but
he made her remain at his side.

* I always hev a pipe o' bacca after meals,' he said.
' Let's chat abaat owd times. D' yo' reflect me killin'
a hern to get his beard for yo' ? I climbed up th'
biggest tree i' Hassop Park to pick him off th' branch
wheer he'd dropped.'

Keziah sullenly refused to notice his ingratiations.
Soon she rose perforce, and began to collect the stones
again ; this time working more diligently than before.
But somehow, the more she hurried, the more he
lagged, and it was four o'clock before the gap was half*
filled.

She fell a-weeping in earnest. He heard the sound,
and his breath came quickly.

' Keziah, wench,' he said, in a soft voice, ' I think
I've tried yo' enow. Yo' can go, an I'll finish et mysen.'

She took no heed ; but, hastily drying her tears,
brought the stones faster than ever. Seeing that she
was in such deadly earnest, he put on a spurt, and in
two more hours the wall was finished.

Then Keziah took up the basket and began to walk
in the direction of home. She was quite speechless,
and her head hung forward almost limply. He felt
afraid that he had been too hard, and overwhelming
pity swayed into his heart.

THE GAP IN THE WALT. 457

He hurried after her, reaching her side before she

passed through the gateway.

' Keziah,' he cried, ' I ask your pardon.'

She set down the basket and showed him her hands.

The skin was roughened, the finger-tips were bleeding.

The sight made his eyes swim.

* My poor Keziah, wunna yo' forgie me ? '
All the shadow left her face.

* Yo've been a wretch, but I will,' she faltered, s I
wunna pull yo'r walls daan again.'

He came nearer and caught her in his arms,
' I wouldna hev done et ef I hedna looved yo.'
' Et's all reet, Rafe. Yo'll be master, I reckon.'
And she kissed him, and he led her to the road.

A WITCH IN THE PEAK

IT was the evening after old Johnny White's funeral,
and Elizabeth sat by the low fire in the house-place,
wondering how she could manage to exist for the
remainder of her days without him who had never spent
a whole day apart from her since their wedding, fifty
years ago. The bitterness of her spirit was increased
by the knowledge that at the end of the week the little
farm must be sold to pay the money which the dead
man had owed for standing surety for a dishonest
cousin. The original sum had been thirty-five pounds ;
but the lender, Luke Flint, a shoemaker, who was
known as ' the Milton Spider,' from his knack of wrap-
ping a web about such unwary folk as craved aid from
him, had stipulated on an interest of fifty per cent,
until all was repaid. This interest had eaten up all the
profits of the stony acres, and Johnny had died heart-
broken because one year's payment was in arrears.

Elizabeth had dismissed all her neighbours. She
desired to be left in solitude for such short time as she
remained in the house, so that she might recall scenes

Q*

458 R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

of bygone happiness. She was quite alone in the world,
so that there was none save herself to suffer ; but still
the outlook was so depressing that the source of her
tears was dried.

' I can see yo' again, Johnny lad,' she murmured,
1 walkin' wi' me fro' church on aar weddin' morn, as
coomly a man as were i' th' whoal Peak. . . . But yo'
looked just as coomly i' yo'r shroud, wi' all ets pratty
gimpings, tho' yo'r cheeks hed lost theer red, and yo'r
gowd hair were gone as white as snow. Ay lad, ay lad,
I do wish I might hev gone wi' yo' ! When I think o'
all our good life together ; how yo' thowt nowt were
too han'some for me, an' as whate'er I did were th'
reet thing, I'm like to go mad. An' now I'm to be
turned aat o' th' place wheer aar wedlock's bin spent !
Et's hard, et's very hard ! '

As she lamented, the latch of the door was lifted and
the creditor entered. He was a dark, squat man of
middle-age, with a bullet-shaped head and blue, close-
shaven jowls. His arms and legs were unnaturally
long, and his broad shoulders were so much bent as to
suggest deformity. He strode forward to the hearth,
and without invitation plumped down in the arm-chair
which Johnny had always used.

Elizabeth rose in excessive anger. Her thin face
flushed crimson, her toothless lower jaw moved oddly
from side to side.

4 I'll thank yo' to get aat o' that ! ' she cried. * Et's
always bin set in by a honest fellow, an' I canna see
ony other sort use et ! Ef yo' mun sit, sit on th'
sattle.'

He assumed an air of bravado ; but her aspect was
so threatening that he rose sullenly and took the corner
to which she pointed.

' Yo' needna be so haughty, 'Lizbeth White,' he said,
with an unpleasant sneer. ' This spot' 11 be mine soon,
for I'm a-going to buy et, an' happen yo'll coom a-beggin '
to th' door.'

A WITCH IN THE PEAK 459

' I'ld liefer starve nor beg o' yo'. What d'yo' want,
a-coomin' rattin' ? '

' I on'y want to mind yo' as yo' mun tek none o' th'
things aat o' th' place. My papers 'low me to sell all,
an' if yo' touch owt — off yo' go to Derby. '

She cracked her fingers in his face. * I'll be more nor
thankful to get aat o' yo'r debt,' she said. * Et's yo'r
cheatin' simple lads like my John as keeps yo' alive.
Yo're none fit to be 'mongst decent livers. I do b'lieve
as th' law wouldna favour yo'.'

His sallow skin grew white and then purple.

1 Yo' try th' law, 'Lizbeth White, an' yo'll find as et
canna touch me. Yo'r man signed th' agreement to
pay me my money, an' ef he couldna pay et, I were to
be at lib'ty to sell th' lond. Th' lond, say I ? — et esna
lond — nowt but three akkers o' stone an' moss, wi'aat
a real blade o' grass ! Et wunna fetch thretty pun',
an' I'm certain sure as th' furniture esna worth ten.
Yo'll still be soom pun's i' my debt. I reckon yo'll
hev to go to th' Bastille, an' I may mek' up my mind
to losin' some of the good money ! '

' I'd go to th' Bastille forty times ower, sooner nor
be behowden to yo' for owt. But as long as I'm
stopping i' th' haase, I wunna stond yo'r jaw ! Aat
yo' go, yo' brute yo' ! '

She unfastened the door, and held it wide open. It
was a dark night, and the air was heavy with the scent
of withered leaves. The prattle of the spring as it
leaped from the moor-edge to the trough in the paddock
was distinctly audible.

' Yo' owd wretch ! ' he muttered. ' I'll see as yo'
suffer for yo'r brazzenness. Yo' beggar ! When yo'r
a-hoein' taturs i' th' Bastille garden, I'll set th' others
laughin' at yo'.'

He moved leisurely across the floor ; she sharpened
his gait by picking up a besom-stale.

* Whiles I'm mistress here, I'll hev none o' yo'.
John's paid yo' time an' time again. Be off, yo' skin-a-

460 R. MURRAY GILCHRIST

louse ! I beg an' pray God to punish yo' this very
neet. Ef et hadna bin fo yo' theer'ld hev been no
buryin' here for mony a year. I'm none one as es
gi'en to cursin', but yo' deserve whatten yo'll get.'

He slunk out into the darkness. She closed the door
and bolted it carefully, and when the clatter of his
footsteps had died away, she returned to the chair by
the hearth, where a choir of crickets was now singing
cheerfully, and delivered herself to the melancholy satis-
faction of meditating on past joy and present sorrow.

Meanwhile the Spider walked down the lane in some
trepidation, for her violence had unnerved him
strangely.

' I do b'lieve hoo's really a witch,' he said. * Her eyes
brenned that red ! Ef hoo'd lived i' my greet-gran'-
feyther's days hoo'ld hev bin faggotted, sure enow ! '

His mumbling was suddenly cut short by some
terrible thing catching the hinder-part of his waistband
and plucking him up from the ground. When he
recovered his senses in some measure he was on a level
with the tree-tops. His voice rose in a harsh shriek.

1 Help ! All o' yo' help ! Jack-wi'-th' -Iron-Teeth's
gotten howd o' me an's draggin' me to Hell ! '

But as it was late, and the M$ton folk were abed,
none heard. He flew swiftly through the air, his long
arms and legs sprawling frog-like. Once he caught
hold of the thatch of a barn and clung for a moment,
but the rotten wisps came away in his hands. He gave
himself up for lost. The demon was dragging him over
the moor in the direction of the river.

'.0 Lord, forgi'e me, forgi'e me, an' I'll tek' advantage
o' innocent fowk no more. I'll do my best to set things
reet as I've set wrong, ef only Thou' It let me off this
time ! '

He fell with a heavy splash into the marsh of the
Wet Withins. For a long time he lay, half-swooning,
on a tussock of bent-grass. Then, when his strength
returned, he crawled blindly over the heath to the road.

A WITCH IN THE PEAK 461

Instead of making for home, he went straight to
Crosslow Farm and knocked feebly at the door. Eliza-
beth was sleeping in her chair. She had been dreaming
blithely of years of good crops. She rose, drowsily,
and drew back the bolts. In the dim firelight she
looked more like a witch than ever.

' Yo've coom back again ! ' she said sharply. * Be
off ! I wunna hev et said as I let yo' in at this time o'
neet ! '

He was trembling like a paralytic.

' Gi'e me a bit o' paper, 'Lizbeth White,' he stam-
mered, ' an' I'll write a quittance. Yo're a wicked
woman, an' I'll hev nowt more to do wi' yo'. Yo're
on'y fit to bren ! '

* I reckon et's conscience,' she said, as she took
paper and pen and ink from the corner cupboard.
' Write whatever yo' like an5 go to '

' Dunna say thatten, for Lord's sake ! ' he yelled.

He took the paper and wrote : — ' /, Luke Flint, do
hereby forgive Elizabeth White her husband's debt as she
owed me, and I trust as she will bear no further malice.'

Then he hastened from the place, as though it held a
creature accursed.

Two days afterwards he returned to Crosslow, in a
cajoling, lachrymose humour.

' Gi'e me that quittance back again,' he said, with a
painful giggle. ' Yo're an honest woman, I reckon. I
thowt yo' were a witch, but et were a b'loon hook as
picked me up an' carried me to th' wayter-holes.
Soom chaps droppin' advertysements for gin an'
whisky 'Id gone astray an' were try in' to fix on a spot.
Summat hed gone wrong wi' th' machine. Gi'e me et
back, wench ; yo're a reet-dealin' woman, an' I'm sure
yo' wunna do but whatten's just.'

She laid hold of the besom-stale again.

' I'll breek yo'r back ef yo' dunna go,' she cried.
4 Yo' thowt I were a witch, but yo' munna think I'm
a fool ! '

GEEALD WAREE COENISH

1875-1916
THE STOWAWAY

A BOAT was rowing quietly along the shore of the
Sogne Fjord, near its mouth and looking toward the
sea. In its stern sat the owner, holding the tiller,
whilst a boy and a girl, his son and daughter, pulled
at the oars. It was evening, and the mountains on
either side of the Fjord were reflected for miles into
the distance. Far away could be seen the edge of the
open sea, with its strips of low-lying land and islands.
Over these hung a golden haze, the day's last gift.
The man in the stern was a robust and happy-looking
bearded man. His daughter was a typical Norwegian
girl, strong, broad-chested and broad- waisted, with a
healthy, beautiful complexion. His son looked like
an English boy. On the stern of the boat, just behind
where the owner sat, were painted the words * J.
Holloway — Sandener.' The boat quitted the shore,
and made across for the other side, where Sandener
could be seen. It was a little wooden village, close
beside a rushing river ; it possessed a wooden hotel,
and a wooden church and tower. Above it rose the
mountains, with waterfalls streaming down their
shadowy sides. J. Holloway was an important man
in his town, and had a flagstaff in his garden. He
could see his little house and flagstaff, somewhat
separate from the rest, beyond the church tower. His
eye wandered from this to the open sea and the golden
light beyond. In that direction lay England and Hull.
He became meditative. The still waters, the moun-
tains, the sound of the oars, the evening light, and the
occasional talk of the rowers — these things faded from
462

THE STOWAWAY 463

his mind, and he journeyed back into the past, across
the sea to Hull. This was what he remembered.

James Holloway had been out of work for ten weeks.
During this period he had ' eaten nothing,' as we say
of invalids or persons of abstemious- temperament.
He had not drunk as much as usual either ; but he
had drunk more than he had eaten. He had a theory
that beer was as nourishing as bread to a man of his
constitution. It was all a matter of constitution.
Some men grew fat on the drink, others grew thin ;
this was proved in every walk of life. He was one of
those whom it nourished ; and he was grateful to
Nature for this mark of her favour. As he stood this
morning in the road outside the docks at Hull, in the
company of several hundred others of his kind, this
peculiar constitution of his did not mark him out as
being above the general average. The average was
not a high one. The men were waiting to be hired,
standing together in groups. It was six o'clock in the
morning, and drizzling. The circumstances were
depressing, yet there was an air of composure about
the crowd. They sucked their pipes of foul tobacco,
with an early-morning relish ; most of them had had
some breakfast. They spat on the ground with de-
cision, and when they did speak — for the most part
they were silent — they spoke out loud and bold, or
short and sharp, with a jest and an oath. The chins
were bristly throughout. They all shaved once a week.
There was not a collar amongst them, but a great
variety of knotted neckcloths ; and there were great-
coats of some kind or another, procured somehow or
other, on the backs of all. There had been a long period
of slackness in the Docks, and a slump in trade all
through the town. The greater part of the men had
earned next to nothing for two or three months past.
Most of them had wives and families at home. A
specialist in sociology could have passed an interesting

464 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

morning, inquiring how these men and their families
had lived during this period. But the results would
not have worked out on paper. For none of these
men knew how he had lived ; and even their wives
could not have explained the secret. According to all
reasonable statistics, they ought not to have lived at
all. It was a most peculiar state of affairs.

James Holloway was a bachelor ; but he did not
thank his stars for it. He was not* of a grateful mind,
and he was too full of theories. If he had had a wife,
he theorized, she might have picked up a sixpence or
two, now and then, and the children might have got
something out of the church, and after school hours ;
together, he thought, they might have got along better
than he was doing singly. There were men who had
found it so. He had a theory, too, that money was
always money, however many there were to spend it,
and that one and sixpence was always better than a
shilling, whatever the company. This had been proved
again and again to his satisfaction when clubbing
together with his pals.

He waited and waited, with his hands in his great-
coat pockets, now and then jogging his elbows against
his sides. He had lived all his life, twenty-five years,
in Hull, alternately working and loafing, either by
inclination or compulsion. But he had a theory that
his life had not yet really begun. Some day he was
going to do better than he had done so far. That was
quite certain. He never allowed himself for an instant
to believe that the distressed and irregular condition
was a permanent thing. It was merely temporary,
and therefore supportable. He talked and laughed
with two or three others, as. they waited for work.
There was a faint blueness and bitterness, a touch of
solemnity, lingering round the corners of his mouth
and eyes, but scarcely noticeable, owing to the strong
look, of life and sense which animated his countenance,
and those of his friends, as they talked and laughed in

THE STOWAWAY 465

their abrupt, rapid, jerky manner. Discontent ap-
peared chiefly in the filthy adjectives with which every
substantive was heralded.

After several hours of the morning had thus passed,
it became apparent that no more work was to be had
that day. He went off into the town, walking up the
street courageously as if he were in regular employment
and going home to dinner. He spent the middle of the
day as usual ; that is to say, he did not know how he
spent it ; it spent itself. As usual, he was busy with
his thoughts and theories, thinking over his prospects.
He must do something — that was certain. It would
not do to go on living in this way any longer. This
sort of thing must come to an end. It was time he
made a new start, struck out a new life. He had said
the same for years past ; he had said it oftener and
oftener, and now he said it once every ten minutes.
When he was not talking to himself in this way, he was
talking to his pals. They talked of every imaginable
subject under the sun, but they arrived at no fixed
opinions on any. At least the opinions were all fixed,
but they were all conflicting. For instance, all were
agreed that the life they were leading was a dog's life,
not fit for a Christian man, and that something must be
done to better themselves. This was one fixed con-
viction, and its friend and companion was that a man
could not better himself, that there was nothing to do,
and nowhere else to go. Both these opinions were
clear and certain. Again, when politics came up for
discussion, Jim Holloway was convinced that the
Government were not doing their duty to such as him-
self ; that they were allowing the blood and muscle
of the country to be drained away ; that they only
talked, never did anything, and had got their posts
through the influence of society women, and that the
condition of the people in his town was a scandal to
the country. Simultaneously, if properly aroused,
he was always ready to swear by the good old. British

466 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

Constitution, the Flag, the Throne, the Army, Navy,
and the sporting Aristocracy. So, too, with religion,
which was frequently discussed in the lodging-houses
of an evening. He was perfectly convinced that it was
all a humbug, a got- up affair — Noah's Ark and the
Flood and all. The clergy and the bishops did it all
for money. ' Religion was civilization.' This was
the idea of one of the talkers in the lodging-house ; and
he had succeeded in making his meaning clear to all.
God could not be good, if He sent evil and suffering.
The whole thing was a lie ; but civilization needed it.
This was perfectly clear to the unsophisticated reason-
ing of all. Truth had only to be stated to be under-
stood and believed. This was one opinion. The
other was that something good, some fatherly power
or destiny, which understood things, lay at the back
of his life. This was also quite certain. Apart from
the direct knowledge of the fact, it had been proved
again and again. For he would certainly have died
for various reasons, chiefly for lack of nourishment,
long before, if life had not been constantly supplied
him — and so would they all have done. All the middle
of the day he spent outside a public-house, cogitating
these contradictory opinions, but especially about
what he was going to do. For some reason he asked
himself this question to-day with greater frequency
and with more vital emphasis than before. ' Must do
something — this can't go on,' he reiterated. He ran
through all his old rejected schemes again for the
thousandth time — emigration, enlisting, tramping into
the country, going round the town once more.

In the midst of these thoughts, impelled by the cer-
tain conviction that something must be done, he found
himself wandering down the street again. It was
afternoon, and during all the period of the last ten
weeks he had never before felt so empty and cavernous
within. A crowd of people were going into a public
hall, off one of the principal streets. Admission

THE STOWAWAY 467

appeared to be free, and Jim drifted in with them,
pondering on what he was going to do — on what he
had got to do — rather than on what he was doing. He
found himself at a political meeting. The chairman, a
small, fat, smiling gentleman, in a fur coat, was intro-
ducing the speaker. The chairman spoke with dainti-
ness and grace, looking round on his audience and
smiling, and clasping his two little hands together.
He was enjoying himself. Then the speaker began, a
gloomy man. James Holloway followed all that was
said. He seemed to have two minds this afternoon.
With one mind he followed the speaker, and understood
all that he said ; with the other mind he was still
determining that something must be done, that he
must enlist, emigrate, cut his throat, or do something.
The gloomy speaker was getting a little warmer. He
had reached the glories of the Empire, the necessity
for building it up, and doing all in our power to preserve
it, and hand it on to our children. We must even be
prepared to make sacrifices for it. Though in his own
private opinion no sacrifice would be necessary, still
we must be prepared to make sacrifices. James
Holloway, along with the rest of the audience, loudly
indicated his readiness to make a sacrifice. As he
cheered, his mind Number Two was saying that some-
thing must be done, that it could not go on, and that
he must go up again to the paper mills to see if a job
was to be had there.

The speaker was now threatening his audience.
* Was England to become a second-class Power ? ' he
asked them. Before asking that question he had
paused ; and he asked it, not triumphantly, but with
a deadly significance. His voice lowered itself. ' Was
it possible that England might ever become a second-
class Power ? ' He spoke as if alluding to one of those
darker subjects which are not mentioned in polite
society. A third time he repeated the question, in a
grave and awful whisper, ' Was there any one in that

468 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

room who had ever faced the possibility of England' 3
becoming a second-class Power — a Denmark, a Sweden,
or a Norway ? ' James Hollo way felt faint. Then
the speaker recovered himself, and brought out his
emphatic Noes. He passed on once more to Empire,
to Royalty, the Flag, and the Army and Navy, in a
grand peroration. Holloway, who sat at the back
of the room, rose to his feet with many of the audience,
and shouted. As he rose, it seemed to him that he
was indeed rising and rising. For a moment he thought
that his spirit had left the body. Then he realized
that he must be ill ; and immediately fright seized him,
and he turned sick and faint. He made for the door,
and hurried out.

James Holloway had a theory that when a man was
feeling ill and done-up, the best thing he could do was
to go and work. This he had often proved in practice.
He made up his mind on the spot, that he would go and
work. Cost what it might, he would work before night-
fall. He went down to the docks, and slunk along the
wharves unobserved. Come what might, he would
work somewhere, at something. It was the only way
to cure himself. Heaven was propitious. In a quiet
corner, against a lonely wharf, he observed a Norwegian
schooner, unloading small baulks of timber. The baulks
of timber were being thrown out by hand from the hold
of the vessel. Two seamen stood on deck, catching
them as they popped out of the hold, and throwing them
with a clatter on a huge pile that had formed itself on
the wharf. Two other seamen stood on this pile,
throwing the wood slowly about, so as to build and
shape the structure, and allow room for more. James
Holloway slunk alongside this pile of wood. For
some time he watched the men at work. He caught
the eye of one of the seamen, and winked. The big
Norwegian stopped work, and straightened himself
with a S!OWT, pleasant gasp. Jim scrambled on to the
pile, and began to throw the timber towards its farther

THE STOWAWAY 469

end, so as to make room for more in the centre. The
Norwegian smiled, and went on with his own work.
Jim worked away with a will. It was a luxury to put
out his strength again ; and he felt better and better.
Every moment he expected the mate to come and warn
him off. The mate came to the edge of the vessel, and
leaned his arm on the bulwarks, smiling ironically at
Holloway. ' You laike vurk ? ' he said. Holloway
worked away in silence. The mate smiled a deeper
smile. He remained lazily leaning on the bulwarks
for a minute, and then returned to his post above the
hold, catching the timber as it popped out. The vessel
was being unloaded by the crew, without any outside
assistance but this voluntary aid proffered by our
friend. They worked on till late. Holloway ventured
no questions ; but they were evidently working over-
time. Only one thought now occupied his mind.
Would his services be recognized in any form ? His
unchartered work was against the rules of the docks ;
and they had not even asked for it. Yet he augured
well from the mate's impassive look ; they were
evidently in a hurry, as they were working late, and
his work was a gain to them.

Presently the mate made a peculiar sound in his
throat ; and they all stopped work. The mate leaned
again on the bulwarks. The big seaman on the pile
straightened himself once more with the same pleasant
gasp. Slowly they all disappeared into the little fo'c'sle.
Holloway stood on the pile in the gathering dusk,
dismally watching them depart. The mate had now
disappeared in the forward part of the vessel ; and
his last hope was gone. Suddenly the mate's figure
reappeared on deck. He looked at Holloway, and
nodded his head casually towards the fo'c'sle.

Jim Hofloway scrambled on board and, lowering his
head, joined the other seamen in the fo'c'sle, which was
about six feet by eight feet. A beautiful smell greeted
his nostrils, of frizzled onions and potatoes, along with

470 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

tobacco and oil and tar. One of the men was frying a
mess over a little stove. A table in the centre was
prepared for the meal. Hollo way jammed himself
down by the table on a chest, trying to take up as little
room as possible. The three other seamen lay in their
bunks, enjoying the luxury of relief from toil. They
grunted to one another in Norwegian, paying no atten-
tion to Jim. The cook glanced at him and laughed,
as he stirred his pan. The cook could speak English.
8 No work in Hull,' he said, ' very slack, all out of
work.' He smiled affectionately at his onions. Pres-
ently the fry was served up on the table. The seamen
came out of their bunks, and all fell to. Jim Holloway
never enjoyed a meal so much. Two of the hands were
scarcely more than boys. They had fair hair and blue
eyes, and looked fresh and blooming, with enormous
shoulders encased in blue jerseys. On Holloway's
right sat an older man, in a pair of boots reaching
above his knees, which he had not troubled to pull off.
Opposite to him sat the cook. All five of them ate
away with a relish ; a small lamp burned against the
wall, and the smoke of the food went up from the table.
The Norwegians became more talkative as they ate.
Holloway thought that never had he seen four such
pleasant-looking fellows. It was a luxury to him to
rest his eyes on their contented faces. They paid but
little attention to himself, and talked and laughed
quietly to one another. It was a pleasure to hear them
speaking in a foreign tongue, to watch their smiles and
laughs and gestures, without knowing what it was they
were talking about. The fo'c'sle was very warm.
The men got out their tobacco, and began to smoke.
They looked at one another through the smoke, now
talking volubly. The cook began to hum, drumming
his fingers on the table. He hummed louder and
louder, and presently his humming broke into words,
which he sang over to himself. When he reached a
certain point in the song, the others stopped talking

THE STOWAWAY 471

suddenly and joined in. The cook had a pleasant
voice, and he made the most of it. He came out now
with the next verse in style, and the others alt joined
in again at the right moment. The song sounded very
pleasantly and strangely in Holloway's ears ; unlike
anything he had heard before. Opposite him on the
wall was a picture post-card, representing a waterfall
coming down a mountain-side into the sea ; and
Holloway kept his eyes fixed upon it. As the song
rose and fell, Holloway became aware of the country
to which these men belonged. He felt the atmosphere
of the land from which they came ; and it seemed to
make the fo'c'sle fresher and purer. It was a happy
land they belonged to, and one that was dear to them —
a small land far away north, far away from his troubles
in Hull. ' Lucky chaps ! Lucky beggars ! ' he
thought to himself. He spat on the floor. He could
scarcely restrain his emotion and envy. He had never
been outside Hull himself, and yet he felt and under-
stood, and knew that he understood, the sort of
country these men came from. He watched the
Norwegians with closer interest and delight. Another
of the seamen began to sing. One of the boys reached
down a cardboard box from his bunk, and turned over
a few letters, and photographs done up in newspaper.
He took out a photograph of a girl with large eyes
wide apart, and fair hair parted on her forehead, and
plaited down her back. He looked at it fondly and
winked at Holloway. Then he kissed it and held it in
his arm, and smiled at Holloway. Then he replaced
it carefully in the newspaper. Holloway swore to
himself. The cook told him to sing them a song. He
gave them as much as he could remember of the last
music-hall song. His voice was nasal. He hoped
to have made an impression, but, to judge from their
faces, they did not understand his style and tone. At
last he had to clear out. ' Well, good night, mates,
and thank ye kindly — much obliged, I'm sure.' Some-

472 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

what to his surprise they held out their hands ; and ho
shook hands all round. On the dark deck outside, he
paused for a moment, and looked back with a sigh at
the bright, steaming interior of the little fo'c'sle.

Then he slunk along the docks. He had a full belly,
but no money in his pockets. Passing a deserted part
of the wharf, he slipped into a storage shed, and
presently came across an enormous empty packjng-
case, with straw in it, into which he climbed, and
nestled down at the bottom. He felt tired, comfort-
able, and happy ; but he could not sleep. He was
thinking of the Norwegian schooner, and the land she
was bound for. They were off the day after to-morrow,
he had gathered from the cook — lucky fellows.

All in an instant his mind was made up. He would
go with them. Yes, this was what things had been
working towards. He had got to do something, he
must do something. Then he would go to Norway.
His spirits rose wonderfully. Why, of course, it was
just the thing. He would stow himself away some-
where in the hold. But what was he going to do when
he got there ? He cared not a jot. Let them send him
to quod, let them do anything with him ; he wanted to
see that little harbour, and the mountain, and the
young woman whose photograph had been kissed.
What was there to keep him in Hull ? When in doubt,
do something, he said to himself, and fell asleep, and
dreamed of the waterfall and the mountain. In his
ear the music of the Norwegian song kept rising and
falling rhythmically. He sat beside the waterfall, with
his arm round the waist of a young lady.

In the grey of the morning he awoke again. He
remembered his decision of the night before, and felt
doubtful. He was only a fool to think of such a plan.
' Go to Norway, eh ? ' He laughed, and spat into the
straw in which he lay. He lay there thinking for some
time. Then he scrambled out and sloped along the
wharf. It was drizzling, and just getting light.

THE STOWAWAY 473

Jim Holloway had a theory that no man could fight
against Destiny. This had been proved again and
again in his life. He had often thought of getting
married, of finding a nice girl who would do him good ;
and he had remained a bachelor. That was Destiny.
He had often thought of leaving Hull and making a
fresh start somewhere else, making the most of himself,
earning the respect of his fellow-men, and a regular
wage ; but he had remained at Hull, in irregular em-
ployment, or out of employment. This was Destiny.
He was always on the look-out for Destiny. His great-
coat had come to him by Destiny. He had found it
hanging on a paling. Destiny had ruled his life.
Destiny now carried him up to the town. It first of
all pawned his overcoat, and bought him two loaves
of bread, some cheese, and a large stone bottle of water.
It acted with infinite caution, and waited two days
and a night. It rested his mind, and healed the pain
of the last many weeks. It bade good-bye to Hull,
and the drizzle, and the dreary tramp from dockyard
to dockyard, and from one mill to another. He spent
most of the day outside his usual pub. ' Now what
should make me think of going to Norway ? J he kept
saying to himself. And then he laughed to himself.
He discussed a variety of themes, as usual, with a
choice company outside the public -house. He felt
his eyes twinkling as he spoke, and he kept smiling.
He was wondering what they would say, if he told them
he was going to Norway ? Who could tell ? It was
just pure Destiny. He had seen it last night in the
fo'c'sle, and it was a place which would suit him, it
was a place which was meant for him. This day and
the next, as he waited for his schooner to be loaded up,
and ready to start, were the happiest of his life so far.
He was at last going to do something. For ten years
past he had felt that Destiny was on its way ; it was
coming, and something would happen. Now he knew
it had come. He smiled benevolently on his poor

474 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

companions. He took the lead in the conversation.
He was full of confidence and cheerfulness ; and the
spirits of his companions rose, they knew not why.
Jim Holloway was conscious again of his two minds.
With one mind he talked and jested and swore with
his pals ; with the other he knew that Destiny was at
work, that a new life had begun. With one mind he
talked sound sense and reason to his companions ; with
the other he cognized a project, the meaning and sense
of which he knew it was impossible for him to explain
to any mortal man. But the knowledge of this only
made him happier. He thrust his hands deep down in
his breeches pockets. Yes, he was going away, going
away the following night — where to he did not know,
what to do he did not care — but he was going some-
where, and Destiny was taking him there.

He kept an eye on the schooner, until the loading-up
for the home journey was completed. That night he
went down to the docks about midnight. He had
not the slightest doubt that he should be successful
in stowing himself away. He had no difficulty in
getting on to the wharves, and soon found his little
schooner. There she lay, with her old-fashioned spars
and rigging visible against the sky. Sure enough, he
had nothing to do but drop quietly on board, and slip
down into the hold. It was all as easy as possible.
He met no policeman or dock-watcher anywhere on
the wharves. A miscellaneous cargo had been shipped
in the hold. Jim looked about for a comfortable
corner. Doubts kept drifting across his mind. He
was afraid, now and then, that he had perhaps gone
off his head in doing such a senseless thing ; but this
doubt troubled him very little. He had a theory that
when a man thought one thing, the opposite was usually
the truth ; and this comforted him. He groped about
with circumspection in the hold, cautiously lighting
matches until he found a snug little corner right down
in the cargo, where he could stow himself comfortably.

THE STOWAWAY 475

There was even a shelf for his bottle of water, his two
loaves, and his bit of cheese. He felt neither hungry,
tired, nor thirsty, but perfectly normal. He curled
himself up, with a sigh of satisfaction, and was soon
fast asleep.

Bang, bump. ... It was morning, and more cargo
was being swung down into the hold. Jim had
climbed down into the hold by the forward hatch, and
he had scrambled aft. The stern hatch had been
closed down, and he had had an idea that it was closed
for good. Now to his surprise the light shone ; it had
been opened again. He heard the rattle of the steam
crane, and big boxes began to swing down above him.
Jim sat still, his heart in his mouth. Bump came a
large case of several tons weight right above his head,
entirely closing the aperture at the bottom of which he
sat. He was shut in a trap. For a moment his head
swam, and he thought of shouting and disclosing him-
self. But in another moment Destiny presented itself
to his reason. He was acting under compulsion ; this
was only a friendly joke on the part of his guide. All
was yet well — though pitch dark. He lay comfortably
and quietly, penned in his little cabin. As soon as the
hatch overhead was closed, and all sounds had ceased,
he tried the strength of his prison walls. The cleft in
the cargo which formed his prison was about four feet
high and three wide. Consequently he could get his
back against its roof, and use the whole strength of his
body to lift. He put his hands on his knees, and put
out his strength little by little. So great was the pur-
chase that it seemed to him that nothing could possibly
resist him. Yet the case never budged. It weighed
tons. Again he put out the whole strength of his body.
Its force appeared to him tremendous, but it was of
no avail. Well, he had his bottle of water and his two
loaves, and they would not be many days crossing the
sea — then all would be well. He had tobacco with
him, and lit his pipe and made himself comfortable.

476 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

Presently he knew they were moving ; and before long
they were out at sea. The ship was tossing and rolling ;
he could hear the waves crunching against her sides,
and rushing past them. It never occurred to him to
be sea-sick, as his thoughts were busy. He had become
happy again, now that they were off, as he smoked his
pipe in the dark. It was madness from beginning to
end, and he knew it ; but that was just the point. He
could never have settled on such an expedition as this
for himself — it had all been done for him. He had
been waiting for years and years, and now his time had
come. To think that Destiny should have taken him
in hand like this, singled him out from his companions,
and sent him on a voyage of faith. It was glorious.
Of course it was all nonsense. What possible use was
there in his going to Norway ? What in the name of
fortune was he going to do when he got there ? What
the devil had ever suggested it ? But it was just
these arguments which proved the presence of Destiny.
For, in spite of them all, he was going.

In the midst of these thoughts he fell into a happy
sleep ; then he awoke and thought, then he slept
again. Time passed. Between sleeping and waking,
and thinking and sleeping again, days passed by. It
seemed to him that weeks, even months had passed ;
but he decided that it was not more than a few days.
Still, they must be already somewhere near Norway,
he thought. So far, he had eaten and drunk nothing.
He was saving his provisions up in case of bad weather
and delays ; and he had felt no need of them, lying
there sleeping. On waking from a nap some days
before, as the time had seemed to him, he had felt
hungry, and a trifle thirsty. But he had resisted the
temptation to eat and drink ; and it had passed away
again. Such a long while had passed since then,
without his taking anything, that he began to look upon
himself as a sort of fasting man. He had a theory
that sleep was as good as food and drink, and he was

THE STOWAWAY 477

proving it up to the hilt. Now, however, the time
had come, he thought, to take a little food and drink.
He began with a bit of bread, but found he could not
eat it till he had drunk some water* He took a re-
freshing gulp, and applied himself to the bread. But
he could not get on with it ; it seemed to- stick in his
throat. He took a little more water, not enough to
satisfy him. He lay down and slept again, and awoke
feeling thirsty. He then recollected a theory of his
that, in the treatment of appetites, half measures were
no use, and it was best to satisfy them fully, and so let
them be. So he had a real good drink, wiped his mouth
and corked up the stone bottle. Five minutes after-
wards he felt thirsty again. This time he had to deny
himself, but he could not sleep for thinking of the water
in the bottle. He was also puzzled by this feeling of
thirst. He could not make it out. He had drunk a
good half-pint or more, enough to last a man who was
not working, but just lying idle, as long as you like.
Why should he feel thirsty again at once ? The right
plan, the normal plan was, to quench his thirst, and
then go comfortably for twenty-four hours without any
more drink* So he took another pull at the bottle, to
make sure that the thirst was satisfied, and laid him-
self down to sleep. In three minutes he was thirsty
again. He saw now that he had a battle to fight, that
an enemy had risen up against him. He could sleep
no more, because this enemy grew. When he did drop
off into a doze, the enemy took new and strange
shapes. It was better to fight it waking than sleeping.
It was not thirst merely that he suffered from, but
fear.

Fear laid hold of him more and more ; an unknown
horror of darkness lay before him. He had never been
afraid of death. Death at this moment, in the open
air and with his thirst quenched, would have been
bliss. But death where he was, and with his thirst
unsatisfied. . . . Every now and then he put his lips

478 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

to the stone bottle, and enjoyed a few moments of
exquisite pleasure. The thirst was momentarily
relieved ; but the fear remained, and soon the suffering
came back again. At last the water was all gone.
His whole being became absorbed in one awful want.
The very objects of his consciousness — the darkness,
the walls of his prison, the empty bottle, the remains
of the bread and cheese, his own body — these things
ceased to be themselves, and became one unspeakable
thirst. He began to shout at the top o& his voice. He
put his back to the roof of his prison, and strained
against it with his whole force. He shouted and
shouted for days, it seemed to him. A raging madness
took possession of him ; he flung himself about his
prison, then he lay and wept and sobbed, sucking the
salt tears into his mouth with his dry tongue. Then
he cursed God, Creation, and Destiny, with every foul
word known in Hull.

Sometimes there would come a lull in these par-
oxysms. Whilst lying in one of these calmer moments,
half senseless, he suddenly noticed that the ship was
steadier. The deafening sound of plunging and surging
had given place to a loud cackling, as she rippled through
quieter water. A wild hope sprang up in his breast.
They must be reaching Norway. He had been weeks
and weeks in his prison ; and the end of the journey must
be close at hand. For a time his sufferings vanished,
swallowed up by hope. Every moment he expected
to hear even the ripple cease, and to reach the stillness
of the harbour side. Hour after hour the water
cackled loudly past the ship's sides. He shouted
again and again ; but his voice was still drowned and
powerless to carry. How many more hours of anguish
before they reached the port ? Time, as it passed,
brought its inexorable answer. There was no end to
the journey, there never would be any end to it. He
would go mad and die long before the end ever came.
The cackle of the stiller waters sounded everlastingly

THE STOWAWAY 479

in his ears, and yet they never got to the shore. The
ship was evidently moving, so there must be some
breeze outside ; yet the waves no longer rocked her,
they only splashed and rippled round her. He argued
and argued as to the meaning of this. Gradually hope
gave way again to madness and despair. He went
off his head once more, and raged about within his
little tomb. Once more he found himself calm. It
seemed to him that he awoke from a state of uncon-
sciousness. The waters were still talking round the
ship's sides, in the same loud and senseless manner.
He found his mind strangely clear, and saw things in
the light of reason. He had been a fool and a madman.
It was all a lie, that nonsense about Destiny — all day-
dreams. This was the real truth ; this was his awaken-
ing to the facts of life. He had always refused to face
the truth, liked to live in a little world of his own
imagination, and this was the end of it ... this was
the real truth . . . darkness and suffering, awful
suffering. . . . ' People would never believe what
suffering is,' he thought, ' they would never believe
it, not if you was to tell them, till you was black in
the face, they could not believe it ... it's worse
than what anybody understands. . . . And this is
truth, this is God's blessed truth. I believed a
fairy-tale, and I've got what I deserve.' He began
to shout and scream once more ; and then he fell
by degrees into a state of coma.

As he lay unconscious, the ship came into port, after
a long journey up the land-locked coast of Norway.
Half an hour afterwards, he came to his senses again.
All was still around him. For a while he thought that
he was dead. Then he heard a sound overhead, and
a crack of light appeared in the roof of his prison.
4 Help, help ! ' he shouted, in a strong triumphant
voice. Joy overpowered him, and quenched his thirst.
Even in his excitement he noticed that his thirst was
gone for the moment. He heard men walking above

480 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

him, and he shouted again, strongly and joyfully.
The case above began to shift, and in a moment he was
out of his hole. ' Water ! ' he cried, and scrambled
on deck. He was struck blind by the light, and held
out his hands, crying — ' Water 1 ' They brought him
water and he drank, checking his greed with all his
might. He did not wish to drown his life, now that
he had just found it. He compelled himself to drink
quietly* He kept his eyes tightly closed as he drank.
An ocean of blinding light surrounded him, as though
he were in the presence of God. His whole being was
absorbed in joy, and intense, almost insufferable light,
as he sipped the water of life. Presently he staggered
to his feet. A hand was stretched out to help him ;
but he put it from him, and reached the bulwarks.
The world began to appear to him, unfolding itself
little by little out of a sea of glory. Overhead he
became aware of a mountain, its sides and summit
steaming with a dazzling mist. Out of a golden haze
on either hand appeared more mountains, and the sea,
or a lake, he knew not which, reflecting one another
into the distance. His vision became stronger and
clearer. Now he saw that the sun was shining, and
that waterfalls were streaming down the mountain-
sides ; he could hear the fresh sound of them in the
distance* The sky was blue overhead. At the foot
of the mountain the corn was growing. The water-
falls dashed down the rocks, and tumbled into the fields,
making rainbows above the corn. He staggered back
again to his can of water, and sat down on the deck,
with his back against the fo'c'sle wall. The seamen
stood around him, smiling. He had his drink ; but
they now acted as bread and meat to him, as he looked
at their tanned faces and stalwart figures, warm in the
sun. He felt very dazed and helpless as he lay on the
deck, and wondered what they would do with him.
Though he had staggered to his feet, he thought he
was too weak to walk. The cook kept talking to him

THE STOWAWAY 481

in broken English. The seamen had not been able
to do anything but smile so far ; but now the cook's
expression became more emphatic.

' What you want ? What you doing here ? What
you come over for ? ' Jim Holloway remembered him-
self. He scrambled on to his feet again. His head
swam, and his knees began to totter. The cook
caught him round the waist, but Jim put his arm aside.
' Just give us a bite of something,' he said, ' and then
I'll go and look for work,' and he gazed up at the moun-
tain overhead, standing firmly without assistance on
the deck. He felt that, whatever happened, he
must not give Destiny away again, but play up to it
manfully. The cook smiled. He bent over the bul-
warks and talked to a girl who stood on the wooden
quay. Then he walked up the ship, talked to the mate,
and came back to Jim, who was leaning on the bulwarks
again, looking at the mountain. ' You go 'long with
her,' he said, pointing to the girl. Jim stepped on shore
bravely, and walked off with the girl down the sunlit
road. The girl had blue eyes and a softly glowing
complexion, a shawl was tied over her flaxen hair, her
sleeves were white, and she wore a*blue serge skirt.
Jim limped along beside her in his greasy green-black
clothes. All his life at Hull he had never before felt
so like a tramp and a ne'er-do-weel. In his excitement
he kept explaining to her his condition and suffering
in voluble English. They passed up a little stone path,
through the hay fields, crossed a bridge over a rushing
and roaring river, and came to a large substantial
wooden hut. Here Jim was seated at a table, and given
milk and bread and cheese, and a hundred comforts.
His soul was fed with fatness. The mother of the
household and her daughter attended to him, freely
and kindly, and with a roughness which put him at his
ease. He cracked jokes at them, and laughed as he
soaked his bread in the milk and gained strength. The
cook soon turned up from the ship. ' Now you in luck,

228 B

482 GERALD WARRE CORNISH

my friend,' lie said. ' There is the pier building over
there at Sandener, two kilometres, all short of hands,
the men busy, milk the cows in the saeters. You get
work on the pier.' ' I thought so,' said Jim, and a
smile of triumph lit up his face. He was shown some
clean straw in a barn next door, and rolled up for a
ten hours' sleep. Next day he was off early. His
sufferings seemed to have left no effect whatever. He
walked lightly along the coast ; presently he turned
a corner of the bay ; and a small village with a wooden
hotel came in sight. Sure enough, a wooden pier was
being constructed. He walked straight up to a little
wooden office, and applied for work. The manager
could speak English. There was a considerable
colloquy. Jim explained that he had taken a passage
over from Hull in search of work. The manager raised
his eyebrows in astonishment. Jim told a string of
lies in answer to his questions ; he had heard, he said,
in Hull that work was to be found in Sandener. The
manager was baffled. He put back his cap and stared
at the draggled figure. Then he engaged his services
as a pile-driver at eighteen krone a week. Jim had a
hard day's work. Now and then he feared that he was
going to faint. He worked with four Norwegians,
heaving up the ton- weight hammer, and letting it fall
with a bang on to the pile. He marvelled at his own
powers of endurance after his sufferings. What
refreshed him was the thought of Destiny. When he
was on the point of giving in, the thought came to him,
and a sensation of sweetness and happiness stole over
him, renewing his strength.

The steersman came to himself with a start. They
were close to Sandener ; and the boat had entered the
shadow of the mountain. The sound of the oars echoed
louder. He steered towards the wooden pier. On
it stood his wife, smiling and waving. They landed,

THE STOWAWAY 483

made the boat fast for the night, and walked up all
together to the house with the flagstaff. The mountain
rose above his house, grey, vast, and barren in the
gathering gloom. But it brought no chill or vague
foreboding to his breast. For, in spite of his settled
life and prosperity, he still loved Destiny.

Printed in England at the Oxford University Press.

THE

WORLD'S CLASSICS

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October 1921.

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

LIST OF THE SERIES

The figures in parentheses denote the number of the book in the series

Aeschylus. The Seven Plays. Translated by LEWIS CAMPBELL. (117)
Ainsworth (W. Harrison). The Tower of London. (162)
A Kempis (Thomas). Of the Imitation of Christ. (49)
Aristophanes. Frere's translation of the Acharnians, Knights, Birds,

and Frogs. Introduction by W. W. MERRY. (134)
Arnold (Matthew). Poems. Intro, by Sir A. T. QuiLLER-CouCH. (85)
Aurelius (Marcus). Thoughts. Trans. J. JACKSON. (60)
Austen (Jane). Emma. Introduction by E. V. LUCAS. (129)
Bacon. The Advancement of Learning, and the New Atlantis. Intro-
duction by Professor CASE. (93)
Essays. (24)

Barham. The Ingoldsby Legends. (9)
Barrow (Sir John). The Mutiny of the Bounty. Introduction by

Admiral Sir CYPRIAN BRIDGE. (195)
Betham-Edwards (M.). The Lord of the Harvest. Introduction by

FREDERIC HARRISON. (194)

Blackmore (R. D.). Lorna Doone. Intro, by Sir H. WARREN. (171)
Borrow. The Bible in Spain. (75)
Lavengro. (66)
The Romany Rye. (73)
Wild Wales. (224)
Bronte Sisters.

Charlotte Bronte. Jane Eyre, (i)
Shirley. (14)
Villette. (47)

The Professor, and the Poems of Charlotte, Emily, and Anoe
Bronte. Introduction by THEODORE WATTS-DuNTON. (78)
Life of Charlotte Bronte, by E. C. GASKELL. (214)
Emily Bronte. Wuthering Heights. (10)
Anne Bronte. Agnes Grey. (141)

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. (67)

Brown (Dr. John). Horae Subsecivae. Intro, by AUSTIN DOBSON. (118)
Browning (Elizabeth Barrett). Poems : A Selection. (176)
Browning (Robert). Poems and Plays, 1833-1842. (58)

Poems, 1842-1864. (137)

Buckle. The History of Civilization in England. 3 vols. (41, 48, 53)
Bunyan. The Pilgrim's Progress. (12)
Burke. 6 vo!s. Vol. I. General Introduction by Judgre WILLIS and

Preface by F. W. RAFFETY. (71)

Vols. II, IV, V, VI. Prefaces by F. W. RAFFEIY. (81. 112-114)
Vol. III. Preface by F. H. WILLIS. (111)
Correspondence. Selected by H. J. LASKI. (237)

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

List of the Series— continued

Burns. Poems. (34)

Butler. The Analogy of Religion. Ed. W. E. GLADSTONE. (136)

Byron. Poems : A Selection. (180)

Carlyle. On Heroes and Hero- Worship. (62)

Past and Present. Introduction by G. K. CHESTERTON. (153)

Sartor Resartus. (19)

The French Revolution. Intro. C. R. L. FLETCHER. 2 vols. (125, 126)

The Life of John Sterling. Introduction by W. HALE WHITE. (144)
Cervantes. Don Quixote. Translated by C. JERVAS. Intro, and Notes by
J. FiTZMAURICE-KELLY. 2 vols. With a frontispiece. (130,131)
Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales. (76)

Chaucer. The Works of. From the text of Professor SKEAT. 3 vols.
Vol. I (42); Vol. II (56); Vol. Ill, containing the whole of the
Canterbury Tales (76)

Cobbold. Margaret Catch pole. Intro, by CLEMENT SHORTER. (119)
Coleridge. Poems. Introduction by Sir A. T. QuiLLER-CoucH. (99)
Collins (Wilkie). The Woman in White. (226)
Cooper (T. Fenimore). The Last of the Mohicans. (163)
Cowper. Letters. Selected, with Introduction, by E. V. LUCAS. (138)
Darwin. The Origin of Species. With a Note by GRANT ALLEN. (11)
Defoe. Captain Singleton. Intro, by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. (82)

Robinson Crusoe. (17)

De Quincey. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater. (23)
Dickens. Great Expectations. With 6 Illustrations by WARWICK
GOBLE. (128)

Oliver Twist. (8)

Pickwick Papers. With 43 Illustrations by SEYMOUR and 'Pmz\

2 Vols. (I2O, 121)

Tale of Two Cities. (38)

Dufferin (Lord). Letters from High Latitudes. Illustrated. With
Introduction by R. W. MACAN. (158)

Eliot (George). Adam Bede. (63)

Felix Holt. Introduction by VIOLA MEYNELL. (179)

Romola. Introduction by VIOLA MEYNELL. (178)

Scenes of Clerical Life. Introduction by ANNIE MATHESON. (155)

Silas Marner, The Lifted Veil, and Brother Jacob. Introduction by

THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. (80)
The Mill on the Floss. (31)

Emerson. English Traits, and Representative Men. (30)
Essays. First and Second Series. (6)
Nature; and Miscellanies. (236)

English Critical Essays (Nineteenth Century). Selected and edited
by EDMUND D. JONES. (206)

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

List of the Series — continued

English Essays. Chosen and arranged by W. PEACOCK. (32)'
English Essays, 1600-1900 (Book of). Chosen by S. V. MAKOWER

and B. H. BLACKWELL. (172)
English Letters. (Fifteenth to Nineteenth Centuries.) Selected and

edited by M. UUCKITT and H. WRAGG. (192)
English Prose. Chosen and arranged by W. PEACOCK.

Mandeville to Ruskin. (45)

Wycliffe to Clarendon. (219)

Milton to Gray. (220)

Walpole to Lamb. (221)

Landor to Holmes. (222)

Mrs. Gaskell to Henry James. (223)
English Prose: Narrative, Descriptive, and Dramatic. Selected

by H. A. TREBLE. (204)

English Short Stories. (Nineteenth Century.) Introduction by
Prof. HUGH WALKER. (193)

Second Series. (Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.) (228)
English Songs and Ballads. Compiled by T. W. H. CROSLAND. (13)
English Speeches, from Burke to Gladstone. Selected by EDGAR

R. JONES, M.P. (191).

Fielding. Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, &c. Intro. A. DOBSON. (142)
Gait (John). The Entail. Introduction by JOHN AYSCOUGH. (177)
Gaskell (Mrs.). Introductions by CLEMENT SHORTER.

Cousin Phillis, and other Tales, &c. (168)

Cranford, The Cage at Cranford, and The Moorland Cottage, (no)

Lizzie Leigh, The Grey Woman, and other Tales, &c. (175)

Mary Barton. (86)

North and South. (154)

Right at Last, and other Tales, &c. (203)

Round the Sofa. (190)

Ruth. (88)

Sylvia's Lovers. (156)

Wives and Daughters. (157)

Life of Charlotte Bronte. (214)

Gibbon. Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. With Maps. 7 vols.
(35, 44, 5', 55» 64, 69, 74)

Autobiography. Introduction by J. B. BURY. (139)
Goethe. Faust, Part I (with Marlowe's Dr. Faustus). Translated by

JOHN ANSTER. Introduction by Sir A. W. WARD. (135)
Goldsmith. Poems. Introduction and Notes by AUSTIN DOBSON. (123)

The Vicar of Wakefield. (4)

Grant (James). The Captain of the Guard. (159)
Hawthorne. The Scarlet Letter. (26)
Hazlitt. Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. Introduction by Sir A.

QUILLER-COUCH. (205)

Lectures on the English Comic Writers. Introduction by R. BRIMLEY

JOHNSON. (124)
Sketches and Essays. (15)
Spirit of the Age. (57)
Table-Talk. (£)
Wiuterslow (25^

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

List of the Series — continued

Herbert (George). Poems. Introduction by ARTHUR WAUGH. (109)

He nick. Poems. (16)

Holmes (Oliver Wendell). The Autocrat of the Breakfast- Table. (61)

The Poet at the Breakfast-Table. Intro. Sir W. R. NICOLL. (95)

The Professor at the Breakfast-Table. Intro. Sir W. R. NlCOLL. (89)
Homer. Iliad. Translated by Pope. (18)

Odyssey. Translated by Pope. (36)
Hood. Poems, Introduction by WALTER JERROLD. (87)
Home (R. H.). A New Spirit of the Age. Intro. W. JERROLD. (127)
Hume. Essays. (33)
Hunt (Leigh). Essays and Sketches. Intro. R. B. JOHNSON. (115)

The Town. Introduction and Notes by AUSTIN DOBSON. (132)
Irving (Washington). The Conquest of Granada. (150)

The Sketch-Book. Introduction by T. BALSTON. (173)
Jerrold (Douglas). Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures, &c. Intro.
WALTER JERROLD, and 90 Illustrations by KEENE, LEECH, and
DOYLE. (122)
Johnson. Lives of the English Poets. Intro. A. WAUGH. 2 vols.

(83, 84)

Keats. Poems. (7)
Keble. The Christian Year. (181)

Lamb. Essays of Elia, and The Last Essays of Elia. (2)
Landor. Imaginary Conversations. Selected with Introduction by

Prof. E. DE SELINCOURT. (196)
Lesage. Gil Bias. Translated by T. SMOLLETT, with Introduction and

Notes by J. FiTZMAUR ICE-KELLY. 2 vols. (151, 152)
Letters written in War Time. Selected by H. WRAGG. (202)
Longiellow. Evangeline, The Golden Legend, &c. (39)

Hiawatha, Miles Standish, Tales of a Wayside Inn, &c. (174)
Lytton. Harold. With 6 Illustrations by CHARLES BURTON. (165)
Macaulay. Lays of Ancient Rome ; Ivry; The Armada. (27)
Machiavelli. The Prince. Translated by LuiGl Ricci. (43)
Marcus Aurelius. See Aurelius.
Marlowe. Dr. Faustus (with Goethe's Faust, Part I). Introduction by

Sir A. W. WARD. (135)
Marryat Mr. Midshipman Easy. (160)

The King's Own. With 6 Illustrations by WARWICK GOBLE. (164)
Melville (Herman). Moby-Dick. Intro. VIOLA MEYNELL. (225)
Mill (John Stuart). On Liberty, &c. Intro. Mrs. FAWCETT. (170)
Milton. The English Poems. (182)

Montaigne. Essays. Translated by J. FLORIO. 3 vols. (65, 70, 77)
Morris (W.). The Defence of Guene^ere, Jason, &c. (183)
Motley. Rise of the Dutch Republic. 3 vols. (96, 97, 98)

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

List of the Series— continued

Nekrassov. Who can be happy and free in Russia? A Poem. Trans.

by JULIET SOSKICE. (213)
Palgrave. The Golden Treasury. With additional Poems, including

FITZGERALD'S translation of Omar Khayyam. (133)
Peacock (W.). English Prose from Mandeville to Ruskin. (45)
English Prose. 5 vols. : —

Wjcliffe to Clarendon. (219) Walpole to Lamb. (221)

Milton to Gray. (220) Landor to Holmes. (222)

Mrs. Gaskell to Henry James. (223)
Selected English Essays. (32)

Poe (Edgar Allan). Tales of Mystery and Imagination. (21)
Polish Tales. A Selection. Translated by ELSIE C. M. BENECKE and

M. BUSCH. (230)

Porter (Jane). The Scottish Chiefs. (161)
Prescott (W. H.). History of the Conquest of Mexico. Introduction

by Mrs. ALBC-TwEEDiB. 2 vols. (197, 198)
Reid (Mayne). The Rifle Rangers. With 6 Illustrations. (166)

The Scalp Hunters. With 6 Illustrations by A. H. COLLINS. (167)
Reynolds (Sir Joshua). The Discourses, and the Letters to 'The

Idler'. Introduction by AUSTIN DOBSON. (149)
Rossetti (Christina). Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress, and

other Poems. (184)

Rossetti (D. G.). Poems and Translations, 1850-1870. (185)
Ruskin. {Ruskin House Editions^ by arrangement with Messrs. Allen

and Unwin^ Ltd?)

* A Joy for Ever,' and The Two Paths. Illustrated. (147)
Sesame and Lilies, and The Ethics of the Dust. (145)
Time and Tide, and The Crown of Wild Olive. (146)
Unto this Last, and Munera Pulveris. (148)
Scott. Ivanhoe. (29)

Lives of the Novelists. Introduction by AUSTIN DOBSON. (94)
Poems. A Selection. (186)
Selected English Short Dories. (Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries.)

Two Series. (193, 228)

Selected Speeches and Documents on British Colonial Polic}'
(1763-1917). Edited, with Intro., by Professor A. B. Keith,
D.C.L., D.Litt. 2 vols. (215, 216) '
Selected Speeches and Documents on Indian Policy (1756-1921),

Edited, with Introduction, by Prof. A. B. KEITH. (231, 232)
Selected Speeches on British Foreign Policy (1738-1914). Edited

by EDGAR R. JONES, M.P. (201)

Shakespeare. Plays and Poems. With a Preface by A. C. SWINBURNE
and general Introductions to the several plays and poems by
EDWARD DOWDEN, and a Note by T. WATTS-DUNTON on the
special typographical features of this Edition. 9 vols.
Comedies. 3 vols. (100, 101, 102)
Histories and Poems. 3 vols. (103, 104, 105)
Tragedies, 3 vols. (106, 107, 108)

THE WORLD'S CLASSICS

List of the Series— continued

Shakespeare's Contemporaries. Six Plays by BEAUMONT and
FLETCHEK, DEKKER, WEBSTER, and MASSINGER. Edited bv
C. B. WHEELER. (199)

Shakespearean Criticism. A Selection. Ed. D. N. SMITH. (212)

Shelley. Poems. A Selection. (187)

Sheridan. Plays. Introduction by JOSEPH KNIGHT. (79)

Smith (Adam). The Wealth of Nations. 2 vols. (54, 59)

Smith (Alexander). Dreamthorp, with Selections from Last Leaves.
Introduction by Prof. HUGH WALTER. (200)

Smollett. Travels through France and Italy. Intro. T. SECCOMBE. (90)

Sophocles. The Seven Plays. Trans. LEWIS CAMPBELL, (i 16)

Southey (Robert). Letters. Selected, with an Introduction and Notes,
by MAURICE H. FITZGERALD. (169)

Sterne. Tristram Shandy. (40)

Swift. Gulliver's Travels. (20)

Taylor (Meadows). Confessions of a Thug. (207)

Tennyson. Selected Poems. Introduction by Sir H. WARREN. (3)

Thackeray. Book of Snobs, Sketches and Travels in London, &c. (50)
Henry Esmond. (28)
Pendennis. Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE. 2 vols. (91,92)

Thoreau. Walden. Introduction by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. (68)

Tolstoy. Essays and Letters. Translated by AYLMER MAUDE. (46)
Twenty-three Tales. Translated by L. and A. MAUDE. (72)
The Cossacks. Translated by L. and A. MAUDE. (208)
Resurrection. Trans. L. MAUDE, Intro. A. MAUDE. (209)
Anna Karenina. Trans. AYLMER MAUDE. 2 vols. (210,211)
A Confession, and What I Believe. Trans. AYLMER' MAUDE. (229)
War and Peace. 3 vols. f 233-5)

Trollope. The Three Clerks. Intro, by W. TEIGNMOUTH SHORE. (i4o)
The Warden. (217)

Virgil. Translated by DRYDEN. (37)

Virgil. Translated by J. RHOADES. (227)

Watts-Dunton (Theodore). Aylwin. (52),

Wells (Charles). Joseph and his Brethren. With an Introduction by
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE, and a Note on Rossetti and
Charles Wells by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON. (143)

White (Gilbert). The Natural History of Selborne. (22)

Whitman. Leaves of Grass: A Selection. Introduction by E. DB
SELINCOURT. (218)

Whittier. Poems : A Selection. (188)

Wordsworth. Poems: A Selection. (189)

HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW COPENHAGEN

NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN

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