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The Merry Men
By
Robert Louis Stevenson
Contents
CHAPTER
II. WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGH=
T TO
AROS.
CHAPTER
III. LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG B=
AY. =
CHAPTER
V. A MAN OUT OF THE SEA. =
CHAPTER
I. THE PLAIN AND THE STARS.=
CHAPTER
II. THE PARSON'S MARJORY. =
CHAPTER
I. BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK.=
CHAPTER
IV. THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOS=
OPHER. =
CHAPTER
VI. A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION,=
IN
TWO PARTS.
CHAPTER
VII. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF
DESPREZ.
CHAPTER
VIII. THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY.
MY DEAR LADY TAYLOR,
To your name, if I wrote on brass, I could add
nothing; it has been already written higher than I could dream to reach, by=
a
strong and dear hand; and if I now dedicate to you these tales, it is not a=
s the
writer who brings you his work, but as the friend who would remind you of h=
is
affection.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SKERRYVORE, BOURNEMOUTH.
=
Contents
=
The
Merry Men
&=
nbsp;
i. Eilean =
Aros
&=
nbsp;
ii. What the wre=
ck had
brought to Aros
&=
nbsp;
iii. Land and sea in S=
andag
Bay
&=
nbsp;
iv. The gale
&=
nbsp;
v. A man o=
ut of
the sea
Will o' the Mill
Markheim
Thrawn Janet
Olalla
The Treasure of Franchard
&=
nbsp;
i. By the =
dying
Mountebank
&=
nbsp;
ii. Morning tale=
&=
nbsp;
iii. The adoption
&=
nbsp;
iv. The educatio=
n of
the philosopher
&=
nbsp;
v. Treasure
trove
&=
nbsp;
vi. A criminal
investigation, in two parts
&=
nbsp;
vii. The fall of the H=
ouse
of Desprez
&=
nbsp;
viii. The wages of philosophy
=
THE MERRY MEN
=
It was
a beautiful morning in the late July when I set forth on foot for the last =
time
for Aros. A boat had put me a=
shore
the night before at Grisapol; I had such breakfast as the little inn afford=
ed,
and, leaving all my baggage till I had an occasion to come round for it by =
sea,
struck right across the promontory with a cheerful heart.
I was far from being a native of these parts,
springing, as I did, from an unmixed lowland stock. But an uncle of mine, Gordon Darna=
way,
after a poor, rough youth, and some years at sea, had married a young wife =
in
the islands; Mary Maclean she was called, the last of her family; and when =
she
died in giving birth to a daughter, Aros, the sea-girt farm, had remained in
his possession. It brought hi=
m in
nothing but the means of life, as I was well aware; but he was a man whom
ill-fortune had pursued; he feared, cumbered as he was with the young child=
, to
make a fresh adventure upon life; and remained in Aros, biting his nails at
destiny. Years passed over his head in that isolation, and brought neither =
help
nor contentment. Meantime our
family was dying out in the lowlands; there is little luck for any of that
race; and perhaps my father was the luckiest of all, for not only was he on=
e of
the last to die, but he left a son to his name and a little money to support
it. I was a student of Edinbu=
rgh
University, living well enough at my own charges, but without kith or kin; =
when
some news of me found its way to Uncle Gordon on the Ross of Grisapol; and =
he,
as he was a man who held blood thicker than water, wrote to me the day he h=
eard
of my existence, and taught me to count Aros as my home. Thus it was that I came to spend my
vacations in that part of the country, so far from all society and comfort,=
between
the codfish and the moorcocks; and thus it was that now, when I had done wi=
th
my classes, I was returning thither with so light a heart that July day.
The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neith=
er
wide nor high, but as rough as God made it to this day; the deep sea on eit=
her
hand of it, full of rugged isles and reefs most perilous to seamen--all
overlooked from the eastward by some very high cliffs and the great peals of
Ben Kyaw. The Mountain of the Mist, they say the words signify in the Gaeli=
c tongue;
and it is well named. For that
hill-top, which is more than three thousand feet in height, catches all the
clouds that come blowing from the seaward; and, indeed, I used often to thi=
nk
that it must make them for itself; since when all heaven was clear to the s=
ea
level, there would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw. It brought water, too, and was mos=
sy {5}
to the top in consequence. I =
have
seen us sitting in broad sunshine on the Ross, and the rain falling black l=
ike
crape upon the mountain. But =
the wetness
of it made it often appear more beautiful to my eyes; for when the sun stru=
ck
upon the hill sides, there were many wet rocks and watercourses that shone =
like
jewels even as far as Aros, fifteen miles away.
The road that I followed was a cattle-track. It twisted so as nearly to double =
the
length of my journey; it went over rough boulders so that a man had to leap
from one to another, and through soft bottoms where the moss came nearly to=
the
knee. There was no cultivation
anywhere, and not one house in the ten miles from Grisapol to Aros. Houses of course there were--three=
at
least; but they lay so far on the one side or the other that no stranger co=
uld
have found them from the track. A
large part of the Ross is covered with big granite rocks, some of them larg=
er
than a two-roomed house, one beside another, with fern and deep heather in =
between
them where the vipers breed. =
Anyway
the wind was, it was always sea air, as salt as on a ship; the gulls were as
free as moorfowl over all the Ross; and whenever the way rose a little, your
eye would kindle with the brightness of the sea. From the very midst of the land, o=
n a day
of wind and a high spring, I have heard the Roost roaring, like a battle wh=
ere
it runs by Aros, and the great and fearful voices of the breakers that we c=
all
the Merry Men.
Aros itself--Aros Jay, I have heard the natives
call it, and they say it means the House of God--Aros itself was not proper=
ly a
piece of the Ross, nor was it quite an islet. It formed the south-west corner of=
the land,
fitted close to it, and was in one place only separated from the coast by a
little gut of the sea, not forty feet across the narrowest. When the tide w=
as
full, this was clear and still, like a pool on a land river; only there was=
a
difference in the weeds and fishes, and the water itself was green instead =
of
brown; but when the tide went out, in the bottom of the ebb, there was a da=
y or
two in every month when you could pass dryshod from Aros to the mainland. There was some good pasture, where=
my
uncle fed the sheep he lived on; perhaps the feed was better because the gr=
ound
rose higher on the islet than the main level of the Ross, but this I am not
skilled enough to settle. The=
house
was a good one for that country, two storeys high. It looked westward over a bay, wit=
h a
pier hard by for a boat, and from the door you could watch the vapours blow=
ing
on Ben Kyaw.
On all this part of the coast, and especially =
near
Aros, these great granite rocks that I have spoken of go down together in
troops into the sea, like cattle on a summer's day. There they stand, for all the worl=
d like
their neighbours ashore; only the salt water sobbing between them instead of
the quiet earth, and clots of sea-pink blooming on their sides instead of
heather; and the great sea conger to wreathe about the base of them instead=
of
the poisonous viper of the land. On
calm days you can go wandering between them in a boat for hours, echoes
following you about the labyrinth; but when the sea is up, Heaven help the =
man
that hears that cauldron boiling.
Off the south-west end of Aros these blocks are
very many, and much greater in size.
Indeed, they must grow monstrously bigger out to sea, for there must=
be
ten sea miles of open water sown with them as thick as a country place with
houses, some standing thirty feet above the tides, some covered, but all
perilous to ships; so that on a clear, westerly blowing day, I have counted,
from the top of Aros, the great rollers breaking white and heavy over as ma=
ny
as six-and-forty buried reefs. But it
is nearer in shore that the danger is worst; for the tide, here running lik=
e a
mill race, makes a long belt of broken water--a Roost we call it--at the ta=
il
of the land. I have often bee=
n out
there in a dead calm at the slack of the tide; and a strange place it is, w=
ith
the sea swirling and combing up and boiling like the cauldrons of a linn, a=
nd
now and again a little dancing mutter of sound as though the Roost were tal=
king
to itself. But when the tide =
begins
to run again, and above all in heavy weather, there is no man could take a =
boat
within half a mile of it, nor a ship afloat that could either steer or live=
in
such a place. You can hear the roaring of it six miles away. At the seaward end there comes the
strongest of the bubble; and it's here that these big breakers dance
together--the dance of death, it may be called--that have got the name, in
these parts, of the Merry Men. I
have heard it said that they run fifty feet high; but that must be the green
water only, for the spray runs twice as high as that. Whether they got the name from the=
ir movements,
which are swift and antic, or from the shouting they make about the turn of=
the
tide, so that all Aros shakes with it, is more than I can tell.
The truth is, that in a south-westerly wind, t=
hat
part of our archipelago is no better than a trap. If a ship got through the reefs, a=
nd
weathered the Merry Men, it would be to come ashore on the south coast of A=
ros,
in Sandag Bay, where so many dismal things befell our family, as I propose =
to tell. The thought of all these dangers, =
in the
place I knew so long, makes me particularly welcome the works now going for=
ward
to set lights upon the headlands and buoys along the channels of our
iron-bound, inhospitable islands.
The country people had many a story about Aros=
, as
I used to hear from my uncle's man, Rorie, an old servant of the Macleans, =
who
had transferred his services without afterthought on the occasion of the
marriage. There was some tale=
of an
unlucky creature, a sea-kelpie, that dwelt and did business in some fearful
manner of his own among the boiling breakers of the Roost. A mermaid had once met a piper on =
Sandag
beach, and there sang to him a long, bright midsummer's night, so that in t=
he
morning he was found stricken crazy, and from thenceforward, till the day he
died, said only one form of words; what they were in the original Gaelic I =
cannot
tell, but they were thus translated: 'Ah, the sweet singing out of the
sea.' Seals that haunted on t=
hat
coast have been known to speak to man in his own tongue, presaging great
disasters. It was here that a=
certain
saint first landed on his voyage out of Ireland to convert the Hebrideans.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And, indeed, I think he had some c=
laim
to be called saint; for, with the boats of that past age, to make so rough a
passage, and land on such a ticklish coast, was surely not far short of the=
miraculous. It was to him, or to some of his m=
onkish
underlings who had a cell there, that the islet owes its holy and beautiful
name, the House of God.
Among these old wives' stories there was one w=
hich
I was inclined to hear with more credulity. As I was told, in that tempest whi=
ch
scattered the ships of the Invincible Armada over all the north and west of
Scotland, one great vessel came ashore on Aros, and before the eyes of some=
solitary
people on a hill-top, went down in a moment with all hands, her colours fly=
ing
even as she sank. There was s=
ome
likelihood in this tale; for another of that fleet lay sunk on the north si=
de,
twenty miles from Grisapol. I=
t was told,
I thought, with more detail and gravity than its companion stories, and the=
re
was one particularity which went far to convince me of its truth: the name,
that is, of the ship was still remembered, and sounded, in my ears,
Spanishly. The Espirito Santo=
they
called it, a great ship of many decks of guns, laden with treasure and gran=
dees
of Spain, and fierce soldadoes, that now lay fathom deep to all eternity, d=
one
with her wars and voyages, in Sandag bay, upon the west of Aros. No more salvos of ordnance for tha=
t tall
ship, the 'Holy Spirit,' no more fair winds or happy ventures; only to rot
there deep in the sea-tangle and hear the shoutings of the Merry Men as the
tide ran high about the island. It
was a strange thought to me first and last, and only grew stranger as I lea=
rned
the more of Spain, from which she had set sail with so proud a company, and
King Philip, the wealthy king, that sent her on that voyage.
And now I must tell you, as I walked from Gris=
apol
that day, the Espirito Santo was very much in my reflections. I had been favourably remarked by =
our
then Principal in Edinburgh College, that famous writer, Dr. Robertson, and=
by
him had been set to work on some papers of an ancient date to rearrange and
sift of what was worthless; and in one of these, to my great wonder, I foun=
d a
note of this very ship, the Espirito Santo, with her captain's name, and how
she carried a great part of the Spaniard's treasure, and had been lost upon=
the
Ross of Grisapol; but in what particular spot, the wild tribes of that place
and period would give no information to the king's inquiries. Putting one thing with another, and
taking our island tradition together with this note of old King Jamie's
perquisitions after wealth, it had come strongly on my mind that the spot f=
or
which he sought in vain could be no other than the small bay of Sandag on my
uncle's land; and being a fellow of a mechanical turn, I had ever since been
plotting how to weigh that good ship up again with all her ingots, ounces, =
and
doubloons, and bring back our house of Darnaway to its long-forgotten digni=
ty
and wealth.
This was a design of which I soon had reason to
repent. My mind was sharply t=
urned
on different reflections; and since I became the witness of a strange judgm=
ent
of God's, the thought of dead men's treasures has been intolerable to my
conscience. But even at that =
time I
must acquit myself of sordid greed; for if I desired riches, it was not for
their own sake, but for the sake of a person who was dear to my heart--my
uncle's daughter, Mary Ellen. She
had been educated well, and had been a time to school upon the mainland; wh=
ich,
poor girl, she would have been happier without. For Aros was no place for her, wit=
h old
Rorie the servant, and her father, who was one of the unhappiest men in
Scotland, plainly bred up in a country place among Cameronians, long a skip=
per
sailing out of the Clyde about the islands, and now, with infinite disconte=
nt,
managing his sheep and a little 'long shore fishing for the necessary
bread. If it was sometimes we=
ariful
to me, who was there but a month or two, you may fancy what it was to her w=
ho
dwelt in that same desert all the year round, with the sheep and flying
sea-gulls, and the Merry Men singing and dancing in the Roost!
=
It was
half-flood when I got the length of Aros; and there was nothing for it but =
to
stand on the far shore and whistle for Rorie with the boat. I had no need to
repeat the signal. At the fir=
st
sound, Mary was at the door flying a handkerchief by way of answer, and the=
old
long-legged serving-man was shambling down the gravel to the pier. For all his hurry, it took him a l=
ong
while to pull across the bay; and I observed him several times to pause, go
into the stern, and look over curiously into the wake. As he came nearer, he seemed to me=
aged
and haggard, and I thought he avoided my eye. The coble had been repaired, with =
two
new thwarts and several patches of some rare and beautiful foreign wood, th=
e name
of it unknown to me.
'Why, Rorie,' said I, as we began the return
voyage, 'this is fine wood. How came you by that?'
'It will be hard to cheesel,' Rorie opined
reluctantly; and just then, dropping the oars, he made another of those div=
es
into the stern which I had remarked as he came across to fetch me, and, lea=
ning
his hand on my shoulder, stared with an awful look into the waters of the b=
ay.
'What is wrong?' I asked, a good deal startled=
.
'It will be a great feesh,' said the old man,
returning to his oars; and nothing more could I get out of him, but strange
glances and an ominous nodding of the head. In spite of myself, I was infected=
with
a measure of uneasiness; I turned also, and studied the wake. The water was still and transparen=
t,
but, out here in the middle of the bay, exceeding deep. For some time I cou=
ld
see naught; but at last it did seem to me as if something dark--a great fis=
h,
or perhaps only a shadow--followed studiously in the track of the moving
coble. And then I remembered =
one of
Rorie's superstitions: how in a ferry in Morven, in some great, exterminati=
ng
feud among the clans; a fish, the like of it unknown in all our waters,
followed for some years the passage of the ferry-boat, until no man dared to
make the crossing.
'He will be waiting for the right man,' said
Rorie.
Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the br=
ae
and into the house of Aros. O=
utside
and inside there were many changes.
The garden was fenced with the same wood that I had noted in the boa=
t;
there were chairs in the kitchen covered with strange brocade; curtains of
brocade hung from the window; a clock stood silent on the dresser; a lamp of
brass was swinging from the roof; the table was set for dinner with the fin=
est
of linen and silver; and all these new riches were displayed in the plain o=
ld
kitchen that I knew so well, with the high-backed settle, and the stools, a=
nd
the closet bed for Rorie; with the wide chimney the sun shone into, and the=
clear-smouldering
peats; with the pipes on the mantelshelf and the three- cornered spittoons,
filled with sea-shells instead of sand, on the floor; with the bare stone w=
alls
and the bare wooden floor, and the three patchwork rugs that were of yore i=
ts
sole adornment--poor man's patchwork, the like of it unknown in cities, wov=
en
with homespun, and Sunday black, and sea-cloth polished on the bench of
rowing. The room, like the ho=
use,
had been a sort of wonder in that country-side, it was so neat and habitabl=
e;
and to see it now, shamed by these incongruous additions, filled me with
indignation and a kind of anger. In
view of the errand I had come upon to Aros, the feeling was baseless and
unjust; but it burned high, at the first moment, in my heart.
'Mary, girl,' said I, 'this is the place I had
learned to call my home, and I do not know it.'
'It is my home by nature, not by the learning,'
she replied; 'the place I was born and the place I'm like to die in; and I
neither like these changes, nor the way they came, nor that which came with
them. I would have liked bett=
er,
under God's pleasure, they had gone down into the sea, and the Merry Men we=
re
dancing on them now.'
Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the on=
ly
trait that she shared with her father; but the tone with which she uttered
these words was even graver than of custom.
'Ay,' said I, 'I feared it came by wreck, and
that's by death; yet when my father died, I took his goods without remorse.=
'
'Your father died a clean strae death, as the =
folk
say,' said Mary.
'True,' I returned; 'and a wreck is like a
judgment. What was she called=
?'
'They ca'd her the Christ-Anna,' said a voice
behind me; and, turning round, I saw my uncle standing in the doorway.
He was a sour, small, bilious man, with a long
face and very dark eyes; fifty-six years old, sound and active in body, and
with an air somewhat between that of a shepherd and that of a man following=
the
sea. He never laughed, that I
heard; read long at the Bible; prayed much, like the Cameronians he had been
brought up among; and indeed, in many ways, used to remind me of one of the=
hill-preachers
in the killing times before the Revolution. But he never got much comfort, nor=
even,
as I used to think, much guidance, by his piety. He had his black fits when he was =
afraid
of hell; but he had led a rough life, to which he would look back with envy=
, and
was still a rough, cold, gloomy man.
As he came in at the door out of the sunlight,
with his bonnet on his head and a pipe hanging in his button-hole, he seeme=
d,
like Rorie, to have grown older and paler, the lines were deeplier ploughed=
upon
his face, and the whites of his eyes were yellow, like old stained ivory, o=
r the
bones of the dead.
'Ay' he repeated, dwelling upon the first part=
of
the word, 'the Christ- Anna. =
It's
an awfu' name.'
I made him my salutations, and complimented hi=
m upon
his look of health; for I feared he had perhaps been ill.
'I'm in the body,' he replied, ungraciously
enough; 'aye in the body and the sins of the body, like yoursel'. Denner,' he said abruptly to Mary,=
and
then ran on to me: 'They're grand braws, thir that we hae gotten, are they
no? Yon's a bonny knock {15},=
but
it'll no gang; and the napery's by ordnar.=
Bonny, bairnly braws; it's for the like o' them folk sells the peace=
of
God that passeth understanding; it's for the like o' them, an' maybe no even
sae muckle worth, folk daunton God to His face and burn in muckle hell; and
it's for that reason the Scripture ca's them, as I read the passage, the
accursed thing. Mary, ye girz=
ie,'
he interrupted himself to cry with some asperity, 'what for hae ye no put o=
ut
the twa candlesticks?'
'Why should we need them at high noon?' she as=
ked.
But my uncle was not to be turned from his
idea. 'We'll bruik {16} them =
while
we may,' he said; and so two massive candlesticks of wrought silver were ad=
ded
to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough sea- side farm.
'She cam' ashore Februar' 10, about ten at nic=
ht,'
he went on to me. 'There was nae wind, and a sair run o' sea; and she was in
the sook o' the Roost, as I jaloose.
We had seen her a' day, Rorie and me, beating to the wind. She wasnae a handy craft, I'm thin=
king,
that Christ-Anna; for she would neither steer nor stey wi' them. A sair day they had of it; their h=
ands
was never aff the sheets, and it perishin' cauld--ower cauld to snaw; and a=
ye they
would get a bit nip o' wind, and awa' again, to pit the emp'y hope into
them. Eh, man! but they had a=
sair
day for the last o't! He woul=
d have
had a prood, prood heart that won ashore upon the back o' that.'
'And were all lost?' I cried. 'God held them!'
'Wheesht!' he said sternly. 'Nane shall pray for the deid on my
hearth- stane.'
I disclaimed a Popish sense for my ejaculation;
and he seemed to accept my disclaimer with unusual facility, and ran on once
more upon what had evidently become a favourite subject.
'We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an' me, and =
a'
thae braws in the inside of her.
There's a kittle bit, ye see, about Sandag; whiles the sook rins str=
ong
for the Merry Men; an' whiles again, when the tide's makin' hard an' ye can
hear the Roost blawin' at the far-end of Aros, there comes a back-spang of
current straucht into Sandag Bay.
Weel, there's the thing that got the grip on the Christ-Anna. She but to have come in ram-stam a=
n'
stern forrit; for the bows of her are aften under, and the back-side of her=
is
clear at hie-water o' neaps. =
But,
man! the dunt that she cam doon wi' when she struck! Lord save us a'! but it's an unco =
life
to be a sailor--a cauld, wanchancy life.&n=
bsp;
Mony's the gliff I got mysel' in the great deep; and why the Lord sh=
ould
hae made yon unco water is mair than ever I could win to understand. He made the vales and the pastures=
, the bonny
green yaird, the halesome, canty land--
And now they shout and sing to Thee, For Thou hast made them=
glad,
as the Psalms say in the metrical version. No that I would preen my faith to =
that
clink neither; but it's bonny, and easier to mind. "Who go to sea in ships,"=
; they
hae't again--
=
And in Great
waters trading be, Within the deep these m=
en
God's works And H=
is
great wonders see.
Weel, it's easy sayin' sae. Maybe Dauvit wasnae very weel acqu=
ant
wi' the sea. But, troth, if it
wasnae prentit in the Bible, I wad whiles be temp'it to think it wasnae the
Lord, but the muckle, black deil that made the sea. There's naething good comes oot o'=
t but
the fish; an' the spentacle o' God riding on the tempest, to be shure, whilk
would be what Dauvit was likely ettling at. But, man, they were sair wonders t=
hat
God showed to the Christ-Anna--wonders, do I ca' them? Judgments, rather: judgments in th=
e mirk
nicht among the draygons o' the deep.
And their souls--to think o' that--their souls, man, maybe no
prepared! The sea--a muckle y=
ett to
hell!'
I observed, as my uncle spoke, that his voice =
was
unnaturally moved and his manner unwontedly demonstrative. He leaned forward at these last wo=
rds,
for example, and touched me on the knee with his spread fingers, looking up
into my face with a certain pallor, and I could see that his eyes shone wit=
h a
deep-seated fire, and that the lines about his mouth were drawn and tremulo=
us.
Even the entrance of Rorie, and the beginning =
of
our meal, did not detach him from his train of thought beyond a moment. He condescended, indeed, to ask me=
some
questions as to my success at college, but I thought it was with half his m=
ind;
and even in his extempore grace, which was, as usual, long and wandering, I
could find the trace of his preoccupation, praying, as he did, that God wou=
ld
'remember in mercy fower puir, feckless, fiddling, sinful creatures here by
their lee-lane beside the great and dowie waters.'
Soon there came an interchange of speeches bet=
ween
him and Rorie.
'Was it there?' asked my uncle.
'Ou, ay!' said Rorie.
I observed that they both spoke in a manner of
aside, and with some show of embarrassment, and that Mary herself appeared =
to
colour, and looked down on her plate.
Partly to show my knowledge, and so relieve the party from an awkward
strain, partly because I was curious, I pursued the subject.
'You mean the fish?' I asked.
'Whatten fish?' cried my uncle. 'Fish, quo' he! Fish! Your een are fu' o' fatness, man; =
your
heid dozened wi' carnal leir. Fish!
it's a bogle!'
He spoke with great vehemence, as though angry;
and perhaps I was not very willing to be put down so shortly, for young men=
are
disputatious. At least I remember I retorted hotly, crying out upon childis=
h superstitions.
'And ye come frae the College!' sneered Uncle
Gordon. 'Gude kens what they =
learn
folk there; it's no muckle service onyway.=
Do ye think, man, that there's naething in a' yon saut wilderness o'=
a
world oot wast there, wi' the sea grasses growin', an' the sea beasts fecht=
in',
an' the sun glintin' down into it, day by day? Na; the sea's like the land, but f=
earsomer. If there's folk ashore, there's fo=
lk in
the sea--deid they may be, but they're folk whatever; and as for deils, the=
re's
nane that's like the sea deils.
There's no sae muckle harm in the land deils, when a's said and
done. Lang syne, when I was a
callant in the south country, I mind there was an auld, bald bogle in the
Peewie Moss. I got a glisk o'=
him
mysel', sittin' on his hunkers in a hag, as gray's a tombstane. An', troth,=
he
was a fearsome-like taed. But=
he
steered naebody. Nae doobt, i=
f ane
that was a reprobate, ane the Lord hated, had gane by there wi' his sin sti=
ll
upon his stamach, nae doobt the creature would hae lowped upo' the likes o'
him. But there's deils in the=
deep
sea would yoke on a communicant!
Eh, sirs, if ye had gane doon wi' the puir lads in the Christ-Anna, =
ye
would ken by now the mercy o' the seas.&nb=
sp;
If ye had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate the thocht of i=
t as
I do. If ye had but used the een God gave ye, ye would hae learned the wick=
edness
o' that fause, saut, cauld, bullering creature, and of a' that's in it by t=
he
Lord's permission: labsters an' partans, an' sic like, howking in the deid;
muckle, gutsy, blawing whales; an' fish--the hale clan o' them--cauld-wamed,
blind-eed uncanny ferlies. O,
sirs,' he cried, 'the horror--the horror o' the sea!'
We were all somewhat staggered by this outburs=
t;
and the speaker himself, after that last hoarse apostrophe, appeared to sink
gloomily into his own thoughts. But
Rorie, who was greedy of superstitious lore, recalled him to the subject by=
a
question.
'You will not ever have seen a teevil of the s=
ea?'
he asked.
'No clearly,' replied the other. 'I misdoobt if a mere man could se=
e ane clearly
and conteenue in the body. I =
hae
sailed wi' a lad--they ca'd him Sandy Gabart; he saw ane, shure eneueh, an'
shure eneueh it was the end of him.
We were seeven days oot frae the Clyde--a sair wark we had had--gaun
north wi' seeds an' braws an' things for the Macleod. We had got in ower near under the
Cutchull'ns, an' had just gane about by soa, an' were off on a lang tack, we
thocht would maybe hauld as far's Copnahow. I mind the nicht weel; a mune smoo=
red
wi' mist; a fine gaun breeze upon the water, but no steedy; an'--what nane =
o'
us likit to hear--anither wund gurlin' owerheid, amang thae fearsome, auld
stane craigs o' the Cutchull'ns.
Weel, Sandy was forrit wi' the jib sheet; we couldnae see him for the
mains'l, that had just begude to draw, when a' at ance he gied a skirl. I luffed for my life, for I thocht=
we
were ower near Soa; but na, it wasnae that, it was puir Sandy Gabart's deid=
skreigh,
or near hand, for he was deid in half an hour. A't he could tell was that a sea d=
eil,
or sea bogle, or sea spenster, or sic-like, had clum up by the bowsprit, an'
gi'en him ae cauld, uncanny look.
An', or the life was oot o' Sandy's body, we kent weel what the thing
betokened, and why the wund gurled in the taps o' the Cutchull'ns; for doon=
it cam'--a
wund do I ca' it! it was the wund o' the Lord's anger--an' a' that nicht we
foucht like men dementit, and the niest that we kenned we were ashore in Lo=
ch
Uskevagh, an' the cocks were crawin' in Benbecula.'
'It will have been a merman,' Rorie said.
'A merman!' screamed my uncle with immeasurable
scorn. 'Auld wives' clavers!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There's nae sic things as mermen.'=
'But what was the creature like?' I asked.
'What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken what =
like
it was! It had a kind of a he=
id
upon it--man could say nae mair.'
Then Rorie, smarting under the affront, told
several tales of mermen, mermaids, and sea-horses that had come ashore upon=
the
islands and attacked the crews of boats upon the sea; and my uncle, in spit=
e of
his incredulity, listened with uneasy interest.
'Aweel, aweel,' he said, 'it may be sae; I may=
be
wrang; but I find nae word o' mermen in the Scriptures.'
'And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, may=
be,'
objected Rorie, and his argument appeared to carry weight.
When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth
with him to a bank behind the house.
It was a very hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a ripple anywhere upon=
the
sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of sheep and gulls; and perhaps in
consequence of this repose in nature, my kinsman showed himself more ration=
al
and tranquil than before. He =
spoke
evenly and almost cheerfully of my career, with every now and then a refere=
nce to
the lost ship or the treasures it had brought to Aros. For my part, I listened to him in =
a sort
of trance, gazing with all my heart on that remembered scene, and drinking
gladly the sea-air and the smoke of peats that had been lit by Mary.
Perhaps an hour had passed when my uncle, who =
had
all the while been covertly gazing on the surface of the little bay, rose to
his feet and bade me follow his example.&n=
bsp;
Now I should say that the great run of tide at the south-west end of
Aros exercises a perturbing influence round all the coast. In Sandag Bay, to the south, a str=
ong
current runs at certain periods of the flood and ebb respectively; but in t=
his
northern bay--Aros Bay, as it is called--where the house stands and on whic=
h my
uncle was now gazing, the only sign of disturbance is towards the end of the
ebb, and even then it is too slight to be remarkable. When there is any swell, nothing c=
an be
seen at all; but when it is calm, as it often is, there appear certain stra=
nge,
undecipherable marks--sea-runes, as we may name them--on the glassy surface=
of
the bay. The like is common i=
n a thousand
places on the coast; and many a boy must have amused himself as I did, seek=
ing
to read in them some reference to himself or those he loved. It was to these marks that my uncl=
e now
directed my attention, struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance=
.
'Do ye see yon scart upo' the water?' he inqui=
red;
'yon ane wast the gray stane?
Ay? Weel, it'll no be =
like a
letter, wull it?'
'Certainly it is,' I replied. 'I have often remarked it. It is like a C.'
He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed wi=
th
my answer, and then added below his breath: 'Ay, for the Christ-Anna.'
'I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,' s=
aid
I; 'for my name is Charles.'
'And so ye saw't afore?', he ran on, not heedi=
ng
my remark. 'Weel, weel, but t=
hat's
unco strange. Maybe, it's been
there waitin', as a man wad say, through a' the weary ages. Man, but that's awfu'.' And then, breaking off: 'Ye'll no =
see
anither, will ye?' he asked.
'Yes,' said I. 'I see another very plainly, near =
the
Ross side, where the road comes down--an M.'
'An M,' he repeated very low; and then, again
after another pause: 'An' what wad ye make o' that?' he inquired.
'I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,' I
answered, growing somewhat red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I wa=
s on
the threshold of a decisive explanation.
But we were each following his own train of
thought to the exclusion of the other's.&n=
bsp;
My uncle once more paid no attention to my words; only hung his head=
and
held his peace; and I might have been led to fancy that he had not heard me=
, if
his next speech had not contained a kind of echo from my own.
'I would say naething o' thae clavers to Mary,=
' he
observed, and began to walk forward.
There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros
Bay, where walking is easy; and it was along this that I silently followed =
my
silent kinsman. I was perhaps=
a
little disappointed at having lost so good an opportunity to declare my lov=
e;
but I was at the same time far more deeply exercised at the change that had
befallen my uncle. He was nev=
er an
ordinary, never, in the strict sense, an amiable, man; but there was nothin=
g in
even the worst that I had known of him before, to prepare me for so strange=
a
transformation. It was imposs=
ible
to close the eyes against one fact; that he had, as the saying goes, someth=
ing
on his mind; and as I mentally ran over the different words which might be =
represented
by the letter M--misery, mercy, marriage, money, and the like--I was arrest=
ed with
a sort of start by the word murder.
I was still considering the ugly sound and fatal meaning of the word,
when the direction of our walk brought us to a point from which a view was =
to
be had to either side, back towards Aros Bay and homestead, and forward on =
the
ocean, dotted to the north with isles, and lying to the southward blue and =
open
to the sky. There my guide ca=
me to
a halt, and stood staring for awhile on that expanse. Then he turned to me and laid a ha=
nd on
my arm.
'Ye think there's naething there?' he said,
pointing with his pipe; and then cried out aloud, with a kind of exultation:
'I'll tell ye, man! The deid =
are
down there--thick like rattons!'
He turned at once, and, without another word, =
we
retraced our steps to the house of Aros.
I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was =
not
till after supper, and then but for a short while, that I could have a word
with her. I lost no time beat=
ing
about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my mind.
'Mary,' I said, 'I have not come to Aros witho=
ut a
hope. If that should prove we=
ll
founded, we may all leave and go somewhere else, secure of daily bread and
comfort; secure, perhaps, of something far beyond that, which it would seem
extravagant in me to promise. But
there's a hope that lies nearer to my heart than money.' And at that I paused. 'You can guess fine what that is, =
Mary,'
I said. She looked away from =
me in silence,
and that was small encouragement, but I was not to be put off. 'All my days=
I
have thought the world of you,' I continued; 'the time goes on and I think
always the more of you; I could not think to be happy or hearty in my life
without you: you are the apple of my eye.'=
Still she looked away, and said never a word; but I thought I saw th=
at
her hands shook. 'Mary,' I cr=
ied in
fear, 'do ye no like me?'
'O, Charlie man,' she said, 'is this a time to
speak of it? Let me be, a whi=
le;
let me be the way I am; it'll not be you that loses by the waiting!'
I made out by her voice that she was nearly
weeping, and this put me out of any thought but to compose her. 'Mary Ellen,' I said, 'say no more=
; I did
not come to trouble you: your way shall be mine, and your time too; and you
have told me all I wanted. On=
ly
just this one thing more: what ails you?'
She owned it was her father, but would enter i=
nto
no particulars, only shook her head, and said he was not well and not like
himself, and it was a great pity.
She knew nothing of the wreck.
'I havenae been near it,' said she.=
'What for would I go near it, Charlie lad? The poor souls are gone to their a=
ccount
long syne; and I would just have wished they had ta'en their gear with
them--poor souls!'
This was scarcely any great encouragement for =
me
to tell her of the Espirito Santo; yet I did so, and at the very first word=
she
cried out in surprise. 'There=
was a
man at Grisapol,' she said, 'in the month of May--a little, yellow,
black-avised body, they tell me, with gold rings upon his fingers, and a be=
ard;
and he was speiring high and low for that same ship.'
It was towards the end of April that I had been
given these papers to sort out by Dr. Robertson: and it came suddenly back =
upon
my mind that they were thus prepared for a Spanish historian, or a man call=
ing
himself such, who had come with high recommendations to the Principal, on a=
mission
of inquiry as to the dispersion of the great Armada. Putting one thing with another, I
fancied that the visitor 'with the gold rings upon his fingers' might be the
same with Dr. Robertson's historian from Madrid. If that were so, he would be more =
likely
after treasure for himself than information for a learned society. I made up my mind, I should lose n=
o time
over my undertaking; and if the ship lay sunk in Sandag Bay, as perhaps bot=
h he
and I supposed, it should not be for the advantage of this ringed adventure=
r,
but for Mary and myself, and for the good, old, honest, kindly family of the
Darnaways.
=
I was
early afoot next morning; and as soon as I had a bite to eat, set forth upo=
n a
tour of exploration. Somethin=
g in
my heart distinctly told me that I should find the ship of the Armada; and
although I did not give way entirely to such hopeful thoughts, I was still =
very
light in spirits and walked upon air.
Aros is a very rough islet, its surface strewn with great rocks and
shaggy with fernland heather; and my way lay almost north and south across =
the
highest knoll; and though the whole distance was inside of two miles it took
more time and exertion than four upon a level road. Upon the summit, I paused. Although not very high--not three =
hundred
feet, as I think--it yet outtops all the neighbouring lowlands of the Ross,=
and
commands a great view of sea and islands.&=
nbsp;
The sun, which had been up some time, was already hot upon my neck; =
the
air was listless and thundery, although purely clear; away over the north-w=
est,
where the isles lie thickliest congregated, some half-a-dozen small and rag=
ged clouds
hung together in a covey; and the head of Ben Kyaw wore, not merely a few
streamers, but a solid hood of vapour.&nbs=
p;
There was a threat in the weather.&=
nbsp;
The sea, it is true, was smooth like glass: even the Roost was but a
seam on that wide mirror, and the Merry Men no more than caps of foam; but =
to
my eye and ear, so long familiar with these places, the sea also seemed to =
lie
uneasily; a sound of it, like a long sigh, mounted to me where I stood; and,
quiet as it was, the Roost itself appeared to be revolving mischief. For I ought to say that all we dwe=
llers
in these parts attributed, if not prescience, at least a quality of warning=
, to
that strange and dangerous creature of the tides.
I hurried on, then, with the greater speed, and
had soon descended the slope of Aros to the part that we call Sandag Bay. It is a pretty large piece of water
compared with the size of the isle; well sheltered from all but the prevail=
ing
wind; sandy and shoal and bounded by low sand-hills to the west, but to the
eastward lying several fathoms deep along a ledge of rocks. It is upon that side that, at a ce=
rtain
time each flood, the current mentioned by my uncle sets so strong into the =
bay;
a little later, when the Roost begins to work higher, an undertow runs still
more strongly in the reverse direction; and it is the action of this last, =
as I
suppose, that has scoured that part so deep. Nothing is to be seen out of Sanda=
g Bay,
but one small segment of the horizon and, in heavy weather, the breakers fl=
ying
high over a deep sea reef.
From half-way down the hill, I had perceived t=
he
wreck of February last, a brig of considerable tonnage, lying, with her back
broken, high and dry on the east corner of the sands; and I was making dire=
ctly
towards it, and already almost on the margin of the turf, when my eyes were
suddenly arrested by a spot, cleared of fern and heather, and marked by one=
of those
long, low, and almost human-looking mounds that we see so commonly in
graveyards. I stopped like a =
man
shot. Nothing had been said t=
o me of
any dead man or interment on the island; Rorie, Mary, and my uncle had all
equally held their peace; of her at least, I was certain that she must be
ignorant; and yet here, before my eyes, was proof indubitable of the fact.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Here was a grave; and I had to ask
myself, with a chill, what manner of man lay there in his last sleep, await=
ing
the signal of the Lord in that solitary, sea-beat resting-place? My mind supplied no answer but wha=
t I
feared to entertain. Shipwrec=
ked,
at least, he must have been; perhaps, like the old Armada mariners, from so=
me
far and rich land over-sea; or perhaps one of my own race, perishing within
eyesight of the smoke of home. I
stood awhile uncovered by his side, and I could have desired that it had la=
in
in our religion to put up some prayer for that unhappy stranger, or, in the=
old
classic way, outwardly to honour his misfortune. I knew, although his bones lay the=
re, a
part of Aros, till the trumpet sounded, his imperishable soul was forth and=
far
away, among the raptures of the everlasting Sabbath or the pangs of hell; a=
nd yet
my mind misgave me even with a fear, that perhaps he was near me where I st=
ood,
guarding his sepulchre, and lingering on the scene of his unhappy fate.
Certainly it was with a spirit somewhat over-s=
hadowed
that I turned away from the grave to the hardly less melancholy spectacle of
the wreck. Her stem was above=
the
first arc of the flood; she was broken in two a little abaft the
foremast--though indeed she had none, both masts having broken short in her
disaster; and as the pitch of the beach was very sharp and sudden, and the =
bows
lay many feet below the stern, the fracture gaped widely open, and you could
see right through her poor hull upon the farther side. Her name was much defaced, and I c=
ould
not make out clearly whether she was called Christiania, after the Norwegian
city, or Christiana, after the good woman, Christian's wife, in that old bo=
ok the
'Pilgrim's Progress.' By her =
build
she was a foreign ship, but I was not certain of her nationality. She had been painted green, but th=
e colour
was faded and weathered, and the paint peeling off in strips. The wreck of the mainmast lay alon=
gside,
half buried in sand. She was =
a forlorn
sight, indeed, and I could not look without emotion at the bits of rope that
still hung about her, so often handled of yore by shouting seamen; or the
little scuttle where they had passed up and down to their affairs; or that =
poor
noseless angel of a figure-head that had dipped into so many running billow=
s.
I do not know whether it came most from the sh=
ip
or from the grave, but I fell into some melancholy scruples, as I stood the=
re,
leaning with one hand against the battered timbers. The homelessness of men and even o=
f inanimate
vessels, cast away upon strange shores, came strongly in upon my mind. To make a profit of such pitiful
misadventures seemed an unmanly and a sordid act; and I began to think of my
then quest as of something sacrilegious in its nature. But when I remembered Mary, I took=
heart
again. My uncle would never c=
onsent
to an imprudent marriage, nor would she, as I was persuaded, wed without his
full approval. It behoved me,=
then,
to be up and doing for my wife; and I thought with a laugh how long it was
since that great sea-castle, the Espirito Santo, had left her bones in Sand=
ag
Bay, and how weak it would be to consider rights so long extinguished and
misfortunes so long forgotten in the process of time.
I had my theory of where to seek for her
remains. The set of the curre=
nt and
the soundings both pointed to the east side of the bay under the ledge of
rocks. If she had been lost in
Sandag Bay, and if, after these centuries, any portion of her held together=
, it
was there that I should find it.
The water deepens, as I have said, with great rapidity, and even clo=
se
along-side the rocks several fathoms may be found. As I walked upon the edge I could =
see
far and wide over the sandy bottom of the bay; the sun shone clear and green
and steady in the deeps; the bay seemed rather like a great transparent cry=
stal,
as one sees them in a lapidary's shop; there was naught to show that it was
water but an internal trembling, a hovering within of sun-glints and netted
shadows, and now and then a faint lap and a dying bubble round the edge.
I stripped to the skin, and stood on the extre=
me
margin with my hands clasped, irresolute.&=
nbsp;
The bay at that time was utterly quiet; there was no sound but from a
school of porpoises somewhere out of sight behind the point; yet a certain =
fear
withheld me on the threshold of my venture. Sad sea-feelings, scraps of my unc=
le's
superstitions, thoughts of the dead, of the grave, of the old broken ships,
drifted through my mind. But =
the strong
sun upon my shoulders warmed me to the heart, and I stooped forward and plu=
nged
into the sea.
It was all that I could do to catch a trail of=
the
sea-tangle that grew so thickly on the terrace; but once so far anchored I
secured myself by grasping a whole armful of these thick and slimy stalks, =
and,
planting my feet against the edge, I looked around me. On all sides the clear sand stretc=
hed
forth unbroken; it came to the foot of the rocks, scoured into the likeness=
of
an alley in a garden by the action of the tides; and before me, for as far =
as I
could see, nothing was visible but the same many-folded sand upon the
sun-bright bottom of the bay. Yet
the terrace to which I was then holding was as thick with strong sea-growth=
s as
a tuft of heather, and the cliff from which it bulged hung draped below the=
water-line
with brown lianas. In this
complexity of forms, all swaying together in the current, things were hard =
to
be distinguished; and I was still uncertain whether my feet were pressed up=
on
the natural rock or upon the timbers of the Armada treasure-ship, when the
whole tuft of tangle came away in my hand, and in an instant I was on the
surface, and the shores of the bay and the bright water swam before my eyes=
in
a glory of crimson.
I clambered back upon the rocks, and threw the
plant of tangle at my feet.
Something at the same moment rang sharply, like a falling coin. I stooped, and there, sure enough,
crusted with the red rust, there lay an iron shoe-buckle. The sight of this poor human relic
thrilled me to the heart, but not with hope nor fear, only with a desolate
melancholy. I held it in my h=
and,
and the thought of its owner appeared before me like the presence of an act=
ual
man. His weather-beaten face,=
his
sailor's hands, his sea-voice hoarse with singing at the capstan, the very =
foot
that had once worn that buckle and trod so much along the swerving decks--t=
he
whole human fact of him, as a creature like myself, with hair and blood and
seeing eyes, haunted me in that sunny, solitary place, not like a spectre, =
but
like some friend whom I had basely injured. Was the great treasure ship indeed=
below
there, with her guns and chain and treasure, as she had sailed from Spain; =
her
decks a garden for the seaweed, her cabin a breeding place for fish, soundl=
ess
but for the dredging water, motionless but for the waving of the tangle upon
her battlements--that old, populous, sea-riding castle, now a reef in Sanda=
g Bay? Or, as I thought it likelier, was =
this a
waif from the disaster of the foreign brig--was this shoe-buckle bought but=
the
other day and worn by a man of my own period in the world's history, hearing
the same news from day to day, thinking the same thoughts, praying, perhaps=
, in
the same temple with myself?
However it was, I was assailed with dreary thoughts; my uncle's word=
s,
'the dead are down there,' echoed in my ears; and though I determined to di=
ve
once more, it was with a strong repugnance that I stepped forward to the ma=
rgin
of the rocks.
A great change passed at that moment over the
appearance of the bay. It was=
no
more that clear, visible interior, like a house roofed with glass, where the
green, submarine sunshine slept so stilly.=
A breeze, I suppose, had flawed the surface, and a sort of trouble a=
nd
blackness filled its bosom, where flashes of light and clouds of shadow tos=
sed confusedly
together. Even the terrace be=
low
obscurely rocked and quivered. It
seemed a graver thing to venture on this place of ambushes; and when I leap=
ed
into the sea the second time it was with a quaking in my soul.
I secured myself as at first, and groped among=
the
waving tangle. All that met my
touch was cold and soft and gluey.
The thicket was alive with crabs and lobsters, trundling to and fro
lopsidedly, and I had to harden my heart against the horror of their carrion
neighbourhood. On all sides I=
could
feel the grain and the clefts of hard, living stone; no planks, no iron, no=
t a
sign of any wreck; the Espirito Santo was not there. I remember I had almost a sense of
relief in my disappointment, and I was about ready to leave go, when someth=
ing
happened that sent me to the surface with my heart in my mouth. I had already stayed somewhat late=
over
my explorations; the current was freshening with the change of the tide, and
Sandag Bay was no longer a safe place for a single swimmer. Well, just at t=
he
last moment there came a sudden flush of current, dredging through the tang=
les
like a wave. I lost one hold,=
was
flung sprawling on my side, and, instinctively grasping for a fresh support=
, my
fingers closed on something hard and cold.=
I think I knew at that moment what it was. At least I instantly left hold of =
the
tangle, leaped for the surface, and clambered out next moment on the friend=
ly
rocks with the bone of a man's leg in my grasp.
Mankind is a material creature, slow to think =
and
dull to perceive connections. The
grave, the wreck of the brig, and the rusty shoe-buckle were surely plain
advertisements. A child might=
have
read their dismal story, and yet it was not until I touched that actual pie=
ce
of mankind that the full horror of the charnel ocean burst upon my spirit.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I laid the bone beside the buckle,
picked up my clothes, and ran as I was along the rocks towards the human
shore. I could not be far eno=
ugh
from the spot; no fortune was vast enough to tempt me back again. The bones of the drowned dead shou=
ld
henceforth roll undisturbed by me, whether on tangle or minted gold. But as soon as I trod the good ear=
th
again, and had covered my nakedness against the sun, I knelt down over agai=
nst
the ruins of the brig, and out of the fulness of my heart prayed long and p=
assionately
for all poor souls upon the sea. A
generous prayer is never presented in vain; the petition may be refused, but
the petitioner is always, I believe, rewarded by some gracious visitation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The horror, at least, was lifted f=
rom my
mind; I could look with calm of spirit on that great bright creature, God's
ocean; and as I set off homeward up the rough sides of Aros, nothing remain=
ed
of my concern beyond a deep determination to meddle no more with the spoils=
of
wrecked vessels or the treasures of the dead.
I was already some way up the hill before I pa=
used
to breathe and look behind me. The
sight that met my eyes was doubly strange.
For, first, the storm that I had foreseen was =
now
advancing with almost tropical rapidity.&n=
bsp;
The whole surface of the sea had been dulled from its conspicuous
brightness to an ugly hue of corrugated lead; already in the distance the w=
hite
waves, the 'skipper's daughters,' had begun to flee before a breeze that was
still insensible on Aros; and already along the curve of Sandag Bay there w=
as a
splashing run of sea that I could hear from where I stood. The change upon the sky was even m=
ore
remarkable. There had begun to arise out of the south-west a huge and solid
continent of scowling cloud; here and there, through rents in its contextur=
e,
the sun still poured a sheaf of spreading rays; and here and there, from al=
l its
edges, vast inky streamers lay forth along the yet unclouded sky. The menace was express and
imminent. Even as I gazed, th=
e sun
was blotted out. At any momen=
t the
tempest might fall upon Aros in its might.
The suddenness of this change of weather so fi=
xed
my eyes on heaven that it was some seconds before they alighted on the bay,
mapped out below my feet, and robbed a moment later of the sun. The knoll which I had just surmoun=
ted
overflanked a little amphitheatre of lower hillocks sloping towards the sea=
, and
beyond that the yellow arc of beach and the whole extent of Sandag Bay. It was a scene on which I had often
looked down, but where I had never before beheld a human figure. I had but just turned my back upon=
it
and left it empty, and my wonder may be fancied when I saw a boat and sever=
al
men in that deserted spot. Th=
e boat
was lying by the rocks. A pai=
r of
fellows, bareheaded, with their sleeves rolled up, and one with a boathook,
kept her with difficulty to her moorings for the current was growing brisker
every moment. A little way of=
f upon
the ledge two men in black clothes, whom I judged to be superior in rank, l=
aid
their heads together over some task which at first I did not understand, bu=
t a
second after I had made it out--they were taking bearings with the compass;=
and
just then I saw one of them unroll a sheet of paper and lay his finger down=
, as
though identifying features in a map.
Meanwhile a third was walking to and fro, polling among the rocks and
peering over the edge into the water.
While I was still watching them with the stupefaction of surprise, my
mind hardly yet able to work on what my eyes reported, this third person
suddenly stooped and summoned his companions with a cry so loud that it rea=
ched
my ears upon the hill. The others ran to him, even dropping the compass in
their hurry, and I could see the bone and the shoe-buckle going from hand to
hand, causing the most unusual gesticulations of surprise and interest. Just then I could hear the seamen =
crying
from the boat, and saw them point westward to that cloud continent which was
ever the more rapidly unfurling its blackness over heaven. The others seemed to consult; but =
the
danger was too pressing to be braved, and they bundled into the boat carryi=
ng
my relies with them, and set forth out of the bay with all speed of oars.
I made no more ado about the matter, but turned
and ran for the house. Whoever these men were, it was fit my uncle should be
instantly informed. It was not then altogether too late in the day for a
descent of the Jacobites; and may be Prince Charlie, whom I knew my uncle to
detest, was one of the three superiors whom I had seen upon the rock. Yet as I ran, leaping from rock to=
rock,
and turned the matter loosely in my mind, this theory grew ever the longer =
the
less welcome to my reason. The
compass, the map, the interest awakened by the buckle, and the conduct of t=
hat
one among the strangers who had looked so often below him in the water, all=
seemed
to point to a different explanation of their presence on that outlying, obs=
cure
islet of the western sea. The
Madrid historian, the search instituted by Dr. Robertson, the bearded stran=
ger
with the rings, my own fruitless search that very morning in the deep water=
of
Sandag Bay, ran together, piece by piece, in my memory, and I made sure tha=
t these
strangers must be Spaniards in quest of ancient treasure and the lost ship =
of
the Armada. But the people li=
ving
in outlying islands, such as Aros, are answerable for their own security; t=
here
is none near by to protect or even to help them; and the presence in such a
spot of a crew of foreign adventurers--poor, greedy, and most likely
lawless--filled me with apprehensions for my uncle's money, and even for the
safety of his daughter. I was=
still
wondering how we were to get rid of them when I came, all breathless, to the
top of Aros. The whole world =
was
shadowed over; only in the extreme east, on a hill of the mainland, one last
gleam of sunshine lingered like a jewel; rain had begun to fall, not heavil=
y, but
in great drops; the sea was rising with each moment, and already a band of
white encircled Aros and the nearer coasts of Grisapol. The boat was still pulling seaward=
, but
I now became aware of what had been hidden from me lower down--a large, hea=
vily
sparred, handsome schooner, lying to at the south end of Aros. Since I had not seen her in the mo=
rning
when I had looked around so closely at the signs of the weather, and upon t=
hese
lone waters where a sail was rarely visible, it was clear she must have lain
last night behind the uninhabited Eilean Gour, and this proved conclusively
that she was manned by strangers to our coast, for that anchorage, though g=
ood
enough to look at, is little better than a trap for ships. With such ignorant sailors upon so=
wild
a coast, the coming gale was not unlikely to bring death upon its wings.
I
found my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs of the weather, with a =
pipe
in his fingers.
'Uncle,' said I, 'there were men ashore at San=
dag
Bay--'
I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only
forgot my words, but even my weariness, so strange was the effect on Uncle
Gordon. He dropped his pipe a=
nd
fell back against the end of the house with his jaw fallen, his eyes starin=
g,
and his long face as white as paper.
We must have looked at one another silently for a quarter of a minut=
e,
before he made answer in this extraordinary fashion: 'Had he a hair kep on?=
'
I knew as well as if I had been there that the=
man
who now lay buried at Sandag had worn a hairy cap, and that he had come ash=
ore
alive. For the first and only=
time
I lost toleration for the man who was my benefactor and the father of the w=
oman
I hoped to call my wife.
'These were living men,' said I, 'perhaps
Jacobites, perhaps the French, perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers come he=
re
to seek the Spanish treasure ship; but, whatever they may be, dangerous at
least to your daughter and my cousin.
As for your own guilty terrors, man, the dead sleeps well where you =
have
laid him. I stood this mornin=
g by
his grave; he will not wake before the trump of doom.'
My kinsman looked upon me, blinking, while I
spoke; then he fixed his eyes for a little on the ground, and pulled his
fingers foolishly; but it was plain that he was past the power of speech.
'Come,' said I. 'You must think for others. You must come up the hill with me,=
and
see this ship.'
He obeyed without a word or a look, following
slowly after my impatient strides.
The spring seemed to have gone out of his body, and he scrambled hea=
vily
up and down the rocks, instead of leaping, as he was wont, from one to
another. Nor could I, for all=
my
cries, induce him to make better haste.&nb=
sp;
Only once he replied to me complainingly, and like one in bodily pai=
n:
'Ay, ay, man, I'm coming.' Lo=
ng
before we had reached the top, I had no other thought for him but pity. If the crime had been monstrous the
punishment was in proportion.
At last we emerged above the sky-line of the h=
ill,
and could see around us. All =
was
black and stormy to the eye; the last gleam of sun had vanished; a wind had
sprung up, not yet high, but gusty and unsteady to the point; the rain, on =
the
other hand, had ceased. Short=
as
was the interval, the sea already ran vastly higher than when I had stood t=
here
last; already it had begun to break over some of the outward reefs, and alr=
eady
it moaned aloud in the sea-caves of Aros.&=
nbsp;
I looked, at first, in vain for the schooner.
'There she is,' I said at last. But her new position, and the cour=
se she
was now lying, puzzled me. 'T=
hey
cannot mean to beat to sea,' I cried.
'That's what they mean,' said my uncle, with
something like joy; and just then the schooner went about and stood upon
another tack, which put the question beyond the reach of doubt. These strangers, seeing a gale on =
hand,
had thought first of sea-room. With
the wind that threatened, in these reef-sown waters and contending against =
so
violent a stream of tide, their course was certain death.
'Good God!' said I, 'they are all lost.'
'Ay,' returned my uncle, 'a'--a' lost. They hadnae a chance but to rin fo=
r Kyle
Dona. The gate they're gaun t=
he
noo, they couldnae win through an the muckle deil were there to pilot
them. Eh, man,' he continued,=
touching
me on the sleeve, 'it's a braw nicht for a shipwreck! Twa in ae twalmonth! Eh, but the Merry Men'll dance bon=
ny!'
I looked at him, and it was then that I began =
to
fancy him no longer in his right mind.&nbs=
p;
He was peering up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his
eyes. All that had passed bet=
ween
us was already forgotten in the prospect of this fresh disaster.
'If it were not too late,' I cried with
indignation, 'I would take the coble and go out to warn them.'
'Na, na,' he protested, 'ye maunnae interfere;=
ye
maunnae meddle wi' the like o' that.
It's His'--doffing his bonnet--'His wull. And, eh, man! but it's a braw nicht
for't!'
Something like fear began to creep into my soul
and, reminding him that I had not yet dined, I proposed we should return to=
the
house. But no; nothing would =
tear
him from his place of outlook.
'I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,' he
explained--and then as the schooner went about a second time, 'Eh, but they
han'le her bonny!' he cried. =
'The
Christ-Anna was naething to this.'
Already the men on board the schooner must have
begun to realise some part, but not yet the twentieth, of the dangers that
environed their doomed ship. =
At
every lull of the capricious wind they must have seen how fast the current
swept them back. Each tack wa=
s made
shorter, as they saw how little it prevailed. Every moment the rising swell began=
to boom
and foam upon another sunken reef; and ever and again a breaker would fall =
in
sounding ruin under the very bows of her, and the brown reef and streaming
tangle appear in the hollow of the wave.&n=
bsp;
I tell you, they had to stand to their tackle: there was no idle men
aboard that ship, God knows. =
It was
upon the progress of a scene so horrible to any human-hearted man that my
misguided uncle now pored and gloated like a connoisseur. As I turned to go down the hill, h=
e was
lying on his belly on the summit, with his hands stretched forth and clutch=
ing
in the heather. He seemed
rejuvenated, mind and body.
When I got back to the house already dismally affected, I was still more sadly downcast at the sight of Mary. She had her sleeves rolled up over= her strong arms, and was quietly making bread.= I got a bannock from the dresser and sat down to eat it in silence.<= o:p>
'Are ye wearied, lad?' she asked after a while=
.
'I am not so much wearied, Mary,' I replied,
getting on my feet, 'as I am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too. You know me well enough to judge me
fairly, say what I like. Well,
Mary, you may be sure of this: you had better be anywhere but here.'
'I'll be sure of one thing,' she returned: 'I'=
ll
be where my duty is.'
'You forget, you have a duty to yourself,' I s=
aid.
'Ay, man?' she replied, pounding at the dough;
'will you have found that in the Bible, now?'
'Mary,' I said solemnly, 'you must not laugh a=
t me
just now. God knows I am in no
heart for laughing. If we cou=
ld get
your father with us, it would be best; but with him or without him, I want =
you
far away from here, my girl; for your own sake, and for mine, ay, and for y=
our
father's too, I want you far--far away from here. I came with other thoughts; I came=
here
as a man comes home; now it is all changed, and I have no desire nor hope b=
ut
to flee--for that's the word--flee, like a bird out of the fowler's snare, =
from
this accursed island.'
She had stopped her work by this time.
'And do you think, now,' said she, 'do you thi=
nk,
now, I have neither eyes nor ears?
Do ye think I havenae broken my heart to have these braws (as he cal=
ls
them, God forgive him!) thrown into the sea? Do ye think I have lived with him,=
day
in, day out, and not seen what you saw in an hour or two? No,' she said, 'I know there's wro=
ng in
it; what wrong, I neither know nor want to know. There was never an ill thing made =
better
by meddling, that I could hear of.
But, my lad, you must never ask me to leave my father. While the breath is in his body, I=
'll be
with him. And he's not long f=
or
here, either: that I can tell you, Charlie--he's not long for here. The mark is on his brow; and better
so--maybe better so.'
I was a while silent, not knowing what to say;=
and
when I roused my head at last to speak, she got before me.
'Charlie,' she said, 'what's right for me, nee=
dnae
be right for you. There's sin upon this house and trouble; you are a strang=
er;
take your things upon your back and go your ways to better places and to be=
tter
folk, and if you were ever minded to come back, though it were twenty years
syne, you would find me aye waiting.'
'Mary Ellen,' I said, 'I asked you to be my wi=
fe,
and you said as good as yes. =
That's
done for good. Wherever you a=
re, I
am; as I shall answer to my God.'
As I said the words, the wind suddenly burst o=
ut
raving, and then seemed to stand still and shudder round the house of
Aros. It was the first squall=
, or
prologue, of the coming tempest, and as we started and looked about us, we
found that a gloom, like the approach of evening, had settled round the hou=
se.
'God pity all poor folks at sea!' she said.
And then she told me, as we sat by the fire and
hearkened to the rising gusts, of how this change had fallen upon my
uncle. All last winter he had=
been
dark and fitful in his mind.
Whenever the Roost ran high, or, as Mary said, whenever the Merry Men
were dancing, he would lie out for hours together on the Head, if it were a=
t night,
or on the top of Aros by day, watching the tumult of the sea, and sweeping =
the
horizon for a sail. After February the tenth, when the wealth-bringing wreck
was cast ashore at Sandag, he had been at first unnaturally gay, and his
excitement had never fallen in degree, but only changed in kind from dark to
darker. He neglected his work=
, and
kept Rorie idle. They two wou=
ld
speak together by the hour at the gable end, in guarded tones and with an a=
ir
of secrecy and almost of guilt; and if she questioned either, as at first s=
he sometimes
did, her inquiries were put aside with confusion. Since Rorie had first remarked the=
fish
that hung about the ferry, his master had never set foot but once upon the
mainland of the Ross. That on=
ce--it
was in the height of the springs--he had passed dryshod while the tide was =
out;
but, having lingered overlong on the far side, found himself cut off from A=
ros
by the returning waters. It w=
as
with a shriek of agony that he had leaped across the gut, and he had reached
home thereafter in a fever- fit of fear.&n=
bsp;
A fear of the sea, a constant haunting thought of the sea, appeared =
in
his talk and devotions, and even in his looks when he was silent.
Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little la=
ter
my uncle appeared, took a bottle under his arm, put some bread in his pocke=
t,
and set forth again to his outlook, followed this time by Rorie. I heard that the schooner was losi=
ng
ground, but the crew were still fighting every inch with hopeless ingenuity=
and
course; and the news filled my mind with blackness.
A little after sundown the full fury of the ga=
le
broke forth, such a gale as I have never seen in summer, nor, seeing how
swiftly it had come, even in winter.
Mary and I sat in silence, the house quaking overhead, the tempest h=
owling
without, the fire between us sputtering with raindrops. Our thoughts were f=
ar
away with the poor fellows on the schooner, or my not less unhappy uncle,
houseless on the promontory; and yet ever and again we were startled back to
ourselves, when the wind would rise and strike the gable like a solid body,=
or
suddenly fall and draw away, so that the fire leaped into flame and our hea=
rts
bounded in our sides. Now the=
storm
in its might would seize and shake the four corners of the roof, roaring li=
ke
Leviathan in anger. Anon, in a
lull, cold eddies of tempest moved shudderingly in the room, lifting the ha=
ir
upon our heads and passing between us as we sat. And again the wind would break for=
th in
a chorus of melancholy sounds, hooting low in the chimney, wailing with
flutelike softness round the house.
It was perhaps eight o'clock when Rorie came in
and pulled me mysteriously to the door.&nb=
sp;
My uncle, it appeared, had frightened even his constant comrade; and
Rorie, uneasy at his extravagance, prayed me to come out and share the
watch. I hastened to do as I =
was
asked; the more readily as, what with fear and horror, and the electrical
tension of the night, I was myself restless and disposed for action. I told Mary to be under no alarm, =
for I
should be a safeguard on her father; and wrapping myself warmly in a plaid,=
I
followed Rorie into the open air.
The night, though we were so little past
midsummer, was as dark as January.
Intervals of a groping twilight alternated with spells of utter blac=
kness;
and it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes in the flying ho=
rror
of the sky. The wind blew the
breath out of a man's nostrils; all heaven seemed to thunder overhead like =
one
huge sail; and when there fell a momentary lull on Aros, we could hear the
gusts dismally sweeping in the distance.&n=
bsp;
Over all the lowlands of the Ross, the wind must have blown as fierc=
e as
on the open sea; and God only knows the uproar that was raging around the h=
ead
of Ben Kyaw. Sheets of mingled
spray and rain were driven in our faces.&n=
bsp;
All round the isle of Aros the surf, with an incessant, hammering
thunder, beat upon the reefs and beaches.&=
nbsp;
Now louder in one place, now lower in another, like the combinations=
of
orchestral music, the constant mass of sound was hardly varied for a
moment. And loud above all th=
is
hurly-burly I could hear the changeful voices of the Roost and the intermit=
tent
roaring of the Merry Men. At =
that
hour, there flashed into my mind the reason of the name that they were
called. For the noise of them
seemed almost mirthful, as it out-topped the other noises of the night; or =
if
not mirthful, yet instinct with a portentous joviality. Nay, and it seemed even human. As when savage men have drunk away=
their
reason, and, discarding speech, bawl together in their madness by the hour;=
so,
to my ears, these deadly breakers shouted by Aros in the night.
Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, R=
orie
and I won every yard of ground with conscious effort. We slipped on the wet sod, we fell=
together
sprawling on the rocks. Bruis=
ed,
drenched, beaten, and breathless, it must have taken us near half an hour to
get from the house down to the Head that overlooks the Roost. There, it seemed, was my uncle's
favourite observatory. Right =
in the
face of it, where the cliff is highest and most sheer, a hump of earth, lik=
e a
parapet, makes a place of shelter from the common winds, where a man may si=
t in
quiet and see the tide and the mad billows contending at his feet. As he might look down from the win=
dow of
a house upon some street disturbance, so, from this post, he looks down upon
the tumbling of the Merry Men. On
such a night, of course, he peers upon a world of blackness, where the wate=
rs wheel
and boil, where the waves joust together with the noise of an explosion, and
the foam towers and vanishes in the twinkling of an eye. Never before had I
seen the Merry Men thus violent.
The fury, height, and transiency of their spoutings was a thing to be
seen and not recounted. High =
over
our heads on the cliff rose their white columns in the darkness; and the sa=
me
instant, like phantoms, they were gone. Sometimes three at a time would thus
aspire and vanish; sometimes a gust took them, and the spray would fall abo=
ut
us, heavy as a wave. And yet =
the
spectacle was rather maddening in its levity than impressive by its force.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Thought was beaten down by the
confounding uproar--a gleeful vacancy possessed the brains of men, a state =
akin
to madness; and I found myself at times following the dance of the Merry Me=
n as
it were a tune upon a jigging instrument.
I first caught sight of my uncle when we were
still some yards away in one of the flying glimpses of twilight that cheque=
red
the pitch darkness of the night. He
was standing up behind the parapet, his head thrown back and the bottle to =
his
mouth. As he put it down, he =
saw
and recognised us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above his head.
'Has he been drinking?' shouted I to Rorie.
'He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws,'
returned Rorie in the same high key, and it was all that I could do to hear
him.
'Then--was he so--in February?' I inquired.
Rorie's 'Ay' was a cause of joy to me. The murder, then, had not sprung i=
n cold
blood from calculation; it was an act of madness no more to be condemned th=
an
to be pardoned. My uncle was a
dangerous madman, if you will, but he was not cruel and base as I had
feared. Yet what a scene for a
carouse, what an incredible vice, was this that the poor man had chosen!
'Eh, Charlie, man, it's grand!' he cried. 'See to them!' he continued, dragg=
ing me
to the edge of the abyss from whence arose that deafening clamour and those
clouds of spray; 'see to them dancin', man! Is that no wicked?'
He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thoug=
ht
it suited with the scene.
'They're yowlin' for thon schooner,' he went o=
n,
his thin, insane voice clearly audible in the shelter of the bank, 'an' she=
's
comin' aye nearer, aye nearer, aye nearer an' nearer an' nearer; an' they
ken't, the folk kens it, they ken wool it's by wi' them. Charlie, lad, they're a' drunk in =
yon
schooner, a' dozened wi' drink.
They were a' drunk in the Christ- Anna, at the hinder end. There's nane could droon at sea wa=
ntin'
the brandy. Hoot awa, what do=
you
ken?' with a sudden blast of anger.
'I tell ye, it cannae be; they droon withoot it. Ha'e,' holding out the bottle, 'ta=
k' a
sowp.'
I was about to refuse, but Rorie touched me as=
if
in warning; and indeed I had already thought better of the movement. I took the bottle, therefore, and =
not
only drank freely myself, but contrived to spill even more as I was doing
so. It was pure spirit, and a=
lmost
strangled me to swallow. My k=
insman
did not observe the loss, but, once more throwing back his head, drained the
remainder to the dregs. Then,=
with
a loud laugh, he cast the bottle forth among the Merry Men, who seemed to l=
eap up,
shouting to receive it.
'Ha'e, bairns!' he cried, 'there's your
han'sel. Ye'll get bonnier no=
r that,
or morning.'
Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and
not two hundred yards away, we heard, at a moment when the wind was silent,=
the
clear note of a human voice.
Instantly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, and the Roost
bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new fury. But we had heard the sound, and we=
knew,
with agony, that this was the doomed ship now close on ruin, and that what =
we
had heard was the voice of her master issuing his last command. Crouching together on the edge, we
waited, straining every sense, for the inevitable end. It was long, however, and to us it
seemed like ages, ere the schooner suddenly appeared for one brief instant,
relieved against a tower of glimmering foam. I still see her reefed mainsail fl=
apping
loose, as the boom fell heavily across the deck; I still see the black outl=
ine
of the hull, and still think I can distinguish the figure of a man stretched
upon the tiller. Yet the whol=
e sight
we had of her passed swifter than lightning; the very wave that disclosed h=
er
fell burying her for ever; the mingled cry of many voices at the point of d=
eath
rose and was quenched in the roaring of the Merry Men. And with that the tragedy was at an
end. The strong ship, with al=
l her
gear, and the lamp perhaps still burning in the cabin, the lives of so many
men, precious surely to others, dear, at least, as heaven to themselves, had
all, in that one moment, gone down into the surging waters. They were gone like a dream. And the wind still ran and shouted=
, and
the senseless waters in the Roost still leaped and tumbled as before.
How long we lay there together, we three,
speechless and motionless, is more than I can tell, but it must have been f=
or
long. At length, one by one, =
and
almost mechanically, we crawled back into the shelter of the bank. As I lay against the parapet, whol=
ly
wretched and not entirely master of my mind, I could hear my kinsman maunde=
ring
to himself in an altered and melancholy mood. Now he would repeat to himself with
maudlin iteration, 'Sic a fecht as they had--sic a sair fecht as they had, =
puir
lads, puir lads!' and anon he would bewail that 'a' the gear was as gude's
tint,' because the ship had gone down among the Merry Men instead of strand=
ing
on the shore; and throughout, the name--the Christ-Anna--would come and go =
in
his divagations, pronounced with shuddering awe. The storm all this time was rapidly
abating. In half an hour the =
wind
had fallen to a breeze, and the change was accompanied or caused by a heavy,
cold, and plumping rain. I mu=
st
then have fallen asleep, and when I came to myself, drenched, stiff, and
unrefreshed, day had already broken, grey, wet, discomfortable day; the wind
blew in faint and shifting capfuls, the tide was out, the Roost was at its
lowest, and only the strong beating surf round all the coasts of Aros remai=
ned
to witness of the furies of the night.
=
Rorie
set out for the house in search of warmth and breakfast; but my uncle was b=
ent
upon examining the shores of Aros, and I felt it a part of duty to accompany
him throughout. He was now do=
cile
and quiet, but tremulous and weak in mind and body; and it was with the
eagerness of a child that he pursued his exploration. He climbed far down upon the rocks=
; on
the beaches, he pursued the retreating breakers. The merest broken plank or rag of
cordage was a treasure in his eyes to be secured at the peril of his life.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> To see him, with weak and stumbling
footsteps, expose himself to the pursuit of the surf, or the snares and
pitfalls of the weedy rock, kept me in a perpetual terror. My arm was ready to support him, m=
y hand
clutched him by the skirt, I helped him to draw his pitiful discoveries bey=
ond
the reach of the returning wave; a nurse accompanying a child of seven would
have had no different experience.
Yet, weakened as he was by the reaction from h=
is
madness of the night before, the passions that smouldered in his nature were
those of a strong man. His te=
rror
of the sea, although conquered for the moment, was still undiminished; had =
the
sea been a lake of living flames, he could not have shrunk more panically f=
rom
its touch; and once, when his foot slipped and he plunged to the midleg int=
o a
pool of water, the shriek that came up out of his soul was like the cry of
death. He sat still for a whi=
le, panting
like a dog, after that; but his desire for the spoils of shipwreck triumphed
once more over his fears; once more he tottered among the curded foam; once
more he crawled upon the rocks among the bursting bubbles; once more his wh=
ole
heart seemed to be set on driftwood, fit, if it was fit for anything, to th=
row
upon the fire. Pleased as he =
was
with what he found, he still incessantly grumbled at his ill-fortune.
'Aros,' he said, 'is no a place for wrecks
ava'--no ava'. A' the years I=
've
dwalt here, this ane maks the second; and the best o' the gear clean tint!'=
'Uncle,' said I, for we were now on a stretch =
of
open sand, where there was nothing to divert his mind, 'I saw you last nigh=
t,
as I never thought to see you--you were drunk.'
'Na, na,' he said, 'no as bad as that. I had been drinking, though. And to tell ye the God's truth, it=
's a
thing I cannae mend. There's =
nae soberer
man than me in my ordnar; but when I hear the wind blaw in my lug, it's my
belief that I gang gyte.'
'You are a religious man,' I replied, 'and thi=
s is
sin'.
'Ou,' he returned, 'if it wasnae sin, I dinnae=
ken
that I would care for't. Ye s=
ee,
man, it's defiance. There's a=
sair
spang o' the auld sin o' the warld in you sea; it's an unchristian business=
at
the best o't; an' whiles when it gets up, an' the wind skreights--the wind =
an'
her are a kind of sib, I'm thinkin'--an' thae Merry Men, the daft callants,=
blawin'
and lauchin', and puir souls in the deid thraws warstlin' the leelang nicht=
wi'
their bit ships--weel, it comes ower me like a glamour. I'm a deil, I
ken't. But I think naething o=
' the
puir sailor lads; I'm wi' the sea, I'm just like ane o' her ain Merry Men.'=
I thought I should touch him in a joint of his
harness. I turned me towards =
the
sea; the surf was running gaily, wave after wave, with their manes blowing
behind them, riding one after another up the beach, towering, curving, fall=
ing
one upon another on the trampled sand. Without, the salt air, the scared gu=
lls,
the widespread army of the sea- chargers, neighing to each other, as they
gathered together to the assault of Aros; and close before us, that line on=
the
flat sands that, with all their number and their fury, they might never pas=
s.
'Thus far shalt thou go,' said I, 'and no
farther.' And then I quoted a=
s solemnly
as I was able a verse that I had often before fitted to the chorus of the
breakers:--
But yet the Lord that is on high, Is mo=
re of
might by far, Than
noise of many waters is, As gr=
eat
sea billows are.
'Ay,' said my kinsinan, 'at the hinder end, the
Lord will triumph; I dinnae misdoobt that.=
But here on earth, even silly men-folk daur Him to His face. It is nae wise; I am nae sayin' th=
at
it's wise; but it's the pride of the eye, and it's the lust o' life, an' it=
's
the wale o' pleesures.'
I said no more, for we had now begun to cross a
neck of land that lay between us and Sandag; and I withheld my last appeal =
to
the man's better reason till we should stand upon the spot associated with =
his
crime. Nor did he pursue the
subject; but he walked beside me with a firmer step. The call that I had ma=
de
upon his mind acted like a stimulant, and I could see that he had forgotten=
his
search for worthless jetsam, in a profound, gloomy, and yet stirring train =
of
thought. In three or four min=
utes
we had topped the brae and begun to go down upon Sandag. The wreck had been roughly handled=
by
the sea; the stem had been spun round and dragged a little lower down; and =
perhaps
the stern had been forced a little higher, for the two parts now lay entire=
ly
separate on the beach. When we came to the grave I stopped, uncovered my he=
ad
in the thick rain, and, looking my kinsman in the face, addressed him.
'A man,' said I, 'was in God's providence suff=
ered
to escape from mortal dangers; he was poor, he was naked, he was wet, he was
weary, he was a stranger; he had every claim upon the bowels of your
compassion; it may be that he was the salt of the earth, holy, helpful, and=
kind;
it may be he was a man laden with iniquities to whom death was the beginnin=
g of
torment. I ask you in the sig=
ht of
heaven: Gordon Darnaway, where is the man for whom Christ died?'
He started visibly at the last words; but there
came no answer, and his face expressed no feeling but a vague alarm.
'You were my father's brother,' I continued; '=
You,
have taught me to count your house as if it were my father's house; and we =
are
both sinful men walking before the Lord among the sins and dangers of this =
life. It is by our evil that God leads u=
s into
good; we sin, I dare not say by His temptation, but I must say with His
consent; and to any but the brutish man his sins are the beginning of
wisdom. God has warned you by=
this crime;
He warns you still by the bloody grave between our feet; and if there shall
follow no repentance, no improvement, no return to Him, what can we look for
but the following of some memorable judgment?'
Even as I spoke the words, the eyes of my uncle
wandered from my face. A chan=
ge fell
upon his looks that cannot be described; his features seemed to dwindle in
size, the colour faded from his cheeks, one hand rose waveringly and pointed
over my shoulder into the distance, and the oft- repeated name fell once mo=
re
from his lips: 'The Christ-Anna!'
I turned; and if I was not appalled to the same
degree, as I return thanks to Heaven that I had not the cause, I was still
startled by the sight that met my eyes.&nb=
sp;
The form of a man stood upright on the cabin- hutch of the wrecked s=
hip;
his back was towards us; he appeared to be scanning the offing with shaded
eyes, and his figure was relieved to its full height, which was plainly very
great, against the sea and sky. I have
said a thousand times that I am not superstitious; but at that moment, with=
my
mind running upon death and sin, the unexplained appearance of a stranger on
that sea-girt, solitary island filled me with a surprise that bordered clos=
e on
terror. It seemed scarce poss=
ible
that any human soul should have come ashore alive in such a sea as had rate=
d last
night along the coasts of Aros; and the only vessel within miles had gone d=
own
before our eyes among the Merry Men.
I was assailed with doubts that made suspense unbearable, and, to put
the matter to the touch at once, stepped forward and hailed the figure like=
a
ship.
He turned about, and I thought he started to
behold us. At this my courage
instantly revived, and I called and signed to him to draw near, and he, on =
his
part, dropped immediately to the sands, and began slowly to approach, with =
many
stops and hesitations. At each
repeated mark of the man's uneasiness I grew the more confident myself; and=
I
advanced another step, encouraging him as I did so with my head and hand. It was plain the castaway had heard
indifferent accounts of our island hospitality; and indeed, about this time,
the people farther north had a sorry reputation.
'Why,' I said, 'the man is black!'
And just at that moment, in a voice that I cou=
ld
scarce have recognised, my kinsman began swearing and praying in a mingled
stream. I looked at him; he h=
ad
fallen on his knees, his face was agonised; at each step of the castaway's =
the
pitch of his voice rose, the volubility of his utterance and the fervour of=
his
language redoubled. I call it
prayer, for it was addressed to God; but surely no such ranting incongruiti=
es were
ever before addressed to the Creator by a creature: surely if prayer can be=
a
sin, this mad harangue was sinful.
I ran to my kinsman, I seized him by the shoulders, I dragged him to=
his
feet.
'Silence, man,' said I, 'respect your God in
words, if not in action. Here, on the very scene of your transgressions, He
sends you an occasion of atonement.
Forward and embrace it; welcome like a father yon creature who comes
trembling to your mercy.'
With that, I tried to force him towards the bl=
ack;
but he felled me to the ground, burst from my grasp, leaving the shoulder of
his jacket, and fled up the hillside towards the top of Aros like a deer. I staggered to my feet again, brui=
sed
and somewhat stunned; the negro had paused in surprise, perhaps in terror, =
some
halfway between me and the wreck; my uncle was already far away, bounding f=
rom
rock to rock; and I thus found myself torn for a time between two duties. But I judged, and I pray Heaven th=
at I
judged rightly, in favour of the poor wretch upon the sands; his misfortune=
was
at least not plainly of his own creation; it was one, besides, that I could
certainly relieve; and I had begun by that time to regard my uncle as an
incurable and dismal lunatic. I
advanced accordingly towards the black, who now awaited my approach with fo=
lded
arms, like one prepared for either destiny. As I came nearer, he reached forth=
his
hand with a great gesture, such as I had seen from the pulpit, and spoke to=
me
in something of a pulpit voice, but not a word was comprehensible. I tried him first in English, then=
in
Gaelic, both in vain; so that it was clear we must rely upon the tongue of
looks and gestures. Thereupon=
I
signed to him to follow me, which he did readily and with a grave obeisance
like a fallen king; all the while there had come no shade of alteration in =
his
face, neither of anxiety while he was still waiting, nor of relief now that=
he
was reassured; if he were a slave, as I supposed, I could not but judge he =
must
have fallen from some high place in his own country, and fallen as he was, I
could not but admire his bearing.
As we passed the grave, I paused and raised my hands and eyes to hea=
ven
in token of respect and sorrow for the dead; and he, as if in answer, bowed=
low
and spread his hands abroad; it was a strange motion, but done like a thing=
of
common custom; and I supposed it was ceremonial in the land from which he
came. At the same time he poi=
nted to
my uncle, whom we could just see perched upon a knoll, and touched his head=
to
indicate that he was mad.
We took the long way round the shore, for I fe=
ared
to excite my uncle if we struck across the island; and as we walked, I had =
time
enough to mature the little dramatic exhibition by which I hoped to satisfy=
my doubts. Accordingly, pausing on a rock, I
proceeded to imitate before the negro the action of the man whom I had seen=
the
day before taking bearings with the compass at Sandag. He understood me at once, and, tak=
ing
the imitation out of my hands, showed me where the boat was, pointed out
seaward as if to indicate the position of the schooner, and then down along=
the
edge of the rock with the words 'Espirito Santo,' strangely pronounced, but
clear enough for recognition. I had
thus been right in my conjecture; the pretended historical inquiry had been=
but
a cloak for treasure-hunting; the man who had played on Dr. Robertson was t=
he
same as the foreigner who visited Grisapol in spring, and now, with many
others, lay dead under the Roost of Aros: there had their greed brought the=
m,
there should their bones be tossed for evermore. In the meantime the black continue=
d his
imitation of the scene, now looking up skyward as though watching the appro=
ach
of the storm now, in the character of a seaman, waving the rest to come abo=
ard;
now as an officer, running along the rock and entering the boat; and anon
bending over imaginary oars with the air of a hurried boatman; but all with=
the
same solemnity of manner, so that I was never even moved to smile. Lastly, he indicated to me, by a
pantomime not to be described in words, how he himself had gone up to exami=
ne
the stranded wreck, and, to his grief and indignation, had been deserted by=
his
comrades; and thereupon folded his arms once more, and stooped his head, li=
ke
one accepting fate.
The mystery of his presence being thus solved =
for
me, I explained to him by means of a sketch the fate of the vessel and of a=
ll
aboard her. He showed no surp=
rise
nor sorrow, and, with a sudden lifting of his open hand, seemed to dismiss =
his
former friends or masters (whichever they had been) into God's pleasure.
To Mary I told all that had passed without
suppression, though I own my heart failed me; but I did wrong to doubt her
sense of justice.
'You did the right,' she said. 'God's will be done.' And she set out meat for us at onc=
e.
As soon as I was satisfied, I bade Rorie keep =
an
eye upon the castaway, who was still eating, and set forth again myself to =
find
my uncle. I had not gone far =
before
I saw him sitting in the same place, upon the very topmost knoll, and seemi=
ngly
in the same attitude as when I had last observed him. From that point, as I have said, t=
he
most of Aros and the neighbouring Ross would be spread below him like a map;
and it was plain that he kept a bright look-out in all directions, for my h=
ead
had scarcely risen above the summit of the first ascent before he had leape=
d to
his feet and turned as if to face me.
I hailed him at once, as well as I was able, in the same tones and w=
ords
as I had often used before, when I had come to summon him to dinner. He made not so much as a movement =
in
reply. I passed on a little
farther, and again tried parley, with the same result. But when I began a second time to
advance, his insane fears blazed up again, and still in dead silence, but w=
ith incredible
speed, he began to flee from before me along the rocky summit of the hill.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> An hour before, he had been dead w=
eary,
and I had been comparatively active.
But now his strength was recruited by the fervour of insanity, and it
would have been vain for me to dream of pursuit. Nay, the very attempt, I thought, =
might
have inflamed his terrors, and thus increased the miseries of our
position. And I had nothing l=
eft
but to turn homeward and make my sad report to Mary.
She heard it, as she had heard the first, with=
a
concerned composure, and, bidding me lie down and take that rest of which I
stood so much in need, set forth herself in quest of her misguided father.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> At that age it would have been a s=
trange
thing that put me from either meat or sleep; I slept long and deep; and it =
was
already long past noon before I awoke and came downstairs into the
kitchen. Mary, Rorie, and the=
black
castaway were seated about the fire in silence; and I could see that Mary h=
ad
been weeping. There was cause
enough, as I soon learned, for tears.
First she, and then Rorie, had been forth to seek my uncle; each in =
turn
had found him perched upon the hill-top, and from each in turn he had silen=
tly
and swiftly fled. Rorie had t=
ried
to chase him, but in vain; madness lent a new vigour to his bounds; he spra=
ng
from rock to rock over the widest gullies; he scoured like the wind along t=
he
hill-tops; he doubled and twisted like a hare before the dogs; and Rorie at
length gave in; and the last that he saw, my uncle was seated as before upon
the crest of Aros. Even durin=
g the
hottest excitement of the chase, even when the fleet-footed servant had com=
e,
for a moment, very near to capture him, the poor lunatic had uttered not a =
sound. He fled, and he was silent, like a
beast; and this silence had terrified his pursuer.
There was something heart-breaking in the
situation. How to capture the=
madman,
how to feed him in the meanwhile, and what to do with him when he was captu=
red,
were the three difficulties that we had to solve.
'The black,' said I, 'is the cause of this
attack. It may even be his pr=
esence
in the house that keeps my uncle on the hill. We have done the fair thing; he ha=
s been
fed and warmed under this roof; now I propose that Rorie put him across the=
bay
in the coble, and take him through the Ross as far as Grisapol.'
In this proposal Mary heartily concurred; and
bidding the black follow us, we all three descended to the pier. Certainly, Heaven's will was decla=
red against
Gordon Darnaway; a thing had happened, never paralleled before in Aros; dur=
ing
the storm, the coble had broken loose, and, striking on the rough splinters=
of
the pier, now lay in four feet of water with one side stove in. Three days of work at least would =
be required
to make her float. But I was =
not to
be beaten. I led the whole pa=
rty
round to where the gut was narrowest, swam to the other side, and called to=
the
black to follow me. He signed=
, with
the same clearness and quiet as before, that he knew not the art; and there=
was
truth apparent in his signals, it would have occurred to none of us to doubt
his truth; and that hope being over, we must all go back even as we came to=
the
house of Aros, the negro walking in our midst without embarrassment.
All we could do that day was to make one more
attempt to communicate with the unhappy madman. Again he was visible on his perch;=
again
he fled in silence. But food =
and a
great cloak were at least left for his comfort; the rain, besides, had clea=
red
away, and the night promised to be even warm. We might compose ourselves, we tho=
ught,
until the morrow; rest was the chief requisite, that we might be strengthen=
ed
for unusual exertions; and as none cared to talk, we separated at an early
hour.
I lay long awake, planning a campaign for the
morrow. I was to place the bl=
ack on
the side of Sandag, whence he should head my uncle towards the house; Rorie=
in
the west, I on the east, were to complete the cordon, as best we might. It seemed to me, the more I recall=
ed the
configuration of the island, that it should be possible, though hard, to fo=
rce
him down upon the low ground along Aros Bay; and once there, even with the =
strength
of his madness, ultimate escape was hardly to be feared. It was on his terror of the black =
that I
relied; for I made sure, however he might run, it would not be in the direc=
tion
of the man whom he supposed to have returned from the dead, and thus one po=
int
of the compass at least would be secure.
When at length I fell asleep, it was to be
awakened shortly after by a dream of wrecks, black men, and submarine
adventure; and I found myself so shaken and fevered that I arose, descended=
the
stair, and stepped out before the house.&n=
bsp;
Within, Rorie and the black were asleep together in the kitchen; out=
side
was a wonderful clear night of stars, with here and there a cloud still
hanging, last stragglers of the tempest.&n=
bsp;
It was near the top of the flood, and the Merry Men were roaring in =
the
windless quiet of the night. =
Never,
not even in the height of the tempest, had I heard their song with greater
awe. Now, when the winds were
gathered home, when the deep was dandling itself back into its summer slumb=
er,
and when the stars rained their gentle light over land and sea, the voice o=
f these
tide-breakers was still raised for havoc.&=
nbsp;
They seemed, indeed, to be a part of the world's evil and the tragic
side of life. Nor were their
meaningless vociferations the only sounds that broke the silence of the
night. For I could hear, now =
shrill
and thrilling and now almost drowned, the note of a human voice that
accompanied the uproar of the Roost.
I knew it for my kinsman's; and a great fear fell upon me of God's
judgments, and the evil in the world.
I went back again into the darkness of the house as into a place of
shelter, and lay long upon my bed, pondering these mysteries.
It was late when I again woke, and I leaped in=
to
my clothes and hurried to the kitchen.&nbs=
p;
No one was there; Rorie and the black had both stealthily departed l=
ong
before; and my heart stood still at the discovery. I could rely on Rorie's heart, but=
I
placed no trust in his discretion.
If he had thus set out without a word, he was plainly bent upon some
service to my uncle. But what
service could he hope to render even alone, far less in the company of the =
man
in whom my uncle found his fears incarnated? Even if I were not already too lat=
e to
prevent some deadly mischief, it was plain I must delay no longer. With the thought I was out of the =
house;
and often as I have run on the rough sides of Aros, I never ran as I did th=
at
fatal morning. I do not belie=
ve I
put twelve minutes to the whole ascent.
My uncle was gone from his perch. The basket had indeed been torn op=
en and
the meat scattered on the turf; but, as we found afterwards, no mouthful had
been tasted; and there was not another trace of human existence in that wide
field of view. Day had already
filled the clear heavens; the sun already lighted in a rosy bloom upon the
crest of Ben Kyaw; but all below me the rude knolls of Aros and the shield =
of
sea lay steeped in the clear darkling twilight of the dawn.
'Rorie!' I cried; and again 'Rorie!' My voice died in the silence, but =
there
came no answer back. If there=
were
indeed an enterprise afoot to catch my uncle, it was plainly not in fleetne=
ss
of foot, but in dexterity of stalking, that the hunters placed their
trust. I ran on farther, keep=
ing
the higher spurs, and looking right and left, nor did I pause again till I =
was
on the mount above Sandag. I =
could
see the wreck, the uncovered belt of sand, the waves idly beating, the long
ledge of rocks, and on either hand the tumbled knolls, boulders, and gullie=
s of
the island. But still no human
thing.
At a stride the sunshine fell on Aros, and the
shadows and colours leaped into being.&nbs=
p;
Not half a moment later, below me to the west, sheep began to scatte=
r as
in a panic. There came a cry.=
I saw my uncle running. I saw the black jump up in hot pur=
suit;
and before I had time to understand, Rorie also had appeared, calling direc=
tions
in Gaelic as to a dog herding sheep.
I took to my heels to interfere, and perhaps I=
had
done better to have waited where I was, for I was the means of cutting off =
the
madman's last escape. There w=
as
nothing before him from that moment but the grave, the wreck, and the sea in
Sandag Bay. And yet Heaven kn=
ows
that what I did was for the best.
My uncle Gordon saw in what direction, horribl=
e to
him, the chase was driving him. He
doubled, darting to the right and left; but high as the fever ran in his ve=
ins,
the black was still the swifter.
Turn where he would, he was still forestalled, still driven toward t=
he
scene of his crime. Suddenly =
he
began to shriek aloud, so that the coast re-echoed; and now both I and Rorie
were calling on the black to stop. <=
/span>But
all was vain, for it was written otherwise. The pursuer still ran, the chase s=
till
sped before him screaming; they avoided the grave, and skimmed close past t=
he
timbers of the wreck; in a breath they had cleared the sand; and still my
kinsman did not pause, but dashed straight into the surf; and the black, now
almost within reach, still followed swiftly behind him. Rorie and I both stopped, for the =
thing
was now beyond the hands of men, and these were the decrees of God that cam=
e to
pass before our eyes. There w=
as
never a sharper ending. On th=
at
steep beach they were beyond their depth at a bound; neither could swim; the
black rose once for a moment with a throttling cry; but the current had the=
m,
racing seaward; and if ever they came up again, which God alone can tell, i=
t would
be ten minutes after, at the far end of Aros Roost, where the seabirds hover
fishing.
=
=
The
Mill here Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling valley bet=
ween
pinewoods and great mountains.
Above, hill after hill, soared upwards until they soared out of the
depth of the hardiest timber, and stood naked against the sky. Some way up, a long grey village l=
ay like
a seam or a ray of vapour on a wooded hillside; and when the wind was
favourable, the sound of the church bells would drop down, thin and silvery=
, to
Will. Below, the valley grew =
ever
steeper and steeper, and at the same time widened out on either hand; and f=
rom
an eminence beside the mill it was possible to see its whole length and away
beyond it over a wide plain, where the river turned and shone, and moved on
from city to city on its voyage towards the sea. It chanced that over this valley t=
here
lay a pass into a neighbouring kingdom; so that, quiet and rural as it was,=
the
road that ran along beside the river was a high thoroughfare between two
splendid and powerful societies.
All through the summer, travelling-carriages came crawling up, or we=
nt
plunging briskly downwards past the mill; and as it happened that the other
side was very much easier of ascent, the path was not much frequented, exce=
pt
by people going in one direction; and of all the carriages that Will saw go=
by,
five-sixths were plunging briskly downwards and only one-sixth crawling up.=
Much more was this the case with
foot-passengers. All the ligh=
t- footed
tourists, all the pedlars laden with strange wares, were tending downward l=
ike
the river that accompanied their path.&nbs=
p;
Nor was this all; for when Will was yet a child a disastrous war aro=
se
over a great part of the world. The
newspapers were full of defeats and victories, the earth rang with cavalry
hoofs, and often for days together and for miles around the coil of battle
terrified good people from their labours in the field. Of all this, nothing=
was
heard for a long time in the valley; but at last one of the commanders push=
ed
an army over the pass by forced marches, and for three days horse and foot,
cannon and tumbril, drum and standard, kept pouring downward past the
mill. All day the child stood=
and
watched them on their passage--the rhythmical stride, the pale, unshaven fa=
ces tanned
about the eyes, the discoloured regimentals and the tattered flags, filled =
him
with a sense of weariness, pity, and wonder; and all night long, after he w=
as
in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the feet trampling, and the g=
reat
armament sweeping onward and downward past the mill. No one in the valley ever heard th=
e fate
of the expedition, for they lay out of the way of gossip in those troublous=
times;
but Will saw one thing plainly, that not a man returned. Whither had they all gone? Whither went all the tourists and
pedlars with strange wares? whither all the brisk barouches with servants in
the dicky? whither the water of the stream, ever coursing downward and ever=
renewed
from above? Even the wind blew
oftener down the valley, and carried the dead leaves along with it in the
fall. It seemed like a great
conspiracy of things animate and inanimate; they all went downward, fleetly=
and
gaily downward, and only he, it seemed, remained behind, like a stock upon =
the
wayside. It sometimes made hi=
m glad
when he noticed how the fishes kept their heads up stream. They, at least, stood faithfully b=
y him,
while all else were posting downward to the unknown world.
One evening he asked the miller where the river
went.
'It goes down the valley,' answered he, 'and t=
urns
a power of mills--six score mills, they say, from here to Unterdeck--and is
none the wearier after all. A=
nd
then it goes out into the lowlands, and waters the great corn country, and =
runs
through a sight of fine cities (so they say) where kings live all alone in
great palaces, with a sentry walling up and down before the door. And it goes under bridges with sto=
ne men
upon them, looking down and smiling so curious it the water, and living fol=
ks leaning
their elbows on the wall and looking over too. And then it goes on and on, and do=
wn
through marshes and sands, until at last it falls into the sea, where the s=
hips
are that bring parrots and tobacco from the Indies. Ay, it has a long trot before it a=
s it
goes singing over our weir, bless its heart!'
'And what is the sea?' asked Will.
'The sea!' cried the miller. 'Lord help us all, it is the great=
est
thing God made! That is where=
all
the water in the world runs down into a great salt lake. There it lies, as flat as my hand =
and as
innocent-like as a child; but they do say when the wind blows it gets up in=
to
water- mountains bigger than any of ours, and swallows down great ships big=
ger than
our mill, and makes such a roaring that you can hear it miles away upon the
land. There are great fish in=
it
five times bigger than a bull, and one old serpent as lone as our river and=
as
old as all the world, with whiskers like a man, and a crown of silver on her
head.'
Will thought he had never heard anything like
this, and he kept on asking question after question about the world that lay
away down the river, with all its perils and marvels, until the old miller
became quite interested himself, and at last took him by the hand and led h=
im
to the hilltop that overlooks the valley and the plain. The sun was near setting, and hung=
low
down in a cloudless sky. Ever=
ything
was defined and glorified in golden light.=
Will had never seen so great an expanse of country in his life; he s=
tood
and gazed with all his eyes. =
He
could see the cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright curves of th=
e river,
and far away to where the rim of the plain trenched along the shining
heavens. An over-mastering em=
otion
seized upon the boy, soul and body; his heart beat so thickly that he could=
not
breathe; the scene swam before his eyes; the sun seemed to wheel round and
round, and throw off, as it turned, strange shapes which disappeared with t=
he
rapidity of thought, and were succeeded by others. Will covered his face with his han=
ds,
and burst into a violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly disappoin=
ted
and perplexed, saw nothing better for it than to take him up in his arms and
carry him home in silence.
From that day forward Will was full of new hop=
es
and longings. Something kept
tugging at his heart-strings; the running water carried his desires along w=
ith
it as he dreamed over its fleeting surface; the wind, as it ran over
innumerable tree-tops, hailed him with encouraging words; branches beckoned
downward; the open road, as it shouldered round the angles and went turning=
and
vanishing fast and faster down the valley, tortured him with its
solicitations. He spent long =
whiles
on the eminence, looking down the rivershed and abroad on the fat lowlands,=
and
watched the clouds that travelled forth upon the sluggish wind and trailed
their purple shadows on the plain; or he would linger by the wayside, and
follow the carriages with his eyes as they rattled downward by the river. It did not matter what it was;
everything that went that way, were it cloud or carriage, bird or brown wat=
er
in the stream, he felt his heart flow out after it in an ecstasy of longing=
.
We are told by men of science that all the ven=
tures
of mariners on the sea, all that counter-marching of tribes and races that
confounds old history with its dust and rumour, sprang from nothing more
abstruse than the laws of supply and demand, and a certain natural instinct=
for
cheap rations. To any one thi=
nking
deeply, this will seem a dull and pitiful explanation. The tribes that came swarming out =
of the
North and East, if they were indeed pressed onward from behind by others, w=
ere
drawn at the same time by the magnetic influence of the South and West. The fame of other lands had reached
them; the name of the eternal city rang in their ears; they were not coloni=
sts,
but pilgrims; they travelled towards wine and gold and sunshine, but their
hearts were set on something higher. That divine unrest, that old stinging
trouble of humanity that makes all high achievements and all miserable fail=
ure,
the same that spread wings with Icarus, the same that sent Columbus into the
desolate Atlantic, inspired and supported these barbarians on their perilous
march. There is one legend wh=
ich
profoundly represents their spirit, of how a flying party of these wanderers
encountered a very old man shod with iron.=
The old man asked them whither they were going; and they answered wi=
th
one voice: 'To the Eternal City!'
He looked upon them gravely.
'I have sought it,' he said, 'over the most part of the world. Three such pairs as I now carry on=
my
feet have I worn out upon this pilgrimage, and now the fourth is growing
slender underneath my steps. =
And
all this while I have not found the city.'=
And he turned and went his own way alone, leaving them astonished.
And yet this would scarcely parallel the inten=
sity
of Will's feeling for the plain. If
he could only go far enough out there, he felt as if his eyesight would be
purged and clarified, as if his hearing would grow more delicate, and his v=
ery
breath would come and go with luxury.
He was transplanted and withering where he was; he lay in a strange
country and was sick for home. Bit
by bit, he pieced together broken notions of the world below: of the river,
ever moving and growing until it sailed forth into the majestic ocean; of t=
he
cities, full of brisk and beautiful people, playing fountains, bands of mus=
ic
and marble palaces, and lighted up at night from end to end with artificial
stars of gold; of the great churches, wise universities, brave armies, and
untold money lying stored in vaults; of the high-flying vice that moved in =
the
sunshine, and the stealth and swiftness of midnight murder. I have said he was sick as if for =
home:
the figure halts. He was like=
some
one lying in twilit, formless preexistence, and stretching out his hands
lovingly towards many- coloured, many-sounding life. It was no wonder he was unhappy, he
would go and tell the fish: they were made for their life, wished for no mo=
re than
worms and running water, and a hole below a falling bank; but he was differ=
ently
designed, full of desires and aspirations, itching at the fingers, lusting =
with
the eyes, whom the whole variegated world could not satisfy with aspects. The true life, the true bright sun=
shine,
lay far out upon the plain. A=
nd O!
to see this sunlight once before he died! to move with a jocund spirit in a
golden land! to hear the trained singers and sweet church bells, and see the
holiday gardens! 'And O fish!=
' he would
cry, 'if you would only turn your noses down stream, you could swim so easi=
ly
into the fabled waters and see the vast ships passing over your head like
clouds, and hear the great water-hills making music over you all day
long!' But the fish kept look=
ing
patiently in their own direction, until Will hardly knew whether to laugh or
cry.
Hitherto the traffic on the road had passed by
Will, like something seen in a picture: he had perhaps exchanged salutations
with a tourist, or caught sight of an old gentleman in a travelling cap at a
carriage window; but for the most part it had been a mere symbol, which he =
contemplated
from apart and with something of a superstitious feeling. A time came at last when this was =
to be changed. The miller, who was a greedy man i=
n his
way, and never forewent an opportunity of honest profit, turned the mill-ho=
use
into a little wayside inn, and, several pieces of good fortune falling in
opportunely, built stables and got the position of post master on the
road. It now became Will's du=
ty to
wait upon people, as they sat to break their fasts in the little arbour at =
the top
of the mill garden; and you may be sure that he kept his ears open, and lea=
rned
many new things about the outside world as he brought the omelette or the
wine. Nay, he would often get=
into
conversation with single guests, and by adroit questions and polite attenti=
on,
not only gratify his own curiosity, but win the goodwill of the
travellers. Many complimented=
the
old couple on their serving-boy; and a professor was eager to take him away
with him, and have him properly educated in the plain. The miller and his wife were might=
ily
astonished and even more pleased.
They thought it a very good thing that they should have opened their
inn. 'You see,' the old man w=
ould
remark, 'he has a kind of talent for a publican; he never would have made
anything else!' And so life w=
agged
on in the valley, with high satisfaction to all concerned but Will. Every carriage that left the inn-d=
oor
seemed to take a part of him away with it; and when people jestingly offered
him a lift, he could with difficulty command his emotion. Night after night he would dream t=
hat he
was awakened by flustered servants, and that a splendid equipage waited at =
the
door to carry him down into the plain; night after night; until the dream,
which had seemed all jollity to him at first, began to take on a colour of
gravity, and the nocturnal summons and waiting equipage occupied a place in=
his
mind as something to be both feared and hoped for.
One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat yo=
ung
man arrived at sunset to pass the night.&n=
bsp;
He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye, and carried a
knapsack. While dinner was
preparing, he sat in the arbour to read a book; but as soon as he had begun=
to
observe Will, the book was laid aside; he was plainly one of those who pref=
er
living people to people made of ink and paper. Will, on his part, although he had=
not been
much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon began to take a great =
deal
of pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and good sense, and =
at
last conceived a great respect for his character and wisdom. They sat far into the night; and a=
bout
two in the morning Will opened his heart to the young man, and told him how=
he
longed to leave the valley and what bright hopes he had connected with the
cities of the plain. The youn=
g man
whistled, and then broke into a smile.
'My young friend,' he remarked, 'you are a very
curious little fellow to be sure, and wish a great many things which you wi=
ll
never get. Why, you would feel
quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these fairy cities of y=
ours
are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep breaking their hearts to =
get
up into the mountains. And le=
t me
tell you, those who go down into the plains are a very short while there be=
fore
they wish themselves heartily back again.&=
nbsp;
The air is not so light nor so pure; nor is the sun any brighter.
'You must think me very simple,' answered
Will. 'Although I have never =
been
out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes. I know how one thing lives on anot=
her;
for instance, how the fish hangs in the eddy to catch his fellows; and the
shepherd, who makes so pretty a picture carrying home the lamb, is only
carrying it home for dinner. =
I do
not expect to find all things right in your cities. That is not what troubles me; it m=
ight
have been that once upon a time; but although I live here always, I have as=
ked
many questions and learned a great deal in these last years, and certainly
enough to cure me of my old fancies.
But you would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is to =
be
seen, and do all that a man can do, let it be good or evil? you would not h=
ave me
spend all my days between this road here and the river, and not so much as =
make
a motion to be up and live my life?--I would rather die out of hand,' he cr=
ied,
'than linger on as I am doing.'
'Thousands of people,' said the young man, 'li=
ve
and die like you, and are none the less happy.'
'Ah!' said Will, 'if there are thousands who w=
ould
like, why should not one of them have my place?'
It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in=
the
arbour which lit up the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the
arch, the leaves upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the night s=
ky,
a pattern of transparent green upon a dusky purple. The fat young man rose, and, takin=
g Will
by the arm, led him out under the open heavens.
'Did you ever look at the stars?' he asked,
pointing upwards.
'Often and often,' answered Will.
'And do you know what they are?'
'I have fancied many things.'
'They are worlds like ours,' said the young
man. 'Some of them less; many=
of
them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles that you see a=
re
not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning about each other in t=
he
midst of space. We do not kno=
w what
there may be in any of them; perhaps the answer to all our difficulties or =
the
cure of all our sufferings: and yet we can never reach them; not all the sk=
ill
of the craftiest of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of these our nei=
ghbours,
nor would the life of the most aged suffice for such a journey. When a great battle has been lost =
or a
dear friend is dead, when we are hipped or in high spirits, there they are
unweariedly shining overhead. We
may stand down here, a whole army of us together, and shout until we break =
our
hearts, and not a whisper reaches them.&nb=
sp;
We may climb the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them. All we can do is to stand down her=
e in
the garden and take off our hats; the starshine lights upon our heads, and
where mine is a little bald, I dare say you can see it glisten in the
darkness. The mountain and the
mouse. That is like to be all=
we
shall ever have to do with Arcturus or Aldebaran. Can you apply a parable?' he added,
laying his hand upon Will's shoulder.
'It is not the same thing as a reason, but usually vastly more
convincing.'
Will hung his head a little, and then raised it
once more to heaven. The stars
seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he kept turning his =
eyes
higher and higher, they seemed to increase in multitude under his gaze.
'I see,' he said, turning to the young man.
'Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel turnin=
g in a
cage? and another squirrel sitting philosophically over his nuts? I needn't ask you which of them lo=
oked
more of a fool.'
=
After
some years the old people died, both in one winter, very carefully tended by
their adopted son, and very quietly mourned when they were gone. People who had heard of his roving
fancies supposed he would hasten to sell the property, and go down the rive=
r to
push his fortunes. But there was never any sign of such in intention on the
part of Will. On the contrary=
, he
had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a couple of servants to assi=
st
him in carrying it on; and there he settled down, a kind, talkative,
inscrutable young man, six feet three in his stockings, with an iron
constitution and a friendly voice.
He soon began to take rank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it=
was
not much to be wondered at from the first, for he was always full of notion=
s,
and kept calling the plainest common-sense in question; but what most raised
the report upon him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with the pars=
on's
Marjory.
The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen,
when Will would be about thirty; well enough looking, and much better educa=
ted
than any other girl in that part of the country, as became her parentage. She held her head very high, and h=
ad
already refused several offers of marriage with a grand air, which had got =
her
hard names among the neighbours.
For all that she was a good girl, and one that would have made any m=
an
well contented.
Will had never seen much of her; for although =
the
church and parsonage were only two miles from his own door, he was never kn=
own
to go there but on Sundays. It
chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into disrepair, and had to be
dismantled; and the parson and his daughter took lodgings for a month or so=
, on
very much reduced terms, at Will's inn.&nb=
sp;
Now, what with the inn, and the mill, and the old miller's savings, =
our
friend was a man of substance; and besides that, he had a name for good tem=
per
and shrewdness, which make a capital portion in marriage; and so it was cur=
rently
gossiped, among their ill-wishers, that the parson and his daughter had not
chosen their temporary lodging with their eyes shut. Will was about the last
man in the world to be cajoled or frightened into marriage. You had only to look into his eyes,
limpid and still like pools of water, and yet with a sort of clear light th=
at
seemed to come from within, and you would understand at once that here was =
one
who knew his own mind, and would stand to it immovably. Marjory herself was no weakling by=
her
looks, with strong, steady eyes and a resolute and quiet bearing. It might be a question whether she=
was
not Will's match in stedfastness, after all, or which of them would rule the
roast in marriage. But Marjor=
y had
never given it a thought, and accompanied her father with the most unshaken
innocence and unconcern.
The season was still so early that Will's
customers were few and far between; but the lilacs were already flowering, =
and
the weather was so mild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with=
the
noise of the river in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the
songs of birds. Will soon beg=
an to
take a particular pleasure in these dinners. The parson was rather a dull
companion, with a habit of dozing at table; but nothing rude or cruel ever =
fell
from his lips. And as for the=
parson's
daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best grace imaginable; and
whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Will conceived a great idea=
of
her talents. He could see her=
face,
as she leaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes s=
hone
peaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief; something that was
hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will could not contain himself =
from
gazing on her in an agreeable dismay.
She looked, even in her quietest moments, so complete in herself, an=
d so
quick with life down to her finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, t=
hat
the remainder of created things became no more than a blot by comparison; a=
nd
if Will glanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked inanima=
te
and senseless, the clouds hung in heaven like dead things, and even the mou=
ntain
tops were disenchanted. The w=
hole
valley could not compare in looks with this one girl.
Will was always observant in the society of his
fellow-creatures; but his observation became almost painfully eager in the =
case
of Marjory. He listened to al=
l she
uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for the unspoken commentary.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Many kind, simple, and sincere spe=
eches
found an echo in his heart. He
became conscious of a soul beautifully poised upon itself, nothing doubting,
nothing desiring, clothed in peace.
It was not possible to separate her thoughts from her appearance.
One day after dinner Will took a stroll among =
the
firs; a grave beatitude possessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling =
to
himself and the landscape as he went.
The river ran between the stepping-stones with a pretty wimple; a bi=
rd
sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops looked immeasurably high, and as he
glanced at them from time to time seemed to contemplate his movements with a
beneficent but awful curiosity. His
way took him to the eminence which overlooked the plain; and there he sat d=
own
upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant thought. The plain lay abroad with its citi=
es and
silver river; everything was asleep, except a great eddy of birds which kept
rising and falling and going round and round in the blue air. He repeated Marjory's name aloud, =
and the
sound of it gratified his ear. He
shut his eyes, and her image sprang up before him, quietly luminous and
attended with good thoughts. The river might run for ever; the birds fly hi=
gher
and higher till they touched the stars.&nb=
sp;
He saw it was empty bustle after all; for here, without stirring a f=
eet,
waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, he also had attained the better
sunlight.
The next day Will made a sort of declaration
across the dinner-table, while the parson was filling his pipe.
'Miss Marjory,' he said, 'I never knew any one=
I
liked so well as you. I am mo=
stly a
cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but out of strangeness =
in
my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me. 'Tis as if there were=
a
circle round me, which kept every one out but you; I can hear the others
talking and laughing; but you come quite close. Maybe, this is disagreeable to you=
?' he
asked.
Marjory made no answer.
'Speak up, girl,' said the parson.
'Nay, now,' returned Will, 'I wouldn't press h=
er,
parson. I feel tongue- tied m=
yself,
who am not used to it; and she's a woman, and little more than a child, when
all is said. But for my part,=
as
far as I can understand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they
call in love. I do not wish t=
o be
held as committing myself; for I may be wrong; but that is how I believe th=
ings
are with me. And if Miss Marj=
ory
should feel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake=
her
head.'
Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she =
had
heard.
'How is that, parson?' asked Will.
'The girl must speak,' replied the parson, lay=
ing
down his pipe. 'Here's our
neighbour who says he loves you, Madge.&nb=
sp;
Do you love him, ay or no?'
'I think I do,' said Marjory, faintly.
'Well then, that's all that could be wished!'
cried Will, heartily. And he =
took
her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his with great
satisfaction.
'You must marry,' observed the parson, replaci=
ng
his pipe in his mouth.
'Is that the right thing to do, think you?'
demanded Will.
'It is indispensable,' said the parson.
'Very well,' replied the wooer.
Two or three days passed away with great delig=
ht
to Will, although a bystander might scarce have found it out. He continued to take his meals opp=
osite
Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father's presence; b=
ut
he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way changed his condu=
ct
towards her from what it had been since the beginning. Perhaps the girl was a little
disappointed, and perhaps not unjustly; and yet if it had been enough to be
always in the thoughts of another person, and so pervade and alter his whole
life, she might have been thoroughly contented. For she was never out of Will's mi=
nd for
an instant. He sat over the s=
tream,
and watched the dust of the eddy, and the poised fish, and straining weeds;=
he
wandered out alone into the purple even, with all the blackbirds piping rou=
nd
him in the wood; he rose early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from gr=
ey
to gold, and the light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept
wondering if he had never seen such things before, or how it was that they
should look so different now. The
sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind among the trees, confounded and
charmed his heart. The most
enchanting thoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind. He was so happy that he could not =
sleep
at night, and so restless, that he could hardly sit still out of her
company. And yet it seemed as=
if he
avoided her rather than sought her out.
One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, =
Will
found Marjory in the garden picking flowers, and as he came up with her,
slackened his pace and continued walking by her side.
'You like flowers?' he said.
'Indeed I love them dearly,' she replied. 'Do you?'
'Why, no,' said he, 'not so much. They are a very small affair, when=
all is
done. I can fancy people cari=
ng for
them greatly, but not doing as you are just now.'
'How?' she asked, pausing and looking up at hi=
m.
'Plucking them,' said he. 'They are a deal better off where =
they
are, and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.'
'I wish to have them for my own,' she answered,
'to carry them near my heart, and keep them in my room. They tempt me when they grow here;=
they seem
to say, "Come and do something with us;" but once I have cut them=
and
put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with quite an easy
heart.'
'You wish to possess them,' replied Will, 'in
order to think no more about them.
It's a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs. It's a bit like what I wished to d=
o when
I was a boy. Because I had a =
fancy for
looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there--where I couldn't look
out over it any longer. Was n=
ot
that fine reasoning? Dear, de=
ar, if
they only thought of it, all the world would do like me; and you would let =
your
flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the mountains.' Suddenly he broke =
off
sharp. 'By the Lord!' he
cried. And when she asked him=
what
was wrong, he turned the question off and walked away into the house with
rather a humorous expression of face.
He was silent at table; and after the night hid
fallen and the stars had come out overhead, he walked up and down for hours=
in
the courtyard and garden with an uneven pace. There was still a light in the win=
dow of
Marjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark blue h=
ills
and silver starlight. Will's =
mind
ran a great deal on the window; but his thoughts were not very lover-like.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'There she is in her room,' he tho=
ught,
'and there are the stars overhead:--a blessing upon both!' Both were good
influences in his life; both soothed and braced him in his profound content=
ment
with the world. And what more
should he desire with either? The
fat young man and his councils were so present to his mind, that he threw b=
ack
his head, and, putting his hands before his mouth, shouted aloud to the
populous heavens. Whether fro=
m the
position of his head or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed to see=
a
momentary shock among the stars, and a diffusion of frosty light pass from =
one
to another along the sky. At =
the
same instant, a corner of the blind was lifted and lowered again at once. He laughed a loud ho-ho! 'One and another!' thought Will. 'The stars tremble, and the blind =
goes
up. Why, before Heaven, what a
great magician I must be! Now=
if I
were only a fool, should not I be in a pretty way?' And he went off to bed, chuckling =
to
himself: 'If I were only a fool!'
The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once
more in the garden, and sought her out.
'I have been thinking about getting married,' =
he
began abruptly; 'and after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind
it's not worthwhile.'
She turned upon him for a single moment; but h=
is
radiant, kindly appearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerte=
d an
angel, and she looked down again upon the ground in silence. He could see her tremble.
'I hope you don't mind,' he went on, a little
taken aback. 'You ought not.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have turned it all over, and upo=
n my
soul there's nothing in it. We should never be one whit nearer than we are =
just
now, and, if I am a wise man, nothing like so happy.'
'It is unnecessary to go round about with me,'=
she
said. 'I very well remember t=
hat
you refused to commit yourself; and now that I see you were mistaken, and in
reality have never cared for me, I can only feel sad that I have been so far
misled.'
'I ask your pardon,' said Will stoutly; 'you do
not understand my meaning. As=
to
whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave that to others. But for one thing, my feeling is n=
ot changed;
and for another, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole life
and character something different from what they were. I mean what I say; no less. I do not think getting married is =
worth
while. I would rather you wen=
t on
living with your father, so that I could walk over and see you once, or may=
be
twice a week, as people go to church, and then we should both be all the
happier between whiles. That'=
s my
notion. But I'll marry you if=
you
will,' he added.
'Do you know that you are insulting me?' she b=
roke
out.
'Not I, Marjory,' said he; 'if there is anythi= ng in a clear conscience, not I. I offer all my heart's best affection; you can take it or want it, though I suspect it's beyond either your power or mine to change what has once been done, and set me fancy-free. = I'll marry you, if you like; but I tell you again and again, it's not worth whil= e, and we had best stay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of things in my life.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Trust in me, and take things as I = propose; or, if you don't like that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand.'<= o:p>
There was a considerable pause, and Will, who
began to feel uneasy, began to grow angry in consequence.
'It seems you are too proud to say your mind,'=
he
said. 'Believe me that's a
pity. A clean shrift makes si=
mple
living. Can a man be more dow=
nright
or honourable, to a woman than I have been? I have said my say, and given you =
your
choice. Do you want me to mar=
ry
you? or will you take my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enoug=
h of
me for good? Speak out for th=
e dear
God's sake! You know your fat=
her
told you a girl should speak her mind in these affairs.'
She seemed to recover herself at that, turned
without a word, walked rapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the
house, leaving Will in some confusion as to the result. He walked up and down the garden, =
whistling
softly to himself. Sometimes =
he
stopped and contemplated the sky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to t=
he
tail of the weir and sat there, looking foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and perturbation =
was so
foreign to his nature and the life which he had resolutely chosen for himse=
lf,
that he began to regret Marjory's arrival.=
'After all,' he thought, 'I was as happy as a man need be. I could come down here and watch my
fishes all day long if I wanted: I was as settled and contented as my old
mill.'
Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim=
and
quiet; and no sooner were all three at table than she made her father a spe=
ech,
with her eyes fixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassm=
ent
or distress.
'Father,' she began, 'Mr. Will and I have been
talking things over. We see t=
hat we
have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has agreed, at my reque=
st,
to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more than my very good friend, a=
s in
the past. You see, there is no
shadow of a quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in =
the future,
for his visits will always be welcome in our house. Of course, father, you will know b=
est,
but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr. Will's house for the present.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I believe, after what has passed, =
we should
hardly be agreeable inmates for some days.'
Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty
from the first, broke out upon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised =
one
hand with an appearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere an=
d contradict. But she checked him at once lookin=
g up
at him with a swift glance and an angry flush upon her cheek.
'You will perhaps have the good grace,' she sa=
id,
'to let me explain these matters for myself.'
Will was put entirely out of countenance by her
expression and the ring of her voice.
He held his peace, concluding that there were some things about this
girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right.
The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this was no=
more
than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before night; and when he was
dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that where there was no
quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for the good man liked both
his entertainment and his host. It
was curious to see how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, a=
nd
that very quietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and insensibly
leading them wherever she would by feminine tact and generalship. It scarcely seemed to have been her
doing--it seemed as if things had merely so fallen out--that she and her fa=
ther
took their departure that same afternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther d=
own
the valley, to wait, until their own house was ready for them, in another
hamlet. But Will had been obs=
erving
closely, and was well aware of her dexterity and resolution. When he found himself alone he had=
a
great many curious matters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and solitary, to b=
egin with. All the interest had gone out of h=
is
life, and he might look up at the stars as long as he pleased, he somehow
failed to find support or consolation.&nbs=
p;
And then he was in such a turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He had be=
en
puzzled and irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could not keep himself f=
rom
admiring it. He thought he
recognised a fine, perverse angel in that still soul which he had never hit=
herto
suspected; and though he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with
his own life of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently
desiring to possess it. Like =
a man
who has lived among shadows and now meets the sun, he was both pained and
delighted.
As the days went forward he passed from one
extreme to another; now pluming himself on the strength of his determinatio=
n,
now despising his timid and silly caution.=
The former was, perhaps, the true thought of his heart, and represen=
ted
the regular tenor of the man's reflections; but the latter burst forth from
time to time with an unruly violence, and then he would forget all
consideration, and go up and down his house and garden or walk among the
fir-woods like one who is beside himself with remorse. To equable, steady-minded Will this
state of matters was intolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to b=
ring
it to an end. So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes, too=
k a
thorn switch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river. As soon as he had taken his
determination, he had regained at a bound his customary peace of heart, and=
he
enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of the scene without any admixtu=
re
of alarm or unpleasant eagerness.
It was nearly the same to him how the matter turned out. If she accepted him he would have =
to
marry her this time, which perhaps was, all for the best. If she refused hi=
m,
he would have done his utmost, and might follow his own way in the future w=
ith
an untroubled conscience. He =
hoped,
on the whole, she would refuse him; and then, again, as he saw the brown ro=
of which
sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of the stream, he w=
as
half inclined to reverse the wish, and more than half ashamed of himself for
this infirmity of purpose.
Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him h=
er
hand without affectation or delay.
'I have been thinking about this marriage,' he
began.
'So have I,' she answered. 'And I respect you more and more f=
or a
very wise man. You understood=
me
better than I understood myself; and I am now quite certain that things are=
all
for the best as they are.'
'At the same time--,' ventured Will.
'You must be tired,' she interrupted. 'Take a seat and let me fetch you a
glass of wine. The afternoon =
is so
warm; and I wish you not to be displeased with your visit. You must come quite often; once a =
week,
if you can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends.'
'O, very well,' thought Will to himself. 'It appears I was right after all.=
' And he paid a very agreeable visit,
walked home again in capital spirits, and gave himself no further concern a=
bout
the matter.
For nearly three years Will and Marjory contin=
ued
on these terms, seeing each other once or twice a week without any word of =
love
between them; and for all that time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a=
man
can be. He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would
often walk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back again, as if to wh=
et his
appetite. Indeed there was one
corner of the road, whence he could see the church-spire wedged into a crev=
ice
of the valley between sloping firwoods, with a triangular snatch of plain by
way of background, which he greatly affected as a place to sit and moralise=
in
before returning homewards; and the peasants got so much into the habit of
finding him there in the twilight that they gave it the name of 'Will o' the
Mill's Corner.'
At the end of the three years Marjory played h=
im a
sad trick by suddenly marrying somebody else. Will kept his countenance bravely,=
and
merely remarked that, for as little as he knew of women, he had acted very =
prudently
in not marrying her himself three years before. She plainly knew very little of he=
r own
mind, and, in spite of a deceptive manner, was as fickle and flighty as the
rest of them. He had to
congratulate himself on an escape, he said, and would take a higher opinion=
of
his own wisdom in consequence. But
at heart, he was reasonably displeased, moped a good deal for a month or tw=
o,
and fell away in flesh, to the astonishment of his serving-lads.
It was perhaps a year after this marriage that
Will was awakened late one night by the sound of a horse galloping on the r=
oad,
followed by precipitate knocking at the inn-door. He opened his window and saw a farm
servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told him to make
what haste he could and go along with him; for Marjory was dying, and had s=
ent
urgently to fetch him to her bedside.
Will was no horseman, and made so little speed upon the way that the
poor young wife was very near her end before he arrived. But they had some minutes' talk in=
private,
and he was present and wept very bitterly while she breathed her last.
=
Year
after year went away into nothing, with great explosions and outcries in the
cities on the plain: red revolt springing up and being suppressed in blood,
battle swaying hither and thither, patient astronomers in observatory towers
picking out and christening new stars, plays being performed in lighted
theatres, people being carried into hospital on stretchers, and all the usu=
al
turmoil and agitation of men's lives in crowded centres. Up in Will's valley only the winds=
and
seasons made an epoch; the fish hung in the swift stream, the birds circled=
overhead,
the pine-tops rustled underneath the stars, the tall hills stood over all; =
and
Will went to and fro, minding his wayside inn, until the snow began to thic=
ken
on his head. His heart was yo=
ung
and vigorous; and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong a=
nd
steady in his wrists. He carr=
ied a
ruddy stain on either cheek, like a ripe apple; he stooped a little, but his
step was still firm; and his sinewy hands were reached out to all men with a
friendly pressure. His face w=
as covered
with those wrinkles which are got in open air, and which rightly looked at,=
are
no more than a sort of permanent sunburning; such wrinkles heighten the
stupidity of stupid faces; but to a person like Will, with his clear eyes a=
nd
smiling mouth, only give another charm by testifying to a simple and easy
life. His talk was full of wi=
se
sayings. He had a taste for o=
ther
people; and other people had a taste for him. When the valley was full of touris=
ts in
the season, there were merry nights in Will's arbour; and his views, which
seemed whimsical to his neighbours, were often enough admired by learned pe=
ople
out of towns and colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew da=
ily
better known; so that his fame was heard of in the cities of the plain; and
young men who had been summer travellers spoke together in cafes of Will o'=
the
Mill and his rough philosophy. Many
and many an invitation, you may be sure, he had; but nothing could tempt him
from his upland valley. He wo=
uld
shake his head and smile over his tobacco-pipe with a deal of meaning. 'You come too late,' he would
answer. 'I am a dead man now:=
I
have lived and died already. =
Fifty
years ago you would have brought my heart into my mouth; and now you do not
even tempt me. But that is the
object of long living, that man should cease to care about life.' And again: 'There is only one diff=
erence
between a long life and a good dinner: that, in the dinner, the sweets come
last.' Or once more: 'When I =
was a
boy, I was a bit puzzled, and hardly knew whether it was myself or the world
that was curious and worth looking into.&n=
bsp;
Now, I know it is myself, and stick to that.'
He never showed any symptom of frailty, but ke=
pt
stalwart and firm to the last; but they say he grew less talkative towards =
the
end, and would listen to other people by the hour in an amused and sympathe=
tic
silence. Only, when he did speak, it was more to the point and more charged
with old experience. He drank=
a
bottle of wine gladly; above all, at sunset on the hill-top or quite late at
night under the stars in the arbour.
The sight of something attractive and unatttainable seasoned his
enjoyment, he would say; and he professed he had lived long enough to admir=
e a candle
all the more when he could compare it with a planet.
One night, in his seventy-second year, he awok=
e in
bed in such uneasiness of body and mind that he arose and dressed himself a=
nd
went out to meditate in the arbour.
It was pitch dark, without a star; the river was swollen, and the wet
woods and meadows loaded the air with perfume. It had thundered during the day, a=
nd it
promised more thunder for the morrow.
A murky, stifling night for a man of seventy-two! Whether it was the weather or the
wakefulness, or some little touch of fever in his old limbs, Will's mind was
besieged by tumultuous and crying memories. His boyhood, the night with the=
fat
young man, the death of his adopted parents, the summer days with Marjory, =
and
many of those small circumstances, which seem nothing to another, and are y=
et
the very gist of a man's own life to himself--things seen, words heard, loo=
ks misconstrued--arose
from their forgotten corners and usurped his attention. The dead themselves were with him,=
not
merely taking part in this thin show of memory that defiled before his brai=
n,
but revisiting his bodily senses as they do in profound and vivid dreams. The fat young man leaned his elbow=
s on
the table opposite; Marjory came and went with an apronful of flowers betwe=
en
the garden and the arbour; he could hear the old parson knocking out his pi=
pe
or blowing his resonant nose. The tide
of his consciousness ebbed and flowed: he was sometimes half-asleep and dro=
wned
in his recollections of the past; and sometimes he was broad awake, wonderi=
ng
at himself. But about the mid=
dle of
the night he was startled by the voice of the dead miller calling to him ou=
t of
the house as he used to do on the arrival of custom. The hallucination was so perfect t=
hat
Will sprang from his seat and stood listening for the summons to be repeate=
d;
and as he listened he became conscious of another noise besides the brawlin=
g of
the river and the ringing in his feverish ears. It was like the stir of horses and=
the
creaking of harness, as though a carriage with an impatient team had been
brought up upon the road before the courtyard gate. At such an hour, upon this rough a=
nd dangerous
pass, the supposition was no better than absurd; and Will dismissed it from=
his
mind, and resumed his seat upon the arbour chair; and sleep closed over him
again like running water. He =
was
once again awakened by the dead miller's call, thinner and more spectral th=
an before;
and once again he heard the noise of an equipage upon the road. And so thri=
ce
and four times, the same dream, or the same fancy, presented itself to his
senses: until at length, smiling to himself as when one humours a nervous
child, he proceeded towards the gate to set his uncertainty at rest.
From the arbour to the gate was no great dista=
nce,
and yet it took Will some time; it seemed as if the dead thickened around h=
im
in the court, and crossed his path at every step. For, first, he was suddenly surpri=
sed by
an overpowering sweetness of heliotropes; it was as if his garden had been
planted with this flower from end to end, and the hot, damp night had drawn
forth all their perfumes in a breath.
Now the heliotrope had been Marjory's favourite flower, and since her
death not one of them had ever been planted in Will's ground.
'I must be going crazy,' he thought. 'Poor Marjory and her heliotropes!=
'
And with that he raised his eyes towards the
window that had once been hers. If
he had been bewildered before, he was now almost terrified; for there was a
light in the room; the window was an orange oblong as of yore; and the corn=
er of
the blind was lifted and let fall as on the night when he stood and shouted=
to
the stars in his perplexity. =
The
illusion only endured an instant; but it left him somewhat unmanned, rubbing
his eyes and staring at the outline of the house and the black night behind=
it. While he thus stood, and it seemed=
as if
he must have stood there quite a long time, there came a renewal of the noi=
ses
on the road: and he turned in time to meet a stranger, who was advancing to
meet him across the court. Th=
ere
was something like the outline of a great carriage discernible on the road
behind the stranger, and, above that, a few black pine-tops, like so many
plumes.
'Master Will?' asked the new-comer, in brief
military fashion.
'That same, sir,' answered Will. 'Can I do anything to serve you?'<= o:p>
'I have heard you much spoken of, Master Will,'
returned the other; 'much spoken of, and well. And though I have both hands full =
of
business, I wish to drink a bottle of wine with you in your arbour. Before I go, I shall introduce mys=
elf.'
Will led the way to the trellis, and got a lamp
lighted and a bottle uncorked. He
was not altogether unused to such complimentary interviews, and hoped little
enough from this one, being schooled by many disappointments. A sort of cloud had settled on his=
wits
and prevented him from remembering the strangeness of the hour. He moved like a person in his slee=
p; and
it seemed as if the lamp caught fire and the bottle came uncorked with the
facility of thought. Still, h=
e had
some curiosity about the appearance of his visitor, and tried in vain to tu=
rn
the light into his face; either he handled the lamp clumsily, or there was =
a dimness
over his eyes; but he could make out little more than a shadow at table with
him. He stared and stared at =
this shadow,
as he wiped out the glasses, and began to feel cold and strange about the
heart. The silence weighed up=
on
him, for he could hear nothing now, not even the river, but the drumming of=
his
own arteries in his ears.
'Here's to you,' said the stranger, roughly.
'Here is my service, sir,' replied Will, sippi=
ng
his wine, which somehow tasted oddly.
'I understand you are a very positive fellow,'
pursued the stranger.
Will made answer with a smile of some satisfac=
tion
and a little nod.
'So am I,' continued the other; 'and it is the
delight of my heart to tramp on people's corns. I will have nobody positive but my=
self;
not one. I have crossed the w=
hims,
in my time, of kings and generals and great artists. And what would you say,' he went o=
n, 'if
I had come up here on purpose to cross yours?'
Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp
rejoinder; but the politeness of an old innkeeper prevailed; and he held his
peace and made answer with a civil gesture of the hand.
'I have,' said the stranger. 'And if I did not hold you in a
particular esteem, I should make no words about the matter. It appears you pride yourself on s=
taying
where you are. You mean to st=
ick by
your inn. Now I mean you shal=
l come
for a turn with me in my barouche; and before this bottle's empty, so you
shall.'
'That would be an odd thing, to be sure,' repl=
ied
Will, with a chuckle. 'Why, sir, I have grown here like an old oak-tree; the
Devil himself could hardly root me up: and for all I perceive you are a ver=
y entertaining
old gentleman, I would wager you another bottle you lose your pains with me=
.'
The dimness of Will's eyesight had been increa=
sing
all this while; but he was somehow conscious of a sharp and chilling scruti=
ny
which irritated and yet overmastered him.
'You need not think,' he broke out suddenly, i=
n an
explosive, febrile manner that startled and alarmed himself, 'that I am a
stay-at-home, because I fear anything under God. God knows I am tired enough of it =
all;
and when the time comes for a longer journey than ever you dream of, I reck=
on I
shall find myself prepared.'
The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it a=
way
from him. He looked down for a
little, and then, leaning over the table, tapped Will three times upon the
forearm with a single finger. 'The
time has come!' he said solemnly.
An ugly thrill spread from the spot he
touched. The tones of his voi=
ce were
dull and startling, and echoed strangely in Will's heart.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, with some
discomposure. 'What do you me=
an?'
'Look at me, and you will find your eyesight
swim. Raise your hand; it is
dead-heavy. This is your last
bottle of wine, Master Will, and your last night upon the earth.'
'You are a doctor?' quavered Will.
'The best that ever was,' replied the other; '=
for
I cure both mind and body with the same prescription. I take away all plain and I forgiv=
e all sins;
and where my patients have gone wrong in life, I smooth out all complicatio=
ns
and set them free again upon their feet.'
'I have no need of you,' said Will.
'A time comes for all men, Master Will,' repli=
ed
the doctor, 'when the helm is taken out of their hands. For you, because you were prudent =
and quiet,
it has been long of coming, and you have had long to discipline yourself for
its reception. You have seen =
what
is to be seen about your mill; you have sat close all your days like a hare=
in
its form; but now that is at an end; and,' added the doctor, getting on his
feet, 'you must arise and come with me.'
'You are a strange physician,' said Will, look=
ing
steadfastly upon his guest.
'I am a natural law,' he replied, 'and people =
call
me Death.'
'Why did you not tell me so at first?' cried
Will. 'I have been waiting fo=
r you
these many years. Give me your
hand, and welcome.'
'Lean upon my arm,' said the stranger, 'for al=
ready
your strength abates. Lean on me as heavily as you need; for though I am ol=
d, I
am very strong. It is but three steps to my carriage, and there all your
trouble ends. Why, Will,' he added, 'I have been yearning for you as if you
were my own son; and of all the men that ever I came for in my long days, I
have come for you most gladly. I am
caustic, and sometimes offend people at first sight; but I am a good friend=
at
heart to such as you.'
'Since Marjory was taken,' returned Will, 'I
declare before God you were the only friend I had to look for.' So the pair went arm-in-arm across=
the
courtyard.
One of the servants awoke about this time and
heard the noise of horses pawing before he dropped asleep again; all down t=
he
valley that night there was a rushing as of a smooth and steady wind descen=
ding
towards the plain; and when the world rose next morning, sure enough Will o'
the Mill had gone at last upon his travels.
=
'Yes,'
said the dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and t=
hen I
touch a dividend on my superior knowledge.=
Some are dishonest,' and here he held up the candle, so that the lig=
ht
fell strongly on his visitor, 'and in that case,' he continued, 'I profit b=
y my
virtue.'
Markheim had but just entered from the daylight
streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and
darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence =
of
the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.
The dealer chuckled. 'You come to me on Christmas Day,'=
he
resumed, 'when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and
make a point of refusing business.
Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my los=
s of
time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, f=
or a
kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, an=
d ask
no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has=
to
pay for it.' The dealer once =
more
chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with=
a
note of irony, 'You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into
the possession of the object?' he continued. 'Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!'
And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer s=
tood
almost on tip-toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding=
his
head with every mark of disbelief.
Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of
horror.
'This time,' said he, 'you are in error. I have not come to sell, but to bu=
y. I have no curios to dispose of; my
uncle's cabinet is bare to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have =
done
well on the Stock Exchange, and should more likely add to it than otherwise,
and my errand to-day is simplicity itself.=
I seek a Christmas present for a lady,' he continued, waxing more fl=
uent
as he struck into the speech he had prepared; 'and certainly I owe you every
excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a matter. But the thing was neglected yester=
day; I
must produce my little compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a =
rich
marriage is not a thing to be neglected.'
There followed a pause, during which the dealer
seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among t=
he
curious lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near tho=
roughfare,
filled up the interval of silence.
'Well, sir,' said the dealer, 'be it so. You are an old customer after all;=
and
if, as you say, you have the chance of a good marriage, far be it from me t=
o be
an obstacle. Here is a nice t=
hing
for a lady now,' he went on, 'this hand glass--fifteenth century, warranted;
comes from a good collection, too; but I reserve the name, in the interests=
of
my customer, who was just like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole h=
eir
of a remarkable collector.'
The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry and
biting voice, had stooped to take the object from its place; and, as he had
done so, a shock had passed through Markheim, a start both of hand and foot=
, a
sudden leap of many tumultuous passions to the face. It passed as swiftly as it came, a=
nd
left no trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the
glass.
'A glass,' he said hoarsely, and then paused, =
and
repeated it more clearly. 'A
glass? For Christmas? Surely not?'
'And why not?' cried the dealer. 'Why not a glass?'
Markheim was looking upon him with an indefina=
ble
expression. 'You ask me why n=
ot?'
he said. 'Why, look here--loo=
k in
it--look at yourself! Do you =
like
to see it? No! nor I--nor any=
man.'
The little man had jumped back when Markheim h=
ad
so suddenly confronted him with the mirror; but now, perceiving there was
nothing worse on hand, he chuckled.
'Your future lady, sir, must be pretty hard favoured,' said he.
'I ask you,' said Markheim, 'for a Christmas
present, and you give me this--this damned reminder of years, and sins and
follies--this hand-conscience! Did
you mean it? Had you a though=
t in
your mind? Tell me. It will be better for you if you
do. Come, tell me about yours=
elf. I
hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable man?'
The dealer looked closely at his companion.
'What are you driving at?' the dealer asked.
'Not charitable?' returned the other,
gloomily. Not charitable; not=
pious;
not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe to keep
it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?'
'I will tell you what it is,' began the dealer,
with some sharpness, and then broke off again into a chuckle. 'But I see this is a love match of=
yours,
and you have been drinking the lady's health.'
'Ah!' cried Markheim, with a strange
curiosity. 'Ah, have you been=
in love? Tell me about that.'
'I,' cried the dealer. 'I in love! I never had the time, nor have I t=
he time
to-day for all this nonsense. Will
you take the glass?'
'Where is the hurry?' returned Markheim. 'It is very pleasant to stand here
talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry away from=
any
pleasure--no, not even from so mild a one as this. We should rather cling, cling to w=
hat
little we can get, like a man at a cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you th=
ink
upon it--a cliff a mile high--high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of ev=
ery
feature of humanity. Hence it=
is
best to talk pleasantly. Let =
us
talk of each other: why should we wear this mask? Let us be confidential. Who knows, we might become friends=
?'
'I have just one word to say to you,' said the
dealer. 'Either make your pur=
chase,
or walk out of my shop!'
'True true,' said Markheim. 'Enough, fooling. To business. Show me something else.'
The dealer stooped once more, this time to rep=
lace
the glass upon the shelf, his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he d=
id
so. Markheim moved a little n=
earer,
with one hand in the pocket of his greatcoat; he drew himself up and filled=
his
lungs; at the same time many different emotions were depicted together on h=
is
face--terror, horror, and resolve, fascination and a physical repulsion; and
through a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth looked out.
'This, perhaps, may suit,' observed the dealer:
and then, as he began to re-arise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his
victim. The long, skewerlike =
dagger
flashed and fell. The dealer
struggled like a hen, striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on=
the
floor in a heap.
Time had some score of small voices in that sh=
op,
some stately and slow as was becoming to their great age; others garrulous =
and
hurried. All these told out t=
he
seconds in an intricate, chorus of tickings. Then the passage of a lad's feet, =
heavily
running on the pavement, broke in upon these smaller voices and startled
Markheim into the consciousness of his surroundings. He looked about him awfully. The candle stood on the counter, i=
ts
flame solemnly wagging in a draught; and by that inconsiderable movement, t=
he
whole room was filled with noiseless bustle and kept heaving like a sea: the
tall shadows nodding, the gross blots of darkness swelling and dwindling as
with respiration, the faces of the portraits and the china gods changing and
wavering like images in water. The inner door stood ajar, and peered into t=
hat
leaguer of shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger.
From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim's e=
yes
returned to the body of his victim, where it lay both humped and sprawling,
incredibly small and strangely meaner than in life. In these poor, miserly clothes, in=
that ungainly
attitude, the dealer lay like so much sawdust. Markheim had feared to see it, and=
, lo!
it was nothing. And yet, as he
gazed, this bundle of old clothes and pool of blood began to find eloquent
voices. There it must lie; there was none to work the cunning hinges or dir=
ect the
miracle of locomotion--there it must lie till it was found. Found! ay, and then? Then would this dead flesh lift up=
a cry
that would ring over England, and fill the world with the echoes of
pursuit. Ay, dead or not, thi=
s was
still the enemy. 'Time was th=
at
when the brains were out,' he thought; and the first word struck into his
mind. Time, now that the deed=
was
accomplished--time, which had closed for the victim, had become instant and
momentous for the slayer.
The thought was yet in his mind, when, first o=
ne
and then another, with every variety of pace and voice--one deep as the bell
from a cathedral turret, another ringing on its treble notes the prelude of=
a
waltz-the clocks began to strike the hour of three in the afternoon.
The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb chamber staggered him. He began to bestir himself, going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered by moving shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. In many rich mirrors, some of home design, some from Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and repeate= d, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes met and detected him; and the sou= nd of his own steps, lightly as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And still, as he continued to fill= his pockets, his mind accused him with a sickening iteration, of the thousand faults of his design. He shou= ld have chosen a more quiet hour; he should have prepared an alibi; he should = not have used a knife; he should have been more cautious, and only bound and ga= gged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been more bold, and killed t= he servant also; he should have done all things otherwise: poignant regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, to pl= an what was now useless, to be the architect of the irrevocable past. Meanwhile, and behind all this act= ivity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of rats in a deserted attic, filled the m= ore remote chambers of his brain with riot; the hand of the constable would fall heavy= on his shoulder, and his nerves would jerk like a hooked fish; or he beheld, in galloping defile, the dock, the prison, the gallows, and the black coffin.<= o:p>
Terror of the people in the street sat down be=
fore
his mind like a besieging army. It
was impossible, he thought, but that some rumour of the struggle must have
reached their ears and set on edge their curiosity; and now, in all the nei=
ghbouring
houses, he divined them sitting motionless and with uplifted ear--solitary
people, condemned to spend Christmas dwelling alone on memories of the past,
and now startingly recalled from that tender exercise; happy family parties=
struck
into silence round the table, the mother still with raised finger: every de=
gree
and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, prying and hearkening and
weaving the rope that was to hang him.&nbs=
p;
Sometimes it seemed to him he could not move too softly; the clink of
the tall Bohemian goblets rang out loudly like a bell; and alarmed by the
bigness of the ticking, he was tempted to stop the clocks. And then, again, with a swift tran=
sition
of his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril, a=
nd a
thing to strike and freeze the passer-by; and he would step more boldly, and
bustle aloud among the contents of the shop, and imitate, with elaborate
bravado, the movements of a busy man at ease in his own house.
But he was now so pulled about by different al=
arms
that, while one portion of his mind was still alert and cunning, another
trembled on the brink of lunacy.
One hallucination in particular took a strong hold on his
credulity. The neighbour hear=
kening
with white face beside his window, the passer-by arrested by a horrible sur=
mise
on the pavement--these could at worst suspect, they could not know; through=
the
brick walls and shuttered windows only sounds could penetrate. But here, within the house, was he
alone? He knew he was; he had
watched the servant set forth sweet-hearting, in her poor best, 'out for the
day' written in every ribbon and smile.&nb=
sp;
Yes, he was alone, of course; and yet, in the bulk of empty house ab=
ove
him, he could surely hear a stir of delicate footing--he was surely conscio=
us,
inexplicably conscious of some presence.&n=
bsp;
Ay, surely; to every room and corner of the house his imagination
followed it; and now it was a faceless thing, and yet had eyes to see with;=
and
again it was a shadow of himself; and yet again behold the image of the dead
dealer, reinspired with cunning and hatred.
At times, with a strong effort, he would glanc=
e at
the open door which still seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight s=
mall and
dirty, the day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the grou=
nd
story was exceedingly faint, and showed dimly on the threshold of the
shop. And yet, in that strip =
of
doubtful brightness, did there not hang wavering a shadow?
Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovi=
al
gentleman began to beat with a staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blo=
ws
with shouts and railleries in which the dealer was continually called upon =
by
name. Markheim, smitten into ice, glanced at the dead man. But no! he lay quite still; he was=
fled
away far beyond earshot of these blows and shoutings; he was sunk beneath s=
eas
of silence; and his name, which would once have caught his notice above the
howling of a storm, had become an empty sound. And presently the jovial gentleman
desisted from his knocking, and departed.
Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained t=
o be
done, to get forth from this accusing neighbourhood, to plunge into a bath =
of
London multitudes, and to reach, on the other side of day, that haven of sa=
fety
and apparent innocence--his bed.
One visitor had come: at any moment another might follow and be more
obstinate. To have done the d=
eed,
and yet not to reap the profit, would be too abhorrent a failure. The money, that was now Markheim's
concern; and as a means to that, the keys.
He glanced over his shoulder at the open door,
where the shadow was still lingering and shivering; and with no conscious
repugnance of the mind, yet with a tremor of the belly, he drew near the bo=
dy
of his victim. The human char=
acter
had quite departed. Like a su=
it
half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay scattered, the trunk doubled, on the
floor; and yet the thing repelled him.&nbs=
p;
Although so dingy and inconsiderable to the eye, he feared it might =
have
more significance to the touch. He
took the body by the shoulders, and turned it on its back. It was strangely light and supple,=
and
the limbs, as if they had been broken, fell into the oddest postures. The face was robbed of all express=
ion;
but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temp=
le. That was, for Markheim, the one
displeasing circumstance. It
carried him back, upon the instant, to a certain fair-day in a fishers'
village: a gray day, a piping wind, a crowd upon the street, the blare of
brasses, the booming of drums, the nasal voice of a ballad singer; and a boy
going to and fro, buried over head in the crowd and divided between interest
and fear, until, coming out upon the chief place of concourse, he beheld a
booth and a great screen with pictures, dismally designed, garishly coloure=
d: Brown-rigg
with her apprentice; the Mannings with their murdered guest; Weare in the
death-grip of Thurtell; and a score besides of famous crimes. The thing was as clear as an illus=
ion;
he was once again that little boy; he was looking once again, and with the =
same
sense of physical revolt, at these vile pictures; he was still stunned by t=
he thumping
of the drums. A bar of that d=
ay's
music returned upon his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm ca=
me
over him, a breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must
instantly resist and conquer.
He judged it more prudent to confront than to =
flee
from these considerations; looking the more hardily in the dead face, bendi=
ng
his mind to realise the nature and greatness of his crime. So little a while ago that face had=
moved
with every change of sentiment, that pale mouth had spoken, that body had b=
een
all on fire with governable energies; and now, and by his act, that piece of
life had been arrested, as the horologist, with interjected finger, arrests=
the
beating of the clock. So he
reasoned in vain; he could rise to no more remorseful consciousness; the sa=
me
heart which had shuddered before the painted effigies of crime, looked on i=
ts
reality unmoved. At best, he =
felt a
gleam of pity for one who had been endowed in vain with all those faculties
that can make the world a garden of enchantment, one who had never lived and
who was now dead. But of peni=
tence,
no, not a tremor.
With that, shaking himself clear of these
considerations, he found the keys and advanced towards the open door of the
shop. Outside, it had begun t=
o rain
smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had banished silence.
The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on t=
he
bare floor and stairs; on the bright suit of armour posted, halbert in hand,
upon the landing; and on the dark wood-carvings, and framed pictures that h=
ung
against the yellow panels of the wainscot.=
So loud was the beating of the rain through all the house that, in
Markheim's ears, it began to be distinguished into many different sounds. Footsteps and sighs, the tread of
regiments marching in the distance, the chink of money in the counting, and=
the
creaking of doors held stealthily ajar, appeared to mingle with the patter =
of
the drops upon the cupola and the gushing of the water in the pipes. The sense that he was not alone gr=
ew
upon him to the verge of madness.
On every side he was haunted and begirt by presences. He heard them moving in the upper
chambers; from the shop, he heard the dead man getting to his legs; and as =
he
began with a great effort to mount the stairs, feet fled quietly before him=
and
followed stealthily behind. I=
f he
were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul! And then again, and hearkening wit=
h ever
fresh attention, he blessed himself for that unresting sense which held the=
outposts
and stood a trusty sentinel upon his life.=
His head turned continually on his neck; his eyes, which seemed star=
ting
from their orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewar=
ded
as with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps to the f=
irst
floor were four-and-twenty agonies.
On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, th=
ree
of them like three ambushes, shaking his nerves like the throats of
cannon. He could never again,=
he
felt, be sufficiently immured and fortified from men's observing eyes, he
longed to be home, girt in by walls, buried among bedclothes, and invisible=
to
all but God. And at that thou=
ght he
wondered a little, recollecting tales of other murderers and the fear they =
were
said to entertain of heavenly avengers.&nb=
sp;
It was not so, at least, with him.&=
nbsp;
He feared the laws of nature, lest, in their callous and immutable
procedure, they should preserve some damning evidence of his crime. He feared tenfold more, with a sla=
vish,
superstitions terror, some scission in the continuity of man's experience, =
some
wilful illegality of nature. =
He
played a game of skill, depending on the rules, calculating consequence from
cause; and what if nature, as the defeated tyrant overthrew the chess-board,
should break the mould of their succession? The like had befallen Napoleon (so
writers said) when the winter changed the time of its appearance. The like might befall Markheim: the
solid walls might become transparent and reveal his doings like those of be=
es
in a glass hive; the stout planks might yield under his foot like quicksands
and detain him in their clutch; ay, and there were soberer accidents that m=
ight
destroy him: if, for instance, the house should fall and imprison him beside
the body of his victim; or the house next door should fly on fire, and the
firemen invade him from all sides.
These things he feared; and, in a sense, these things might be called
the hands of God reached forth against sin. But about God himself he was at ea=
se;
his act was doubtless exceptional, but so were his excuses, which God knew;=
it
was there, and not among men, that he felt sure of justice.
When he had got safe into the drawing-room, and
shut the door behind him, he was aware of a respite from alarms. The room was quite dismantled, unc=
arpeted
besides, and strewn with packing cases and incongruous furniture; several g=
reat
pier-glasses, in which he beheld himself at various angles, like an actor o=
n a
stage; many pictures, framed and unframed, standing, with their faces to the
wall; a fine Sheraton sideboard, a cabinet of marquetry, and a great old be=
d,
with tapestry hangings. The w=
indows
opened to the floor; but by great good fortune the lower part of the shutte=
rs
had been closed, and this concealed him from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a pac=
king
case before the cabinet, and began to search among the keys. It was a long business, for there =
were
many; and it was irksome, besides; for, after all, there might be nothing in
the cabinet, and time was on the wing.&nbs=
p;
But the closeness of the occupation sobered him. With the tail of his eye he saw th=
e door--even
glanced at it from time to time directly, like a besieged commander pleased=
to
verify the good estate of his defences.&nb=
sp;
But in truth he was at peace.
The rain falling in the street sounded natural and pleasant. Presently, on the other side, the =
notes
of a piano were wakened to the music of a hymn, and the voices of many chil=
dren
took up the air and words. How
stately, how comfortable was the melody!&n=
bsp;
How fresh the youthful voices!
Markheim gave ear to it smilingly, as he sorted out the keys; and his
mind was thronged with answerable ideas and images; church-going children a=
nd
the pealing of the high organ; children afield, bathers by the brookside,
ramblers on the brambly common, kite- flyers in the windy and cloud-navigat=
ed
sky; and then, at another cadence of the hymn, back again to church, and the
somnolence of summer Sundays, and the high genteel voice of the parson (whi=
ch
he smiled a little to recall) and the painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim
lettering of the Ten Commandments in the chancel.
And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he
was startled to his feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush =
of
blood, went over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted the stair slowly and
steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the knob, and the lock clicked,
and the door opened.
Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whethe=
r the dead
man walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some chance wit=
ness
blindly stumbling in to consign him to the gallows. But when a face was thrust into the
aperture, glanced round the room, looked at him, nodded and smiled as if in
friendly recognition, and then withdrew again, and the door closed behind i=
t,
his fear broke loose from his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this the visitant
returned.
'Did you call me?' he asked, pleasantly, and w=
ith
that he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his
eyes. Perhaps there was a fil=
m upon
his sight, but the outlines of the new comer seemed to change and waver like
those of the idols in the wavering candle-light of the shop; and at times h=
e thought
he knew him; and at times he thought he bore a likeness to himself; and alw=
ays,
like a lump of living terror, there lay in his bosom the conviction that th=
is
thing was not of the earth and not of God.
And yet the creature had a strange air of the =
commonplace,
as he stood looking on Markheim with a smile; and when he added: 'You are
looking for the money, I believe?' it was in the tones of everyday politene=
ss.
Markheim made no answer.
'I should warn you,' resumed the other, 'that =
the
maid has left her sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be found in this h=
ouse,
I need not describe to him the consequences.'
'You know me?' cried the murderer.
The visitor smiled. 'You have long been a favourite of
mine,' he said; 'and I have long observed and often sought to help you.'
'What are you?' cried Markheim: 'the devil?'
'What I may be,' returned the other, 'cannot
affect the service I propose to render you.'
'It can,' cried Markheim; 'it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by you! You do not know me yet; thank God,=
you
do not know me!'
'I know you,' replied the visitant, with a sor=
t of
kind severity or rather firmness.
'I know you to the soul.'
'Know me!' cried Markheim. 'Who can do so? My life is but a travesty and slan=
der on
myself. I have lived to belie=
my
nature. All men do; all men a=
re
better than this disguise that grows about and stifles them. You see each dragged away by life,=
like
one whom bravos have seized and muffled in a cloak. If they had their own control--if =
you
could see their faces, they would be altogether different, they would shine=
out
for heroes and saints! I am w=
orse
than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known to me and God. But, had I the time, I could discl=
ose myself.'
'To me?' inquired the visitant.
'To you before all,' returned the murderer.
'All this is very feelingly expressed,' was the
reply, 'but it regards me not.
These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care not in
the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so as you are =
but
carried in the right direction. But
time flies; the servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the
pictures on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember,=
it
is as if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the Christmas =
streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all?=
Shall I tell you where to find the
money?'
'For what price?' asked Markheim.
'I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,'
returned the other.
Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a
kind of bitter triumph. 'No,' said he, 'I will take nothing at your hands; =
if I
were dying of thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips,=
I
should find the courage to refuse.
It may be credulous, but I will do nothing to commit myself to evil.=
'
'I have no objection to a death-bed repentance=
,'
observed the visitant.
'Because you disbelieve their efficacy!' Markh=
eim
cried.
'I do not say so,' returned the other; 'but I =
look
on these things from a different side, and when the life is done my interest
falls. The man has lived to s=
erve
me, to spread black looks under colour of religion, or to sow tares in the
wheat-field, as you do, in a course of weak compliance with desire. Now that he draws so near to his
deliverance, he can add but one act of service--to repent, to die smiling, =
and
thus to build up in confidence and hope the more timorous of my surviving
followers. I am not so hard a
master. Try me. Accept my help. Please yourself in life as you hav=
e done
hitherto; please yourself more amply, spread your elbows at the board; and =
when
the night begins to fall and the curtains to be drawn, I tell you, for your
greater comfort, that you will find it even easy to compound your quarrel w=
ith
your conscience, and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a deathbe=
d, and
the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the man's last words: a=
nd when
I looked into that face, which had been set as a flint against mercy, I fou=
nd
it smiling with hope.'
'And do you, then, suppose me such a creature?'
asked Markheim. 'Do you think=
I
have no more generous aspirations than to sin, and sin, and sin, and, at the
last, sneak into heaven? My h=
eart
rises at the thought. Is this,
then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red han=
ds
that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed so impio=
us
as to dry up the very springs of good?'
'Murder is to me no special category,' replied=
the
other. 'All sins are murder, =
even
as all life is war. I behold =
your
race, like starving mariners on a raft, plucking crusts out of the hands of
famine and feeding on each other's lives.&=
nbsp;
I follow sins beyond the moment of their acting; I find in all that =
the
last consequence is death; and to my eyes, the pretty maid who thwarts her
mother with such taking graces on a question of a ball, drips no less visib=
ly
with human gore than such a murderer as yourself. Do I say that I follow sins? I follow virtues also; they differ=
not
by the thickness of a nail, they are both scythes for the reaping angel of
Death. Evil, for which I live,
consists not in action but in character.&n=
bsp;
The bad man is dear to me; not the bad act, whose fruits, if we could
follow them far enough down the hurtling cataract of the ages, might yet be
found more blessed than those of the rarest virtues. And it is not because you have kil=
led a
dealer, but because you are Markheim, that I offer to forward your escape.'=
'I will lay my heart open to you,' answered
Markheim. 'This crime on whic=
h you
find me is my last. On my way=
to it
I have learned many lessons; itself is a lesson, a momentous lesson. Hitherto I have been driven with r=
evolt
to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, driven and scourged.
'You are to use this money on the Stock Exchan=
ge,
I think?' remarked the visitor; 'and there, if I mistake not, you have alre=
ady
lost some thousands?'
'Ah,' said Markheim, 'but this time I have a s=
ure
thing.'
'This time, again, you will lose,' replied the
visitor quietly.
'Ah, but I keep back the half!' cried Markheim=
.
'That also you will lose,' said the other.
The sweat started upon Markheim's brow. 'Well, then, what matter?' he excl=
aimed. 'Say it be lost, say I am plunged =
again
in poverty, shall one part of me, and that the worse, continue until the en=
d to
override the better? Evil and=
good
run strong in me, haling me both ways.&nbs=
p;
I do not love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renunc=
iations,
martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as murder, pity is no
stranger to my thoughts. I pi=
ty the
poor; who knows their trials better than myself? I pity and help them; I prize love=
, I love
honest laughter; there is no good thing nor true thing on earth but I love =
it
from my heart. And are my vic=
es
only to direct my life, and my virtues to lie without effect, like some pas=
sive
lumber of the mind? Not so; g=
ood,
also, is a spring of acts.'
But the visitant raised his finger. 'For six-and-thirty years that you=
have
been in this world,' said be, 'through many changes of fortune and varietie=
s of
humour, I have watched you steadily fall.&=
nbsp;
Fifteen years ago you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have ble=
nched
at the name of murder. Is the=
re any
crime, is there any cruelty or meanness, from which you still recoil?--five
years from now I shall detect you in the fact! Downward, downward, lies your way;=
nor
can anything but death avail to stop you.'
'It is true,' Markheim said huskily, 'I have in
some degree complied with evil. But
it is so with all: the very saints, in the mere exercise of living, grow le=
ss
dainty, and take on the tone of their surroundings.'
'I will propound to you one simple question,' =
said
the other; 'and as you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope.
'In any one?' repeated Markheim, with an angui=
sh
of consideration. 'No,' he ad=
ded,
with despair, 'in none! I hav=
e gone
down in all.'
'Then,' said the visitor, 'content yourself wi=
th
what you are, for you will never change; and the words of your part on this
stage are irrevocably written down.'
Markheim stood for a long while silent, and in=
deed
it was the visitor who first broke the silence. 'That being so,' he said, 'shall I=
show
you the money?'
'And grace?' cried Markheim.
'Have you not tried it?' returned the other. 'Two or three years ago, did I not=
see
you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your voice the loudest=
in
the hymn?'
'It is true,' said Markheim; 'and I see clearly
what remains for me by way of duty.
I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are opened, and I
behold myself at last for what I am.'
At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell
rang through the house; and the visitant, as though this were some concerted
signal for which he had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour.
'The maid!' he cried. 'She has returned, as I forewarned=
you,
and there is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, is ill; =
you
must let her in, with an assured but rather serious countenance--no smiles,=
no
overacting, and I promise you success!&nbs=
p;
Once the girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that h=
as
already rid you of the dealer will relieve you of this last danger in your
path. Thenceforward you have the whole evening--the whole night, if needful=
--to
ransack the treasures of the house and to make good your safety. This is help that comes to you wit=
h the
mask of danger. Up!' he cried=
; 'up,
friend; your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and act!'
Markheim steadily regarded his counsellor. 'If I be condemned to evil acts,' =
he
said, 'there is still one door of freedom open--I can cease from action.
The features of the visitor began to undergo a
wonderful and lovely change: they brightened and softened with a tender
triumph, and, even as they brightened, faded and dislimned. But Markheim did not pause to watc=
h or
understand the transformation. He
opened the door and went downstairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His past went soberly before him; =
he
beheld it as it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random as
chance-medley--a scene of defeat.
Life, as he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer; but on the furt=
her
side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, and look=
ed
into the shop, where the candle still burned by the dead body. It was strangely silent. Thoughts =
of the
dealer swarmed into his mind, as he stood gazing. And then the bell once more broke =
out
into impatient clamour.
He confronted the maid upon the threshold with
something like a smile.
'You had better go for the police,' said he: 'I
have killed your master.'
=
The
Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish of Balwear=
y,
in the vale of Dule. A severe,
bleak-faced old man, dreadful to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years of=
his
life, without relative or servant or any human company, in the small and lo=
nely
manse under the Hanging Shaw. In
spite of the iron composure of his features, his eye was wild, scared, and
uncertain; and when he dwelt, in private admonitions, on the future of the
impenitent, it seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms of time to t=
he
terrors of eternity. Many you=
ng
persons, coming to prepare themselves against the season of the Holy Commun=
ion,
were dreadfully affected by his talk.
He had a sermon on lst Peter, v. and 8th, 'The devil as a roaring li=
on,'
on the Sunday after every seventeenth of August, and he was accustomed to
surpass himself upon that text both by the appalling nature of the matter a=
nd
the terror of his bearing in the pulpit.&n=
bsp;
The children were frightened into fits, and the old looked more than
usually oracular, and were, all that day, full of those hints that Hamlet
deprecated. The manse itself,=
where
it stood by the water of Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw overhan=
ging
it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish hilltops rising tow=
ards
the sky, had begun, at a very early period of Mr. Soulis's ministry, to be
avoided in the dusk hours by all who valued themselves upon their prudence;=
and
guidmen sitting at the clachan alehouse shook their heads together at the
thought of passing late by that uncanny neighbourhood. There was one spot, to be more
particular, which was regarded with especial awe. The manse stood between the high r=
oad
and the water of Dule, with a gable to each; its back was towards the kirk-=
town
of Balweary, nearly half a mile away; in front of it, a bare garden, hedged
with thorn, occupied the land between the river and the road. The house was two stories high, wi=
th two
large rooms on each. It opened not directly on the garden, but on a causewa=
yed
path, or passage, giving on the road on the one hand, and closed on the oth=
er
by the tall willows and elders that bordered on the stream. And it was this strip of causeway =
that
enjoyed among the young parishioners of Balweary so infamous a reputation.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The minister walked there often af=
ter
dark, sometimes groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers; and=
when
he was from home, and the manse door was locked, the more daring schoolboys
ventured, with beating hearts, to 'follow my leader' across that legendary
spot.
This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it =
did,
a man of God of spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of won=
der
and subject of inquiry among the few strangers who were led by chance or bu=
siness
into that unknown, outlying country.
But many even of the people of the parish were ignorant of the stran=
ge
events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis's ministrations; and a=
mong
those who were better informed, some were naturally reticent, and others sh=
y of
that particular topic. Now and
again, only, one of the older folk would warm into courage over his third
tumbler, and recount the cause of the minister's strange looks and solitary
life.
* * * * *
Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam first in=
to
Ba'weary, he was still a young man--a callant, the folk said--fu' o' book
learnin' and grand at the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a ma=
n,
wi' nae leevin' experience in religion.&nb=
sp;
The younger sort were greatly taken wi' his gifts and his gab; but a=
uld,
concerned, serious men and women were moved even to prayer for the young ma=
n,
whom they took to be a self-deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae
ill-supplied. It was before t=
he days
o' the moderates--weary fa' them; but ill things are like guid--they baith =
come
bit by bit, a pickle at a time; and there were folk even then that said the
Lord had left the college professors to their ain devices, an' the lads that
went to study wi' them wad hae done mair and better sittin' in a peat-bog, =
like
their forbears of the persecution, wi' a Bible under their oxter and a spee=
rit
o' prayer in their heart. The=
re was
nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the college. He was careful and troubled for mo=
ny
things besides the ae thing needful.
He had a feck o' books wi' him--mair than had ever been seen before =
in
a' that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had wi' them, for they were=
a'
like to have smoored in the Deil's Hag between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o' divinity, to be=
sure,
or so they ca'd them; but the serious were o' opinion there was little serv=
ice for
sae mony, when the hail o' God's Word would gang in the neuk of a plaid.
Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent w=
ife
to keep the manse for him an' see to his bit denners; and he was recommende=
d to
an auld limmer--Janet M'Clour, they ca'd her--and sae far left to himsel' a=
s to
be ower persuaded. There was =
mony
advised him to the contrar, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best f=
olk
in Ba'weary. Lang or that, sh=
e had
had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit {140} for maybe thretty yea=
r;
and bairns had seen her mumblin' to hersel' up on Key's Loan in the gloamin=
',
whilk was an unco time an' place for a God-fearin' woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel=
' that
had first tauld the minister o' Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane a =
far
gate to pleesure the laird. W=
hen
folk tauld him that Janet was sib to the deil, it was a' superstition by his
way of it; an' when they cast up the Bible to him an' the witch of Endor, he
wad threep it doun their thrapples that thir days were a' gane by, and the =
deil
was mercifully restrained.
Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet
M'Clour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi' her an' =
him
thegether; and some o' the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round h=
er
door cheeks and chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again her, frae the sodge=
r's
bairn to John Tamson's twa kye. She
was nae great speaker; folk usually let her gang her ain gate, an' she let =
them
gang theirs, wi', neither Fair-guid- een nor Fair-guid-day; but when she
buckled to, she had a tongue to deave the miller. Up she got, an' there wasnae an au=
ld
story in Ba'weary but she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae=
say
ae thing but she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwive=
s up
and claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her do=
un the
clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum or
droun. The carline skirled ti=
ll ye
could hear her at the Hangin' Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a
guidwife bure the mark of her neist day an' mony a lang day after; and just=
in
the hettest o' the collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the n=
ew
minister.
'Women,' said he (and he had a grand voice), 'I
charge you in the Lord's name to let her go.'
Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi' terror-=
-an'
clang to him, an' prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the cummers;=
an'
they, for their pairt, tauld him a' that was ken't, and maybe mair.
'Woman,' says he to Janet, 'is this true?'
'As the Lord sees me,' says she, 'as the Lord =
made
me, no a word o't. Forbye the bairn,' says she, 'I've been a decent woman a=
' my
days.'
'Will you,' says Mr. Soulis, 'in the name of G=
od,
and before me, His unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?'
Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, s=
he
gave a girn that fairly frichtit them that saw her, an' they could hear her
teeth play dirl thegether in her chafts; but there was naething for it but =
the
ae way or the ither; an' Janet lifted up her hand and renounced the deil be=
fore
them a'.
'And now,' says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, '=
home
with ye, one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.'
And he gied Janet his arm, though she had litt=
le
on her but a sark, and took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy=
of the
land; an' her scrieghin' and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard.
There were mony grave folk lang ower their pra=
yers
that nicht; but when the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upon a' Ba'wea=
ry
that the bairns hid theirsels, and even the men folk stood and keekit frae
their doors. For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan--her or her likene=
ss,
nane could tell--wi' her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body =
that
has been hangit, and a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp. By an' by they got used wi' it, an=
d even
speered at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that day forth she couldnae
speak like a Christian woman, but slavered and played click wi' her teeth l=
ike
a pair o' shears; and frae that day forth the name o' God cam never on her
lips. Whiles she wad try to s=
ay it,
but it michtnae be. Them that
kenned best said least; but they never gied that Thing the name o' Janet
M'Clour; for the auld Janet, by their way o't, was in muckle hell that
day. But the minister was nei=
ther
to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the folk's cruelty that=
had
gi'en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the bairns that meddled her; and=
he
had her up to the manse that same nicht, and dwalled there a' his lane wi' =
her
under the Hangin' Shaw.
Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenc=
ed
to think mair lichtly o' that black business. The minister was weel thocht o'; h=
e was
aye late at the writing, folk wad see his can'le doon by the Dule water aft=
er
twal' at e'en; and he seemed pleased wi' himsel' and upsitten as at first, =
though
a' body could see that he was dwining.&nbs=
p;
As for Janet she cam an' she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore,=
it
was reason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an
eldritch thing to see, an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her for Ba'weary gle=
be.
About the end o' July there cam' a spell o'
weather, the like o't never was in that country side; it was lown an' het a=
n'
heartless; the herds couldnae win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower
weariet to play; an' yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund that rumm=
'led
in the glens, and bits o' shouers that slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to thun'er on=
the
morn; but the morn cam, an' the morn's morning, and it was aye the same unc=
anny
weather, sair on folks and bestial.
Of a' that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could
neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an' when he wasnae writin' at h=
is
weary book, he wad be stravaguin' ower a' the countryside like a man posses=
sed,
when a' body else was blythe to keep caller ben the house.
Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black
Hill, there's a bit enclosed grund wi' an iron yett; and it seems, in the a=
uld
days, that was the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists be=
fore
the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom.&=
nbsp;
It was a great howff o' Mr. Soulis's, onyway; there he would sit an'
consider his sermons; and indeed it's a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam ower the wast end =
o' the
Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an syne fower, an' syne seeven corbie
craws fleein' round an' round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh and heavy, an' squ=
awked
to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put
them frae their ordinar. He w=
asnae
easy fleyed, an' gaed straucht up to the wa's; an' what suld he find there =
but
a man, or the appearance of a man, sittin' in the inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, an' bla=
ck as
hell, and his e'en were singular to see. {144} Mr. Soulis had heard tell o' black=
men,
mony's the time; but there was something unco about this black man that dau=
nted
him. Het as he was, he took a=
kind
o' cauld grue in the marrow o' his banes; but up he spak for a' that; an' s=
ays
he: 'My friend, are you a stranger in this place?' The black man answered n=
ever
a word; he got upon his feet, an' begude to hirsle to the wa' on the far si=
de;
but he aye lookit at the minister; an' the minister stood an' lookit back; =
till
a' in a meenute the black man was ower the wa' an' rinnin' for the bield o'=
the
trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly =
kenned
why, ran after him; but he was sair forjaskit wi' his walk an' the het,
unhalesome weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o' the
black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the foot o' the hill-side, a=
n'
there he saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step, an' lowp, ower Dule water to t=
he
manse.
Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fears= ome gangrel suld mak' sae free wi' Ba'weary manse; an' he ran the harder, an', = wet shoon, ower the burn, an' up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He stepped out upon the = road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a' ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, and a= bit feared as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; and there= was Janet M'Clour before his een, wi' her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased to= see him. And he aye minded sinsyn= e, when first he set his een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue.<= o:p>
'Janet,' says he, 'have you seen a black man?'=
'A black man?' quo' she. 'Save us a'! Ye're no wise, minister. There's nae black man in a Ba'wear=
y.'
But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand;
but yam-yammered, like a powney wi' the bit in its moo.
'Weel,' says he, 'Janet, if there was nae black
man, I have spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.'
And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his
teeth chittered in his heid.
'Hoots,' says she, 'think shame to yoursel',
minister;' an' gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her.
Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' h=
is
books. It's a lang, laigh, mi=
rk
chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no very dry even in the tap o' the
simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he sat, and thocht of a' =
that
had come an' gane since he was in Ba'weary, an' his hame, an' the days when=
he
was a bairn an' ran daffin' on the braes; and that black man aye ran in his
heid like the ower-come of a sang.
Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o' the black man. He tried the prayer, an' the words
wouldnae come to him; an' he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he
could nae mak' nae mair o' that.
There was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an' the s=
wat
stood upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles, when he cam=
to himsel'
like a christened bairn and minded naething.
The upshot was that he gaed to the window an'
stood glowrin' at Dule water. The
trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under the manse; an'
there was Janct washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted. She had her back to
the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly kenned what he was lookin' at.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Syne she turned round, an' shawed =
her
face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an' it was
borne in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an' this w=
as a
bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He
drew back a pickle and he scanned her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin' in the cla'=
es,
croonin' to hersel'; and eh! =
Gude
guide us, but it was a fearsome face.
Whiles she sang louder, but there was nae man born o' woman that cou=
ld
tell the words o' her sang; an' whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there=
was
naething there for her to look at.
There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his banes; and that was
Heeven's advertisement. But M=
r.
Soulis just blamed himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld affli=
cted
wife that hadnae a freend forbye himsel'; an' he put up a bit prayer for him
and her, an' drank a little caller water--for his heart rose again the meat=
--an'
gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming.
That was a nicht that has never been forgotten=
in
Ba'weary, the nicht o' the seeventeenth of August, seventeen hun'er' an
twal'. It had been het afore,=
as I
hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than ever. The sun gaed doun amang unco-looki=
n'
clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no a star, no a breath o' wund; ye coul=
dnae
see your han' afore your face, and even the auld folk cuist the covers frae
their beds and lay pechin' for their breath. Wi' a' that he had upon his mind, i=
t was
gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay an' he tummled; the gude, c=
aller bed
that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he wauke=
ned;
whiles he heard the time o' nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin' up the muir, a=
s if
somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin' in his lug, a=
n'
whiles he saw spunkies in the room.
He behoved, he judged, to be sick; an' sick he was--little he jaloos=
ed
the sickness.
At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his m=
ind,
sat up in his sark on the bed-side, and fell thinkin' ance mair o' the black
man an' Janet. He couldnae we=
el
tell how--maybe it was the cauld to his feet--but it cam' in upon him wi' a
spate that there was some connection between thir twa, an' that either or b=
aith
o' them were bogles. And just=
at
that moment, in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam' a stramp o'
feet as if men were wars'lin', an' then a loud bang; an' then a wund gaed r=
eishling
round the fower quarters of the house; an' then a' was aince mair as seelen=
t as
the grave.
Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor
deevil. He got his tinder-box=
, an'
lit a can'le, an' made three steps o't ower to Janet's door. It was on the hasp, an' he pushed =
it open,
an' keeked bauldly in. It was=
a big
room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished wi' grand, auld, solid ge=
ar,
for he had naething else. The=
re was
a fower-posted bed wi' auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that was f=
u'
o' the minister's divinity books, an' put there to be out o' the gate; an' a
wheen duds o' Janet's lying here and there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see=
; nor
ony sign of a contention. In =
he
gaed (an' there's few that wad ha'e followed him) an' lookit a' round, an'
listened. But there was naeth=
in' to
be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary parish, an' naethin' =
to
be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the can'le. An' then a' at aince, the minister=
's
heart played dunt an' stood stock-still; an' a cauld wund blew amang the ha=
irs
o' his heid. Whaten a weary s=
icht
was that for the puir man's een!
For there was Janat hangin' frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet:=
her
heid aye lay on her shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekit frae
her mouth, and her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.
'God forgive us all!' thocht Mr. Soulis; 'poor
Janet's dead.'
He cam' a step nearer to the corp; an' then his
heart fair whammled in his inside.
For by what cantrip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she was hingin'
frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for darnin' hose.
It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht w=
i'
siccan prodigies o' darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an' gaed his ways oot o'=
that
room, and lockit the door ahint him; and step by step, doon the stairs, as
heavy as leed; and set doon the can'le on the table at the stairfoot. He couldnae pray, he couldnae thin=
k, he
was dreepin' wi' caul' swat, an' naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-d=
untin'
o' his ain heart. He micht ma=
ybe
have stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a' o' a
sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer upstairs; a foot gaed to an' fro in=
the
cha'mer whaur the corp was hingin'; syne the door was opened, though he min=
ded
weel that he had lockit it; an' syne there was a step upon the landin', an'=
it
seemed to him as if the corp was lookin' ower the rail and doun upon him wh=
aur
he stood.
He took up the can'le again (for he couldnae w=
ant
the licht), and as saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o' the manse =
an'
to the far end o' the causeway. It
was aye pit-mirk; the flame o' the can'le, when he set it on the grund, bru=
nt
steedy and clear as in a room; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin' a=
nd
sabbin' doon the glen, an' yon unhaly footstep that cam' ploddin doun the
stairs inside the manse. He k=
enned
the foot over weel, for it was Janet's; and at ilka step that cam' a wee th=
ing
nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commanded his soul to Him that =
made
an' keepit him; 'and O Lord,' said he, 'give me strength this night to war
against the powers of evil.'
By this time the foot was comin' through the
passage for the door; he could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as if the
fearsome thing was feelin' for its way.&nb=
sp;
The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a lang sigh cam' ower the hil=
ls,
the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there stood the corp of Thrawn
Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her black mutch, wi' the heid aye upon the =
shouther,
an' the girn still upon the face o't--leevin', ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr.
Soulis weel kenned--upon the threshold o' the manse.
It's a strange thing that the saul of man shou=
ld
be that thirled into his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an' his
heart didnae break.
She didnae stand there lang; she began to move
again an' cam' slowly towards Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A' the life o' his body, a' the st=
rength
o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his een. It seemed she was gaun to speak, b=
ut
wanted words, an' made a sign wi' the left hand. There cam' a clap o' wund, like a =
cat's
fuff; oot gaed the can'le, the saughs skrieghed like folk; an' Mr. Soulis
kenned that, live or die, this was the end o't.
'Witch, beldame, devil!' he cried, 'I charge y=
ou,
by the power of God, begone--if you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned=
, to
hell.'
An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' =
the
Heevens struck the Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o'
the witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by deils,
lowed up like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the thunder
followed, peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back o' that; and=
Mr.
Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi' skelloch upon skelloch,
for the clachan.
That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black=
Man
pass the Muckle Cairn as it was chappin' six; before eicht, he gaed by the
change-house at Knockdow; an' no lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun li=
nkin'
doun the braes frae Kilmackerlie.
There's little doubt but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet's
body; but he was awa' at last; and sinsyne the deil has never fashed us in
Ba'weary.
But it was a sair dispensation for the ministe=
r;
lang, lang he lay ravin' in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the=
man
ye ken the day.
=
'Now,'
said the doctor, 'my part is done, and, I may say, with some vanity, well
done. It remains only to get =
you
out of this cold and poisonous city, and to give you two months of a pure a=
ir
and an easy conscience. The l=
ast is
your affair. To the first I t=
hink I
can help you. It fells indeed
rather oddly; it was but the other day the Padre came in from the country; =
and
as he and I are old friends, although of contrary professions, he applied t=
o me
in a matter of distress among some of his parishioners. This was a family--but you are ign=
orant
of Spain, and even the names of our grandees are hardly known to you; suffi=
ce
it, then, that they were once great people, and are now fallen to the brink=
of
destitution. Nothing now belo=
ngs to
them but the residencia, and certain leagues of desert mountain, in the gre=
ater
part of which not even a goat could support life. But the house is a fine old place,=
and
stands at a great height among the hills, and most salubriously; and I had =
no sooner
heard my friend's tale, than I remembered you. I told him I had a wounded officer,
wounded in the good cause, who was now able to make a change; and I proposed
that his friends should take you for a lodger. Instantly the Padre's face g=
rew
dark, as I had maliciously foreseen it would. It was out of the question, he
said. Then let them starve, s=
aid I,
for I have no sympathy with tatterdemalion pride. There-upon we separated, not very
content with one another; but yesterday, to my wonder, the Padre returned a=
nd
made a submission: the difficulty, he said, he had found upon enquiry to be
less than he had feared; or, in other words, these proud people had put the=
ir
pride in their pocket. I clos=
ed
with the offer; and, subject to your approval, I have taken rooms for you in
the residencia. The air of th=
ese
mountains will renew your blood; and the quiet in which you will there live=
is
worth all the medicines in the world.'
'Doctor,' said I, 'you have been throughout my
good angel, and your advice is a command.&=
nbsp;
But tell me, if you please, something of the family with which I am =
to
reside.'
'I am coming to that,' replied my friend; 'and,
indeed, there is a difficulty in the way.&=
nbsp;
These beggars are, as I have said, of very high descent and swollen =
with
the most baseless vanity; they have lived for some generations in a growing
isolation, drawing away, on either hand, from the rich who had now become t=
oo
high for them, and from the poor, whom they still regarded as too low; and =
even
to-day, when poverty forces them to unfasten their door to a guest, they ca=
nnot
do so without a most ungracious stipulation. You are to remain, they say, a str=
anger;
they will give you attendance, but they refuse from the first the idea of t=
he smallest
intimacy.'
I will not deny that I was piqued, and perhaps=
the
feeling strengthened my desire to go, for I was confident that I could break
down that barrier if I desired.
'There is nothing offensive in such a stipulation,' said I; 'and I e=
ven
sympathise with the feeling that inspired it.'
'It is true they have never seen you,' returned
the doctor politely; 'and if they knew you were the handsomest and the most
pleasant man that ever came from England (where I am told that handsome men=
are
common, but pleasant ones not so much so), they would doubtless make you
welcome with a better grace. =
But
since you take the thing so well, it matters not. To me, indeed, it seems
discourteous. But you will fi=
nd
yourself the gainer. The fami=
ly
will not much tempt you. A mo=
ther,
a son, and a daughter; an old woman said to be halfwitted, a country lout, =
and
a country girl, who stands very high with her confessor, and is, therefore,'
chuckled the physician, 'most likely plain; there is not much in that to
attract the fancy of a dashing officer.'
'And yet you say they are high-born,' I object=
ed.
'Well, as to that, I should distinguish,' retu=
rned
the doctor. 'The mother is; n=
ot so
the children. The mother was =
the
last representative of a princely stock, degenerate both in parts and
fortune. Her father was not o=
nly
poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about the residencia till his
death. Then, much of the fort=
une
having died with him, and the family being quite extinct, the girl ran wild=
er
than ever, until at last she married, Heaven knows whom, a muleteer some sa=
y,
others a smuggler; while there are some who uphold there was no marriage at
all, and that Felipe and Olalla are bastards. The union, such as it was, was tra=
gically
dissolved some years ago; but they live in such seclusion, and the country =
at
that time was in so much disorder, that the precise manner of the man's end=
is
known only to the priest--if even to him.'
'I begin to think I shall have strange
experiences,' said I.
'I would not romance, if I were you,' replied =
the
doctor; 'you will find, I fear, a very grovelling and commonplace reality.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Felipe, for instance, I have seen.=
And what am I to say? He is very rustic, very cunning, v=
ery
loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the others are probably to match.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> No, no, senor commandante, you mus=
t seek
congenial society among the great sights of our mountains; and in these at
least, if you are at all a lover of the works of nature, I promise you will=
not
be disappointed.'
The next day Felipe came for me in a rough cou=
ntry
cart, drawn by a mule; and a little before the stroke of noon, after I had =
said
farewell to the doctor, the innkeeper, and different good souls who had
befriended me during my sickness, we set forth out of the city by the Easte=
rn
gate, and began to ascend into the Sierra.=
I had been so long a prisoner, since I was left behind for dying aft=
er
the loss of the convoy, that the mere smell of the earth set me smiling.
'A crow?' I repeated, struck by the ineptitude=
of
the remark, and thinking I had heard imperfectly.
But by this time he was already filled with a =
new
idea; hearkening with a rapt intentness, his head on one side, his face
puckered; and he struck me rudely, to make me hold my peace. Then he smiled and shook his head.=
'What did you hear?' I asked.
'O, it is all right,' he said; and began
encouraging his mule with cries that echoed unhumanly up the mountain walls=
.
I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well-built, l=
ight, and
lithe and strong; he was well-featured; his yellow eyes were very large,
though, perhaps, not very expressive; take him altogether, he was a
pleasant-looking lad, and I had no fault to find with him, beyond that he w=
as
of a dusky hue, and inclined to hairyness; two characteristics that I
disliked. It was his mind that
puzzled, and yet attracted me. The doctor's
phrase--an innocent--came back to me; and I was wondering if that were, aft=
er
all, the true description, when the road began to go down into the narrow a=
nd
naked chasm of a torrent. The
waters thundered tumultuously in the bottom; and the ravine was filled full=
of
the sound, the thin spray, and the claps of wind, that accompanied their
descent. The scene was certainly impressive; but the road was in that part =
very
securely walled in; the mule went steadily forward; and I was astonished to
perceive the paleness of terror in the face of my companion. The voice of that wild river was
inconstant, now sinking lower as if in weariness, now doubling its hoarse
tones; momentary freshets seemed to swell its volume, sweeping down the gor=
ge,
raving and booming against the barrier walls; and I observed it was at each=
of
these accessions to the clamour, that my driver more particularly winced and
blanched. Some thoughts of Sc=
ottish
superstition and the river Kelpie, passed across my mind; I wondered if
perchance the like were prevalent in that part of Spain; and turning to Fel=
ipe,
sought to draw him out.
'What is the matter?' I asked.
'O, I am afraid,' he replied.
'Of what are you afraid?' I returned. 'This seems one of the safest plac=
es on
this very dangerous road.'
'It makes a noise,' he said, with a simplicity=
of
awe that set my doubts at rest.
The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind= was like his body, active and swift, but stunted in development; and I began fr= om that time forth to regard him with a measure of pity, and to listen at first with indulgence, and at last even with pleasure, to his disjointed babble.<= o:p>
By about four in the afternoon we had crossed =
the
summit of the mountain line, said farewell to the western sunshine, and beg=
an
to go down upon the other side, skirting the edge of many ravines and moving
through the shadow of dusky woods.
There rose upon all sides the voice of falling water, not condensed =
and
formidable as in the gorge of the river, but scattered and sounding gaily a=
nd
musically from glen to glen. =
Here,
too, the spirits of my driver mended, and he began to sing aloud in a false=
tto voice,
and with a singular bluntness of musical perception, never true either to
melody or key, but wandering at will, and yet somehow with an effect that w=
as
natural and pleasing, like that of the of birds. As the dusk increased, I fell more=
and
more under the spell of this artless warbling, listening and waiting for so=
me
articulate air, and still disappointed; and when at last I asked him what it
was he sang--'O,' cried he, 'I am just singing!' Above all, I was taken with a tric=
k he had
of unweariedly repeating the same note at little intervals; it was not so
monotonous as you would think, or, at least, not disagreeable; and it seeme=
d to
breathe a wonderful contentment with what is, such as we love to fancy in t=
he
attitude of trees, or the quiescence of a pool.
Night had fallen dark before we came out upon a
plateau, and drew up a little after, before a certain lump of superior
blackness which I could only conjecture to be the residencia. Here, my guide, getting down from =
the
cart, hooted and whistled for a long time in vain; until at last an old pea=
sant
man came towards us from somewhere in the surrounding dark, carrying a cand=
le
in his hand. By the light of =
this I
was able to perceive a great arched doorway of a Moorish character: it was
closed by iron-studded gates, in one of the leaves of which Felipe opened a
wicket. The peasant carried off the cart to some out-building; but my guide=
and
I passed through the wicket, which was closed again behind us; and by the g=
limmer
of the candle, passed through a court, up a stone stair, along a section of=
an
open gallery, and up more stairs again, until we came at last to the door o=
f a
great and somewhat bare apartment.
This room, which I understood was to be mine, was pierced by three
windows, lined with some lustrous wood disposed in panels, and carpeted with
the skins of many savage animals. =
span>A
bright fire burned in the chimney, and shed abroad a changeful flicker; clo=
se
up to the blaze there was drawn a table, laid for supper; and in the far en=
d a
bed stood ready. I was please=
d by
these preparations, and said so to Felipe; and he, with the same simplicity=
of
disposition that I held already remarked in him, warmly re-echoed my
praises. 'A fine room,' he sa=
id; 'a
very fine room. And fire, too; fire is good; it melts out the pleasure in y=
our
bones. And the bed,' he conti=
nued,
carrying over the candle in that direction--'see what fine sheets--how soft,
how smooth, smooth;' and he passed his hand again and again over their text=
ure,
and then laid down his head and rubbed his cheeks among them with a grossne=
ss
of content that somehow offended me.
I took the candle from his hand (for I feared he would set the bed on
fire) and walked back to the supper-table, where, perceiving a measure of w=
ine,
I poured out a cup and called to him to come and drink of it. He started to his feet at once and=
ran
to me with a strong expression of hope; but when he saw the wine, he visibly
shuddered.
'Oh, no,' he said, 'not that; that is for
you. I hate it.'
'Very well, Senor,' said I; 'then I will drink=
to
your good health, and to the prosperity of your house and family. Speaking of which,' I added, after=
I had
drunk, 'shall I not have the pleasure of laying my salutations in person at=
the
feet of the Senora, your mother?'
But at these words all the childishness passed=
out
of his face, and was succeeded by a look of indescribable cunning and
secrecy. He backed away from =
me at
the same time, as though I were an animal about to leap or some dangerous
fellow with a weapon, and when he had got near the door, glowered at me
sullenly with contracted pupils.
'No,' he said at last, and the next moment was gone noiselessly out =
of
the room; and I heard his footing die away downstairs as light as rainfall,=
and
silence closed over the house.
After I had supped I drew up the table nearer =
to
the bed and began to prepare for rest; but in the new position of the light=
, I
was struck by a picture on the wall.
It represented a woman, still young. To judge by her costume and the me=
llow
unity which reigned over the canvas, she had long been dead; to judge by the
vivacity of the attitude, the eyes and the features, I might have been
beholding in a mirror the image of life. Her figure was very slim and stron=
g,
and of a just proportion; red tresses lay like a crown over her brow; her e=
yes,
of a very golden brown, held mine with a look; and her face, which was
perfectly shaped, was yet marred by a cruel, sullen, and sensual
expression. Something in both=
face
and figure, something exquisitely intangible, like the echo of an echo,
suggested the features and bearing of my guide; and I stood awhile, unpleas=
antly
attracted and wondering at the oddity of the resemblance. The common, carnal
stock of that race, which had been originally designed for such high dames =
as
the one now looking on me from the canvas, had fallen to baser uses, wearing
country clothes, sitting on the shaft and holding the reins of a mule cart,=
to
bring home a lodger. Perhaps =
an actual
link subsisted; perhaps some scruple of the delicate flesh that was once
clothed upon with the satin and brocade of the dead lady, now winced at the
rude contact of Felipe's frieze.
The first light of the morning shone full upon=
the
portrait, and, as I lay awake, my eyes continued to dwell upon it with grow=
ing
complacency; its beauty crept about my heart insidiously, silencing my scru=
ples
one after another; and while I knew that to love such a woman were to sign =
and
seal one's own sentence of degeneration, I still knew that, if she were ali=
ve,
I should love her. Day after =
day
the double knowledge of her wickedness and of my weakness grew clearer. She came to be the heroine of many
day-dreams, in which her eyes led on to, and sufficiently rewarded, crimes.=
She cast a dark shadow on my fancy=
; and
when I was out in the free air of heaven, taking vigorous exercise and
healthily renewing the current of my blood, it was often a glad thought to =
me
that my enchantress was safe in the grave, her wand of beauty broken, her l=
ips closed
in silence, her philtre spilt. And
yet I had a half-lingering terror that she might not be dead after all, but
re-arisen in the body of some descendant.
Felipe served my meals in my own apartment; and
his resemblance to the portrait haunted me. At times it was not; at times, upo=
n some
change of attitude or flash of expression, it would leap out upon me like a
ghost. It was above all in his ill tempers that the likeness triumphed. He certainly liked me; he was prou=
d of
my notice, which he sought to engage by many simple and childlike devices; =
he
loved to sit close before my fire, talking his broken talk or singing his o=
dd,
endless, wordless songs, and sometimes drawing his hand over my clothes wit=
h an
affectionate manner of caressing that never failed to cause in me an embarr=
assment
of which I was ashamed. But f=
or all
that, he was capable of flashes of causeless anger and fits of sturdy
sullenness. At a word of repr=
oof, I
have seen him upset the dish of which I was about to eat, and this not
surreptitiously, but with defiance; and similarly at a hint of
inquisition. I was not unnatu=
rally
curious, being in a strange place and surrounded by string people; but at t=
he
shadow of a question, he shrank back, lowering and dangerous. Then it was that, for a fraction o=
f a
second, this rough lad might have been the brother of the lady in the frame=
. But these humours were swift to pa=
ss;
and the resemblance died along with them.
In these first days I saw nothing of any one b=
ut
Felipe, unless the portrait is to be counted; and since the lad was plainly=
of
weak mind, and had moments of passion, it may be wondered that I bore his
dangerous neighbourhood with equanimity.&n=
bsp;
As a matter of fact, it was for some time irksome; but it happened b=
efore
long that I obtained over him so complete a mastery as set my disquietude at
rest.
It fell in this way. He was by nature slothful, and muc=
h of a
vagabond, and yet he kept by the house, and not only waited upon my wants, =
but laboured
every day in the garden or small farm to the south of the residencia. Here he would be joined by the pea=
sant
whom I had seen on the night of my arrival, and who dwelt at the far end of=
the
enclosure, about half a mile away, in a rude out-house; but it was plain to=
me
that, of these two, it was Felipe who did most; and though I would sometime=
s see
him throw down his spade and go to sleep among the very plants he had been
digging, his constancy and energy were admirable in themselves, and still m=
ore
so since I was well assured they were foreign to his disposition and the fr=
uit
of an ungrateful effort. But =
while
I admired, I wondered what had called forth in a lad so shuttle-witted this
enduring sense of duty. How w=
as it
sustained? I asked myself, an=
d to
what length did it prevail over his instincts? The priest was possibly his inspir=
er; but
the priest came one day to the residencia.=
I saw him both come and go after an interval of close upon an hour, =
from
a knoll where I was sketching, and all that time Felipe continued to labour
undisturbed in the garden.
At last, in a very unworthy spirit, I determin=
ed
to debauch the lad from his good resolutions, and, way-laying him at the ga=
te,
easily pursuaded him to join me in a ramble. It was a fine day, and the woods to
which I led him were green and pleasant and sweet-smelling and alive with t=
he
hum of insects. Here he disco=
vered
himself in a fresh character, mounting up to heights of gaiety that abashed=
me,
and displaying an energy and grace of movement that delighted the eye. He leaped, he ran round me in mere=
glee;
he would stop, and look and listen, and seem to drink in the world like a
cordial; and then he would suddenly spring into a tree with one bound, and =
hang
and gambol there like one at home.
Little as he said to me, and that of not much import, I have rarely
enjoyed more stirring company; the sight of his delight was a continual fea=
st;
the speed and accuracy of his movements pleased me to the heart; and I might
have been so thoughtlessly unkind as to make a habit of these wants, had not
chance prepared a very rude conclusion to my pleasure. By some swiftness or dexterity the=
lad
captured a squirrel in a tree top.
He was then some way ahead of me, but I saw him drop to the ground a=
nd
crouch there, crying aloud for pleasure like a child. The sound stirred my sympathies, i=
t was
so fresh and innocent; but as I bettered my pace to draw near, the cry of t=
he
squirrel knocked upon my heart. I
have heard and seen much of the cruelty of lads, and above all of peasants;=
but
what I now beheld struck me into a passion of anger. I thrust the fellow aside, plucked=
the
poor brute out of his hands, and with swift mercy killed it. Then I turned upon the torturer, s=
poke
to him long out of the heat of my indignation, calling him names at which he
seemed to wither; and at length, pointing toward the residencia, bade him
begone and leave me, for I chose to walk with men, not with vermin. He fell upon his knees, and, the w=
ords
coming to him with more cleanness than usual, poured out a stream of the mo=
st
touching supplications, begging me in mercy to forgive him, to forget what =
he
had done, to look to the future.
'O, I try so hard,' he said.
'O, commandante, bear with Felipe this once; he will never be a brute
again!' Thereupon, much more
affected than I cared to show, I suffered myself to be persuaded, and at la=
st
shook hands with him and made it up.
But the squirrel, by way of penance, I made him bury; speaking of the
poor thing's beauty, telling him what pains it had suffered, and how base a
thing was the abuse of strength.
'See, Felipe,' said I, 'you are strong indeed; but in my hands you a=
re
as helpless as that poor thing of the trees. Give me your hand in mine. You cannot remove it. Now suppose that I were cruel like=
you,
and took a pleasure in pain. =
I only
tighten my hold, and see how you suffer.'&=
nbsp;
He screamed aloud, his face stricken ashy and dotted with needle poi=
nts
of sweat; and when I set him free, he fell to the earth and nursed his hand=
and
moaned over it like a baby. B=
ut he
took the lesson in good part; and whether from that, or from what I had sai=
d to
him, or the higher notion he now had of my bodily strength, his original
affection was changed into a dog- like, adoring fidelity.
Meanwhile I gained rapidly in health. The residencia stood on the crown =
of a
stony plateau; on every side the mountains hemmed it about; only from the r=
oof,
where was a bartizan, there might be seen between two peaks, a small segmen=
t of
plain, blue with extreme distance.
The air in these altitudes moved freely and largely; great clouds
congregated there, and were broken up by the wind and left in tatters on the
hilltops; a hoarse, and yet faint rumbling of torrents rose from all round;=
and
one could there study all the ruder and more ancient characters of nature i=
n something
of their pristine force. I
delighted from the first in the vigorous scenery and changeful weather; nor
less in the antique and dilapidated mansion where I dwelt. This was a large oblong, flanked a=
t two
opposite corners by bastion-like projections, one of which commanded the do=
or,
while both were loopholed for musketry.&nb=
sp;
The lower storey was, besides, naked of windows, so that the buildin=
g,
if garrisoned, could not be carried without artillery. It enclosed an open court planted =
with pomegranate
trees. From this a broad flig=
ht of
marble stairs ascended to an open gallery, running all round and resting,
towards the court, on slender pillars.&nbs=
p;
Thence again, several enclosed stairs led to the upper storeys of the
house, which were thus broken up into distinct divisions. The windows, both
within and without, were closely shuttered; some of the stone-work in the u=
pper
parts had fallen; the roof, in one place, had been wrecked in one of the
flurries of wind which were common in these mountains; and the whole house,=
in
the strong, beating sunlight, and standing out above a grove of stunted
cork-trees, thickly laden and discoloured with dust, looked like the sleepi=
ng
palace of the legend. The cou=
rt, in
particular, seemed the very home of slumber. A hoarse cooing of doves haunted a=
bout
the eaves; the winds were excluded, but when they blew outside, the mountain
dust fell here as thick as rain, and veiled the red bloom of the pomegranat=
es;
shuttered windows and the closed doors of numerous cellars, and the vacant,
arches of the gallery, enclosed it; and all day long the sun made broken
profiles on the four sides, and paraded the shadow of the pillars on the
gallery floor. At the ground =
level
there was, however, a certain pillared recess, which bore the marks of human
habitation. Though it was ope=
n in
front upon the court, it was yet provided with a chimney, where a wood fire
would he always prettily blazing; and the tile floor was littered with the
skins of animals.
It was in this place that I first saw my
hostess. She had drawn one of=
the
skins forward and sat in the sun, leaning against a pillar. It was her dress that struck me fi=
rst of
all, for it was rich and brightly coloured, and shone out in that dusty
courtyard with something of the same relief as the flowers of the
pomegranates. At a second loo=
k it
was her beauty of person that took hold of me. As she sat back--watching me, I th=
ought,
though with invisible eyes--and wearing at the same time an expression of
almost imbecile good-humour and contentment, she showed a perfectness of
feature and a quiet nobility of attitude that were beyond a statue's. I took off my hat to her in passin=
g, and
her face puckered with suspicion as swiftly and lightly as a pool ruffles in
the breeze; but she paid no heed to my courtesy. I went forth on my customary walk =
a trifle
daunted, her idol-like impassivity haunting me; and when I returned, althou=
gh
she was still in much the same posture, I was half surprised to see that she
had moved as far as the next pillar, following the sunshine. This time, however, she addressed =
me
with some trivial salutation, civilly enough conceived, and uttered in the =
same
deep-chested, and yet indistinct and lisping tones, that had already baffled
the utmost niceness of my hearing from her son. I answered rather at a venture; fo=
r not
only did I fail to take her meaning with precision, but the sudden disclosu=
re
of her eyes disturbed me. The=
y were
unusually large, the iris golden like Felipe's, but the pupil at that momen=
t so
distended that they seemed almost black; and what affected me was not so mu=
ch
their size as (what was perhaps its consequence) the singular insignificanc=
e of
their regard. A look more bla=
nkly
stupid I have never met. My e=
yes
dropped before it even as I spoke, and I went on my way upstairs to my own
room, at once baffled and embarrassed.&nbs=
p;
Yet, when I came there and saw the face of the portrait, I was again
reminded of the miracle of family descent.=
My hostess was, indeed, both older and fuller in person; her eyes we=
re
of a different colour; her face, besides, was not only free from the
ill-significance that offended and attracted me in the painting; it was dev=
oid
of either good or bad--a moral blank expressing literally naught. And yet there was a likeness, not =
so
much speaking as immanent, not so much in any particular feature as upon th=
e whole. It should seem, I thought, as if w=
hen
the master set his signature to that grave canvas, he had not only caught t=
he
image of one smiling and false-eyed woman, but stamped the essential qualit=
y of
a race.
From that day forth, whether I came or went, I=
was
sure to find the Senora seated in the sun against a pillar, or stretched on=
a
rug before the fire; only at times she would shift her station to the top r=
ound
of the stone staircase, where she lay with the same nonchalance right acros=
s my
path. In all these days, I ne=
ver
knew her to display the least spark of energy beyond what she expended in
brushing and re-brushing her copious copper-coloured hair, or in lisping ou=
t,
in the rich and broken hoarseness of her voice, her customary idle salutati=
ons
to myself. These, I think, we=
re her
two chief pleasures, beyond that of mere quiescence. She seemed always prou=
d of
her remarks, as though they had been witticisms: and, indeed, though they w=
ere
empty enough, like the conversation of many respectable persons, and turned=
on
a very narrow range of subjects, they were never meaningless or incoherent;
nay, they had a certain beauty of their own, breathing, as they did, of her
entire contentment. Now she w=
ould
speak of the warmth, in which (like her son) she greatly delighted; now of =
the
flowers of the pomegranate trees, and now of the white doves and long-winged
swallows that fanned the air of the court.=
The birds excited her. As
they raked the eaves in their swift flight, or skimmed sidelong past her wi=
th a
rush of wind, she would sometimes stir, and sit a little up, and seem to aw=
aken
from her doze of satisfaction. But
for the rest of her days she lay luxuriously folded on herself and sunk in
sloth and pleasure. Her invin=
cible
content at first annoyed me, but I came gradually to find repose in the
spectacle, until at last it grew to be my habit to sit down beside her four
times in the day, both coming and going, and to talk with her sleepily, I
scarce knew of what. I had co=
me to
like her dull, almost animal neighbourhood; her beauty and her stupidity
soothed and amused me. I bega=
n to
find a kind of transcendental good sense in her remarks, and her unfathomab=
le
good nature moved me to admiration and envy. The liking was returned; she enjoy=
ed my
presence half-unconsciously, as a man in deep meditation may enjoy the babb=
ling
of a brook. I can scarce say =
she
brightened when I came, for satisfaction was written on her face eternally,=
as
on some foolish statue's; but I was made conscious of her pleasure by some =
more
intimate communication than the sight.&nbs=
p;
And one day, as I set within reach of her on the marble step, she
suddenly shot forth one of her hands and patted mine. The thing was done, and she was ba=
ck in
her accustomed attitude, before my mind had received intelligence of the
caress; and when I turned to look her in the face I could perceive no
answerable sentiment. It was =
plain
she attached no moment to the act, and I blamed myself for my own more unea=
sy
consciousness.
The sight and (if I may so call it) the
acquaintance of the mother confirmed the view I had already taken of the
son. The family blood had been
impoverished, perhaps by long inbreeding, which I knew to be a common error
among the proud and the exclusive.
No decline, indeed, was to be traced in the body, which had been han=
ded
down unimpaired in shapeliness and strength; and the faces of to-day were
struck as sharply from the mint, as the face of two centuries ago that smil=
ed
upon me from the portrait. Bu=
t the
intelligence (that more precious heirloom) was degenerate; the treasure of
ancestral memory ran low; and it had required the potent, plebeian crossing=
of
a muleteer or mountain contrabandista to raise, what approached hebetude in=
the
mother, into the active oddity of the son.=
Yet of the two, it was the mother I preferred. Of Felipe, vengeful and placable, =
full
of starts and shyings, inconstant as a hare, I could even conceive as a cre=
ature
possibly noxious. Of the moth=
er I had
no thoughts but those of kindness.
And indeed, as spectators are apt ignorantly to take sides, I grew
something of a partisan in the enmity which I perceived to smoulder between
them. True, it seemed mostly =
on the
mother's part. She would some=
times
draw in her breath as he came near, and the pupils of her vacant eyes would
contract as if with horror or fear.
Her emotions, such as they were, were much upon the surface and read=
ily
shared; and this latent repulsion occupied my mind, and kept me wondering on
what grounds it rested, and whether the son was certainly in fault.
I had been about ten days in the residencia, w=
hen
there sprang up a high and harsh wind, carrying clouds of dust. It came out of malarious lowlands,=
and
over several snowy sierras. T=
he
nerves of those on whom it blew were strung and jangled; their eyes smarted
with the dust; their legs ached under the burthen of their body; and the to=
uch
of one hand upon another grew to be odious. The wind, besides, came down the g=
ullies
of the hills and stormed about the house with a great, hollow buzzing and w=
histling
that was wearisome to the ear and dismally depressing to the mind. It did not so much blow in gusts a=
s with
the steady sweep of a waterfall, so that there was no remission of discomfo=
rt
while it blew. But higher upon the mountain, it was probably of a more vari=
able
strength, with accesses of fury; for there came down at times a far-off wai=
ling,
infinitely grievous to hear; and at times, on one of the high shelves or
terraces, there would start up, and then disperse, a tower of dust, like the
smoke of in explosion.
I no sooner awoke in bed than I was conscious =
of
the nervous tension and depression of the weather, and the effect grew stro=
nger
as the day proceeded. It was =
in
vain that I resisted; in vain that I set forth upon my customary morning's
walk; the irrational, unchanging fury of the storm had soon beat down my
strength and wrecked my temper; and I returned to the residencia, glowing w=
ith
dry heat, and foul and gritty with dust.&n=
bsp;
The court had a forlorn appearance; now and then a glimmer of sun fl=
ed
over it; now and then the wind swooped down upon the pomegranates, and scat=
tered
the blossoms, and set the window shutters clapping on the wall. In the rece=
ss
the Senora was pacing to and fro with a flushed countenance and bright eyes=
; I
thought, too, she was speaking to herself, like one in anger. But when I addressed her with my
customary salutation, she only replied by a sharp gesture and continued her
walk. The weather had distemp=
ered
even this impassive creature; and as I went on upstairs I was the less asha=
med
of my own discomposure.
All day the wind continued; and I sat in my ro=
om
and made a feint of reading, or walked up and down, and listened to the riot
overhead. Night fell, and I h=
ad not
so much as a candle. I began =
to
long for some society, and stole down to the court. It was now plunged in the blue of =
the
first darkness; but the recess was redly lighted by the fire. The wood had been piled high, and =
was
crowned by a shock of flames, which the draught of the chimney brandished to
and fro. In this strong and s=
haken brightness
the Senora continued pacing from wall to wall with disconnected gestures,
clasping her hands, stretching forth her arms, throwing back her head as in
appeal to heaven. In these
disordered movements the beauty and grace of the woman showed more clearly;=
but
there was a light in her eye that struck on me unpleasantly; and when I had
looked on awhile in silence, and seemingly unobserved, I turned tail as I h=
ad
come, and groped my way back again to my own chamber.
By the time Felipe brought my supper and light=
s,
my nerve was utterly gone; and, had the lad been such as I was used to seei=
ng
him, I should have kept him (even by force had that been necessary) to take=
off
the edge from my distasteful solitude.&nbs=
p;
But on Felipe, also, the wind had exercised its influence. He had been feverish all day; now =
that
the night had come he was fallen into a low and tremulous humour that react=
ed on
my own. The sight of his scar=
ed
face, his starts and pallors and sudden harkenings, unstrung me; and when he
dropped and broke a dish, I fairly leaped out of my seat.
'I think we are all mad to-day,' said I, affec=
ting
to laugh.
'It is the black wind,' he replied dolefully.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'You feel as if you must do someth=
ing,
and you don't know what it is.'
I noted the aptness of the description; but,
indeed, Felipe had sometimes a strange felicity in rendering into words the
sensations of the body. 'And your mother, too,' said I; 'she seems to feel =
this
weather much. Do you not fear=
she
may be unwell?'
He stared at me a little, and then said, 'No,'
almost defiantly; and the next moment, carrying his hand to his brow, cried=
out
lamentably on the wind and the noise that made his head go round like a
millwheel. 'Who can be well?'=
he
cried; and, indeed, I could only echo his question, for I was disturbed eno=
ugh
myself.
I went to bed early, wearied with day-long
restlessness, but the poisonous nature of the wind, and its ungodly and
unintermittent uproar, would not suffer me to sleep. I lay there and tossed, my nerves =
and senses
on the stretch. At times I wo=
uld
doze, dream horribly, and wake again; and these snatches of oblivion confus=
ed
me as to time. But it must ha=
ve
been late on in the night, when I was suddenly startled by an outbreak of
pitiable and hateful cries. I
leaped from my bed, supposing I had dreamed; but the cries still continued =
to
fill the house, cries of pain, I thought, but certainly of rage also, and so
savage and discordant that they shocked the heart. It was no illusion; some living th=
ing,
some lunatic or some wild animal, was being foully tortured. The thought of Felipe and the squi=
rrel
flashed into my mind, and I ran to the door, but it had been locked from the
outside; and I might shake it as I pleased, I was a fast prisoner. Still the cries continued. Now they would dwindle down into a
moaning that seemed to be articulate, and at these times I made sure they m=
ust
be human; and again they would break forth and fill the house with ravings
worthy of hell. I stood at th=
e door
and gave ear to them, till at, last they died away. Long after that, I still lingered =
and
still continued to hear them mingle in fancy with the storming of the wind;=
and
when at last I crept to my bed, it was with a deadly sickness and a blackne=
ss
of horror on my heart.
It was little wonder if I slept no more. Why had I been locked in? What had passed? Who was the author of these
indescribable and shocking cries? =
span>A
human being? It was
inconceivable. A beast? The cries were scarce quite bestia=
l; and
what animal, short of a lion or a tiger, could thus shake the solid walls of
the residencia? And while I w=
as
thus turning over the elements of the mystery, it came into my mind that I =
had not
yet set eyes upon the daughter of the house. What was more probable than that t=
he
daughter of the Senora, and the sister of Felipe, should be herself
insane? Or, what more likely =
than
that these ignorant and half- witted people should seek to manage an afflic=
ted
kinswoman by violence? Here was a solution; and yet when I called to mind t=
he
cries (which I never did without a shuddering chill) it seemed altogether
insufficient: not even cruelty could wring such cries from madness. But of one thing I was sure: I cou=
ld not
live in a house where such a thing was half conceivable, and not probe the
matter home and, if necessary, interfere.
The next day came, the wind had blown itself o=
ut,
and there was nothing to remind me of the business of the night. Felipe came to my bedside with obv=
ious
cheerfulness; as I passed through the court, the Senora was sunning herself
with her accustomed immobility; and when I issued from the gateway, I found=
the
whole face of nature austerely smiling, the heavens of a cold blue, and sown
with great cloud islands, and the mountain-sides mapped forth into province=
s of
light and shadow. A short walk
restored me to myself, and renewed within me the resolve to plumb this myst=
ery;
and when, from the vantage of my knoll, I had seen Felipe pass forth to his
labours in the garden, I returned at once to the residencia to put my desig=
n in
practice. The Senora appeared
plunged in slumber; I stood awhile and marked her, but she did not stir; ev=
en if
my design were indiscreet, I had little to fear from such a guardian; and t=
urning
away, I mounted to the gallery and began my exploration of the house.
All morning I went from one door to another, a=
nd
entered spacious and faded chambers, some rudely shuttered, some receiving
their full charge of daylight, all empty and unhomely. It was a rich house, on which Time=
had
breathed his tarnish and dust had scattered disillusion. The spider swung there; the bloated
tarantula scampered on the cornices; ants had their crowded highways on the
floor of halls of audience; the big and foul fly, that lives on carrion and=
is
often the messenger of death, had set up his nest in the rotten woodwork, a=
nd
buzzed heavily about the rooms.
Here and there a stool or two, a couch, a bed, or a great carved cha=
ir
remained behind, like islets on the bare floors, to testify of man's bygone
habitation; and everywhere the walls were set with the portraits of the
dead. I could judge, by these
decaying effigies, in the house of what a great and what a handsome race I =
was
then wandering. Many of the m=
en
wore orders on their breasts and had the port of noble offices; the women w=
ere
all richly attired; the canvases most of them by famous hands. But it was not so much these evide=
nces of
greatness that took hold upon my mind, even contrasted, as they were, with =
the
present depopulation and decay of that great house. It was rather the parable of famil=
y life
that I read in this succession of fair faces and shapely bodies. Never before had I so realised the
miracle of the continued race, the creation and recreation, the weaving and
changing and handing down of fleshly elements. That a child should be born of its
mother, that it should grow and clothe itself (we know not how) with humani=
ty, and
put on inherited looks, and turn its head with the manner of one ascendant,=
and
offer its hand with the gesture of another, are wonders dulled for us by
repetition. But in the singul=
ar
unity of look, in the common features and common bearing, of all these pain=
ted
generations on the walls of the residencia, the miracle started out and loo=
ked
me in the face. And an ancient
mirror falling opportunely in my way, I stood and read my own features a lo=
ng
while, tracing out on either hand the filaments of descent and the bonds th=
at
knit me with my family.
At last, in the course of these investigations=
, I
opened the door of a chamber that bore the marks of habitation. It was of large proportions and fa=
ced to
the north, where the mountains were most wildly figured. The embers of a fire smouldered and
smoked upon the hearth, to which a chair had been drawn close. And yet the aspect of the chamber =
was
ascetic to the degree of sternness; the chair was uncushioned; the floor and
walls were naked; and beyond the books which lay here and there in some con=
fusion,
there was no instrument of either work or pleasure. The sight of books in the house of=
such
a family exceedingly amazed me; and I began with a great hurry, and in
momentary fear of interruption, to go from one to another and hastily inspe=
ct
their character. They were of=
all
sorts, devotional, historical, and scientific, but mostly of a great age an=
d in
the Latin tongue. Some I coul=
d see
to bear the marks of constant study; others had been torn across and tossed
aside as if in petulance or disapproval.&n=
bsp;
Lastly, as I cruised about that empty chamber, I espied some papers
written upon with pencil on a table near the window. An unthinking curiosity led me to =
take
one up. It bore a copy of ver=
ses, very
roughly metred in the original Spanish, and which I may render somewhat thu=
s--
Pleasure approached with pain and shame, Grief with a wreath of =
lilies
came. Pleasure sh=
owed
the lovely sun; J=
esu
dear, how sweet it shone! Grief with her worn han=
d pointed
on, =
Jesu
dear, to thee!
Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, laying down the paper, I beat an immediate retreat from the apartment. Neither Felipe nor his mother coul= d have read the books nor written these rough but feeling verses. It was plain I had stumbled with sacrilegious feet into the room of the daughter of the house. God knows, my own heart most sharp= ly punished me for my indiscretion. The t= hought that I had thus secretly pushed my way into the confidence of a girl so str= angely situated, and the fear that she might somehow come to hear of it, oppressed= me like guilt. I blamed myself b= esides for my suspicions of the night before; wondered that I should ever have attributed those shocking cries to one of whom I now conceived as of a sain= t, spectral of mien, wasted with maceration, bound up in the practices of a mechanical devotion, and dwelling in a great isolation of soul with her incongruous relatives; and as I leaned on the balustrade of the gallery and looked down into the bright close of pomegranates and at the gaily dressed = and somnolent woman, who just then stretched herself and delicately licked her = lips as in the very sensuality of sloth, my mind swiftly compared the scene with= the cold chamber looking northward on the mountains, where the daughter dwelt.<= o:p>
That same afternoon, as I sat upon my knoll, I=
saw
the Padre enter the gates of the residencia. The revelation of the daughter's
character had struck home to my fancy, and almost blotted out the horrors of
the night before; but at sight of this worthy man the memory revived. I descended, then, from the knoll,=
and
making a circuit among the woods, posted myself by the wayside to await his
passage. As soon as he appear=
ed I
stepped forth and introduced myself as the lodger of the residencia. He had a very strong, honest
countenance, on which it was easy to read the mingled emotions with which he
regarded me, as a foreigner, a heretic, and yet one who had been wounded for
the good cause. Of the family=
at
the residencia he spoke with reserve, and yet with respect. I mentioned that I had not yet see=
n the
daughter, whereupon he remarked that that was as it should be, and looked a=
t me
a little askance. Lastly, I p=
lucked
up courage to refer to the cries that had disturbed me in the night. He heard me out in silence, and th=
en
stopped and partly turned about, as though to mark beyond doubt that he was
dismissing me.
'Do you take tobacco powder?' said he, offering
his snuff-box; and then, when I had refused, 'I am an old man,' he added, '=
and
I may be allowed to remind you that you are a guest.'
'I have, then, your authority,' I returned, fi=
rmly
enough, although I flushed at the implied reproof, 'to let things take their
course, and not to interfere?'
He said 'yes,' and with a somewhat uneasy salu=
te
turned and left me where I was. But
he had done two things: he had set my conscience at rest, and he had awaken=
ed
my delicacy. I made a great e=
ffort,
once more dismissed the recollections of the night, and fell once more to b=
rooding
on my saintly poetess. At the=
same
time, I could not quite forget that I had been locked in, and that night wh=
en
Felipe brought me my supper I attacked him warily on both points of interes=
t.
'I never see your sister,' said I casually.
'Oh, no,' said he; 'she is a good, good girl,'=
and
his mind instantly veered to something else.
'Your sister is pious, I suppose?' I asked in =
the
next pause.
'Oh!' he cried, joining his hands with extreme
fervour, 'a saint; it is she that keeps me up.'
'You are very fortunate,' said I, 'for the mos=
t of
us, I am afraid, and myself among the number, are better at going down.'
'Senor,' said Felipe earnestly, 'I would not s=
ay
that. You should not tempt yo=
ur
angel. If one goes down, wher=
e is
he to stop?'
'Why, Felipe,' said I, 'I had no guess you wer=
e a
preacher, and I may say a good one; but I suppose that is your sister's doi=
ng?'
He nodded at me with round eyes.
'Well, then,' I continued, 'she has doubtless
reproved you for your sin of cruelty?'
'Twelve times!' he cried; for this was the phr=
ase
by which the odd creature expressed the sense of frequency. 'And I told her you had done so--I
remembered that,' he added proudly--'and she was pleased.'
'Then, Felipe,' said I, 'what were those cries
that I heard last night? for surely they were cries of some creature in
suffering.'
'The wind,' returned Felipe, looking in the fi=
re.
I took his hand in mine, at which, thinking it=
to
be a caress, he smiled with a brightness of pleasure that came near disarmi=
ng
my resolve. But I trod the we=
akness
down. 'The wind,' I repeated;=
'and
yet I think it was this hand,' holding it up, 'that had first locked me
in.' The lad shook visibly, b=
ut
answered never a word. 'Well,=
' said
I, 'I am a stranger and a guest. It
is not my part either to meddle or to judge in your affairs; in these you s=
hall
take your sister's counsel, which I cannot doubt to be excellent. But in so far as concerns my own I=
will
be no man's prisoner, and I demand that key.' Half an hour later my door was sud=
denly
thrown open, and the key tossed ringing on the floor.
A day or two after I came in from a walk a lit=
tle
before the point of noon. The
Senora was lying lapped in slumber on the threshold of the recess; the pige=
ons
dozed below the eaves like snowdrifts; the house was under a deep spell of
noontide quiet; and only a wandering and gentle wind from the mountain stole
round the galleries, rustled among the pomegranates, and pleasantly stirred=
the
shadows. Something in the sti=
llness
moved me to imitation, and I went very lightly across the court and up the
marble staircase. My foot was=
on
the topmost round, when a door opened, and I found myself face to face with
Olalla. Surprise transfixed m=
e; her
loveliness struck to my heart; she glowed in the deep shadow of the gallery=
, a
gem of colour; her eyes took hold upon mine and clung there, and bound us
together like the joining of hands; and the moments we thus stood face to f=
ace,
drinking each other in, were sacramental and the wedding of souls. I know not how long it was before I
awoke out of a deep trance, and, hastily bowing, passed on into the upper
stair. She did not move, but
followed me with her great, thirsting eyes; and as I passed out of sight it
seemed to me as if she paled and faded.
In my own room, I opened the window and looked
out, and could not think what change had come upon that austere field of
mountains that it should thus sing and shine under the lofty heaven. I had seen her--Olalla! And the stone crags answered, Olal=
la!
and the dumb, unfathomable azure answered, Olalla! The pale saint of my dreams had va=
nished
for ever; and in her place I beheld this maiden on whom God had lavished the
richest colours and the most exuberant energies of life, whom he had made
active as a deer, slender as a reed, and in whose great eyes he had lighted=
the
torches of the soul. The thri=
ll of
her young life, strung like a wild animal's, had entered into me; the force=
of
soul that had looked out from her eyes and conquered mine, mantled about my
heart and sprang to my lips in singing.&nb=
sp;
She passed through my veins: she was one with me.
I will not say that this enthusiasm declined;
rather my soul held out in its ecstasy as in a strong castle, and was there
besieged by cold and sorrowful considerations. I could not doubt but that I loved=
her
at first sight, and already with a quivering ardour that was strange to my =
experience. What then was to follow? She was the child of an afflicted =
house,
the Senora's daughter, the sister of Felipe; she bore it even in her
beauty. She had the lightness=
and
swiftness of the one, swift as an arrow, light as dew; like the other, she
shone on the pale background of the world with the brilliancy of flowers. I could not call by the name of br=
other
that half-witted lad, nor by the name of mother that immovable and lovely t=
hing
of flesh, whose silly eyes and perpetual simper now recurred to my mind like
something hateful. And if I c=
ould
not marry, what then? She was
helplessly unprotected; her eyes, in that single and long glance which had =
been
all our intercourse, had confessed a weakness equal to my own; but in my he=
art
I knew her for the student of the cold northern chamber, and the writer of =
the
sorrowful lines; and this was a knowledge to disarm a brute. To flee was more than I could find
courage for; but I registered a vow of unsleeping circumspection.
As I turned from the window, my eyes alighted =
on
the portrait. It had fallen d=
ead,
like a candle after sunrise; it followed me with eyes of paint. I knew it to be like, and marvelle=
d at
the tenacity of type in that declining race; but the likeness was swallowed=
up
in difference. I remembered h=
ow it
had seemed to me a thing unapproachable in the life, a creature rather of t=
he
painter's craft than of the modesty of nature, and I marvelled at the thoug=
ht,
and exulted in the image of Olalla.
Beauty I had seen before, and not been charmed, and I had been often
drawn to women, who were not beautiful except to me; but in Olalla all that=
I desired
and had not dared to imagine was united.
I did not see her the next day, and my heart a=
ched
and my eyes longed for her, as men long for morning. But the day after, when I returned,
about my usual hour, she was once more on the gallery, and our looks once m=
ore met
and embraced. I would have sp=
oken,
I would have drawn near to her; but strongly as she plucked at my heart,
drawing me like a magnet, something yet more imperious withheld me; and I c=
ould
only bow and pass by; and she, leaving my salutation unanswered, only follo=
wed
me with her noble eyes.
I had now her image by rote, and as I conned t=
he
traits in memory it seemed as if I read her very heart. She was dressed with something of =
her
mother's coquetry, and love of positive colour. Her robe, which I know she must ha=
ve
made with her own hands, clung about her with a cunning grace. After the fashion of that country,
besides, her bodice stood open in the middle, in a long slit, and here, in
spite of the poverty of the house, a gold coin, hanging by a ribbon, lay on=
her
brown bosom. These were proof=
s, had
any been needed, of her inborn delight in life and her own loveliness. On the other hand, in her eyes tha=
t hung
upon mine, I could read depth beyond depth of passion and sadness, lights of
poetry and hope, blacknesses of despair, and thoughts that were above the
earth. It was a lovely body, =
but
the inmate, the soul, was more than worthy of that lodging. Should I leave this incomparable f=
lower
to wither unseen on these rough mountains?=
Should I despise the great gift offered me in the eloquent silence of
her eyes? Here was a soul imm=
ured; should
I not burst its prison? All s=
ide
considerations fell off from me; were she the child of Herod I swore I shou=
ld
make her mine; and that very evening I set myself, with a mingled sense of =
treachery
and disgrace, to captivate the brother.&nb=
sp;
Perhaps I read him with more favourable eyes, perhaps the thought of=
his
sister always summoned up the better qualities of that imperfect soul; but =
he
had never seemed to me so amiable, and his very likeness to Olalla, while it
annoyed, yet softened me.
A third day passed in vain--an empty desert of
hours. I would not lose a cha=
nce,
and loitered all afternoon in the court where (to give myself a countenance=
) I
spoke more than usual with the Senora.&nbs=
p;
God knows it was with a most tender and sincere interest that I now
studied her; and even as for Felipe, so now for the mother, I was conscious=
of
a growing warmth of toleration. And
yet I wondered. Even while I =
spoke
with her, she would doze off into a little sleep, and presently awake again
without embarrassment; and this composure staggered me. And again, as I marked her make
infinitesimal changes in her posture, savouring and lingering on the bodily
pleasure of the movement, I was driven to wonder at this depth of passive
sensuality. She lived in her =
body;
and her consciousness was all sunk into and disseminated through her member=
s,
where it luxuriously dwelt. L=
astly,
I could not grow accustomed to her eyes.&n=
bsp;
Each time she turned on me these great beautiful and meaningless orb=
s,
wide open to the day, but closed against human inquiry--each time I had
occasion to observe the lively changes of her pupils which expanded and
contracted in a breath--I know not what it was came over me, I can find no =
name
for the mingled feeling of disappointment, annoyance, and distaste that jar=
red along
my nerves. I tried her on a v=
ariety
of subjects, equally in vain; and at last led the talk to her daughter. But even there she proved indiffer=
ent;
said she was pretty, which (as with children) was her highest word of
commendation, but was plainly incapable of any higher thought; and when I
remarked that Olalla seemed silent, merely yawned in my face and replied th=
at
speech was of no great use when you had nothing to say. 'People speak much, very much,' she
added, looking at me with expanded pupils; and then again yawned and again
showed me a mouth that was as dainty as a toy. This time I took the hint, and, le=
aving
her to her repose, went up into my own chamber to sit by the open window, l=
ooking
on the hills and not beholding them, sunk in lustrous and deep dreams, and
hearkening in fancy to the note of a voice that I had never heard.
I awoke on the fifth morning with a brightness=
of
anticipation that seemed to challenge fate. I was sure of myself, light of hea=
rt and
foot, and resolved to put my love incontinently to the touch of knowledge.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It should lie no longer under the =
bonds
of silence, a dumb thing, living by the eye only, like the love of beasts; =
but
should now put on the spirit, and enter upon the joys of the complete human
intimacy. I thought of it wit=
h wild
hopes, like a voyager to El Dorado; into that unknown and lovely country of=
her
soul, I no longer trembled to adventure.&n=
bsp;
Yet when I did indeed encounter her, the same force of passion desce=
nded
on me and at once submerged my mind; speech seemed to drop away from me lik=
e a childish
habit; and I but drew near to her as the giddy man draws near to the margin=
of
a gulf. She drew back from me=
a
little as I came; but her eyes did not waver from mine, and these lured me
forward. At last, when I was
already within reach of her, I stopped.&nb=
sp;
Words were denied me; if I advanced I could but clasp her to my hear=
t in
silence; and all that was sane in me, all that was still unconquered, revol=
ted
against the thought of such an accost.&nbs=
p;
So we stood for a second, all our life in our eyes, exchanging salvo=
s of
attraction and yet each resisting; and then, with a great effort of the wil=
l,
and conscious at the same time of a sudden bitterness of disappointment, I
turned and went away in the same silence.
What power lay upon me that I could not
speak? And she, why was she a=
lso silent? Why did she draw away before me du=
mbly,
with fascinated eyes? Was this love? or was it a mere brute attraction,
mindless and inevitable, like that of the magnet for the steel? We had never spoken, we were wholly
strangers: and yet an influence, strong as the grasp of a giant, swept us
silently together. On my side=
, it
filled me with impatience; and yet I was sure that she was worthy; I had se=
en
her books, read her verses, and thus, in a sense, divined the soul of my
mistress. But on her side, it struck me almost cold. Of me, she knew nothing but my bod=
ily
favour; she was drawn to me as stones fall to the earth; the laws that rule=
the
earth conducted her, unconsenting, to my arms; and I drew back at the thoug=
ht
of such a bridal, and began to be jealous for myself. It was not thus that I desired to =
be
loved. And then I began to fa=
ll
into a great pity for the girl herself.&nb=
sp;
I thought how sharp must be her mortification, that she, the student,
the recluse, Felipe's saintly monitress, should have thus confessed an
overweening weakness for a man with whom she had never exchanged a word.
The next day it was glorious weather; depth up=
on
depth of blue over-canopied the mountains; the sun shone wide; and the wind=
in
the trees and the many falling torrents in the mountains filled the air wit=
h delicate
and haunting music. Yet I was
prostrated with sadness. My h=
eart
wept for the sight of Olalla, as a child weeps for its mother. I sat down on a boulder on the ver=
ge of
the low cliffs that bound the plateau to the north. Thence I looked down into the wood=
ed
valley of a stream, where no foot came.&nb=
sp;
In the mood I was in, it was even touching to behold the place
untenanted; it lacked Olalla; and I thought of the delight and glory of a l=
ife
passed wholly with her in that strong air, and among these rugged and lovely
surroundings, at first with a whimpering sentiment, and then again with suc=
h a
fiery joy that I seemed to grow in strength and stature, like a Samson.
And then suddenly I was aware of Olalla drawing
near. She appeared out of a g=
rove
of cork-trees, and came straight towards me; and I stood up and waited. She seemed in her walking a creatu=
re of
such life and fire and lightness as amazed me; yet she came quietly and
slowly. Her energy was in the
slowness; but for inimitable strength, I felt she would have run, she would
have flown to me. Still, as s=
he
approached, she kept her eyes lowered to the ground; and when she had drawn
quite near, it was without one glance that she addressed me. At the first note of her voice I
started. It was for this I ha=
d been
waiting; this was the last test of my love. And lo, her enunciation was precis=
e and
clear, not lisping and incomplete like that of her family; and the voice,
though deeper than usual with women, was still both youthful and womanly. She spoke in a rich chord; golden
contralto strains mingled with hoarseness, as the red threads were mingled =
with
the brown among her tresses. =
It was
not only a voice that spoke to my heart directly; but it spoke to me of
her. And yet her words immedi=
ately
plunged me back upon despair.
'You will go away,' she said, 'to-day.'
Her example broke the bonds of my speech; I fe=
lt
as lightened of a weight, or as if a spell had been dissolved. I know not in what words I answere=
d;
but, standing before her on the cliffs, I poured out the whole ardour of my
love, telling her that I lived upon the thought of her, slept only to dream=
of
her loveliness, and would gladly forswear my country, my language, and my
friends, to live for ever by her side.&nbs=
p;
And then, strongly commanding myself, I changed the note; I reassure=
d, I
comforted her; I told her I had divined in her a pious and heroic spirit, w=
ith
which I was worthy to sympathise, and which I longed to share and lighten.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Nature,' I told her, 'was the voi=
ce of
God, which men disobey at peril; and if we were thus humbly drawn together,=
ay,
even as by a miracle of love, it must imply a divine fitness in our souls; =
we
must be made,' I said--'made for one another. We should be mad rebels,' I cried =
out--'mad
rebels against God, not to obey this instinct.'
She shook her head. 'You will go to-day,' she repeated=
, and
then with a gesture, and in a sudden, sharp note--'no, not to-day,' she cri=
ed,
'to- morrow!'
But at this sign of relenting, power came in u=
pon
me in a tide. I stretched out=
my
arms and called upon her name; and she leaped to me and clung to me. The hills rocked about us, the ear=
th
quailed; a shock as of a blow went through me and left me blind and dizzy.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And the next moment she had thrust=
me
back, broken rudely from my arms, and fled with the speed of a deer among t=
he
cork-trees.
I stood and shouted to the mountains; I turned=
and
went back towards the residencia, waltzing upon air. She sent me away, and yet I had bu=
t to call
upon her name and she came to me.
These were but the weaknesses of girls, from which even she, the
strangest of her sex, was not exempted. Go? Not I, Olalla--O, not I, Olalla, my
Olalla! A bird sang near by; =
and in
that season, birds were rare. It
bade me be of good cheer. And=
once
more the whole countenance of nature, from the ponderous and stable mountai=
ns
down to the lightest leaf and the smallest darting fly in the shadow of the
groves, began to stir before me and to put on the lineaments of life and we=
ar a
face of awful joy. The sunshi=
ne
struck upon the hills, strong as a hammer on the anvil, and the hills shook;
the earth, under that vigorous insulation, yielded up heady scents; the woo=
ds smouldered
in the blaze. I felt the thri=
ll of
travail and delight run through the earth.=
Something elemental, something rude, violent, and savage, in the love
that sang in my heart, was like a key to nature's secrets; and the very sto=
nes
that rattled under my feet appeared alive and friendly. Olalla! Her touch had quickened, and renew=
ed,
and strung me up to the old pitch of concert with the rugged earth, to a
swelling of the soul that men learn to forget in their polite assemblies. Love burned in me like rage; tende=
rness
waxed fierce; I hated, I adored, I pitied, I revered her with ecstasy. She seemed the link that bound me =
in with
dead things on the one hand, and with our pure and pitying God upon the oth=
er:
a thing brutal and divine, and akin at once to the innocence and to the
unbridled forces of the earth.
My head thus reeling, I came into the courtyar=
d of
the residencia, and the sight of the mother struck me like a revelation. She sat there, all sloth and conten=
tment,
blinking under the strong sunshine, branded with a passive enjoyment, a
creature set quite apart, before whom my ardour fell away like a thing
ashamed. I stopped a moment, =
and,
commanding such shaken tones as I was able, said a word or two. She looked at me with her unfathom=
able
kindness; her voice in reply sounded vaguely out of the realm of peace in w=
hich
she slumbered, and there fell on my mind, for the first time, a sense of
respect for one so uniformly innocent and happy, and I passed on in a kind =
of
wonder at myself, that I should be so much disquieted.
On my table there lay a piece of the same yell=
ow
paper I had seen in the north room; it was written on with pencil in the sa=
me
hand, Olalla's hand, and I picked it up with a sudden sinking of alarm, and
read, 'If you have any kindness for Olalla, if you have any chivalry for a
creature sorely wrought, go from here to-day; in pity, in honour, for the s=
ake
of Him who died, I supplicate that you shall go.' I looked at this awhile in mere
stupidity, then I began to awaken to a weariness and horror of life; the
sunshine darkened outside on the bare hills, and I began to shake like a ma=
n in
terror. The vacancy thus sudd=
enly
opened in my life unmanned me like a physical void. It was not my heart, it was not my=
happiness,
it was life itself that was involved.
I could not lose her. =
I said
so, and stood repeating it. A=
nd
then, like one in a dream, I moved to the window, put forth my hand to open=
the
casement, and thrust it through the pane.&=
nbsp;
The blood spurted from my wrist; and with an instantaneous quietude =
and
command of myself, I pressed my thumb on the little leaping fountain, and
reflected what to do. In that=
empty
room there was nothing to my purpose; I felt, besides, that I required assi=
stance. There shot into my mind a hope that
Olalla herself might be my helper, and I turned and went down stairs, still
keeping my thumb upon the wound.
There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, =
and
I addressed myself to the recess, whither the Senora had now drawn quite ba=
ck
and sat dozing close before the fire, for no degree of heat appeared too mu=
ch
for her.
'Pardon me,' said I, 'if I disturb you, but I =
must
apply to you for help.'
She looked up sleepily and asked me what it wa=
s,
and with the very words I thought she drew in her breath with a widening of=
the
nostrils and seemed to come suddenly and fully alive.
'I have cut myself,' I said, 'and rather
badly. See!' And I held out my two hands from w=
hich
the blood was oozing and dripping.
Her great eyes opened wide, the pupils shrank =
into
points; a veil seemed to fall from her face, and leave it sharply expressive
and yet inscrutable. And as I=
still
stood, marvelling a little at her disturbance, she came swiftly up to me, a=
nd
stooped and caught me by the hand; and the next moment my hand was at her
mouth, and she had bitten me to the bone.&=
nbsp;
The pang of the bite, the sudden spurting of blood, and the monstrous
horror of the act, flashed through me all in one, and I beat her back; and =
she
sprang at me again and again, with bestial cries, cries that I recognised, =
such
cries as had awakened me on the night of the high wind. Her strength was like that of madn=
ess;
mine was rapidly ebbing with the loss of blood; my mind besides was whirling
with the abhorrent strangeness of the onslaught, and I was already forced
against the wall, when Olalla ran betwixt us, and Felipe, following at a bo=
und,
pinned down his mother on the floor.
A trance-like weakness fell upon me; I saw, he=
ard,
and felt, but I was incapable of movement.=
I heard the struggle roll to and fro upon the floor, the yells of th=
at
catamount ringing up to Heaven as she strove to reach me. I felt Olalla clasp me in her arms=
, her
hair falling on my face, and, with the strength of a man, raise and half dr=
ag,
half carry me upstairs into my own room, where she cast me down upon the
bed. Then I saw her hasten to=
the
door and lock it, and stand an instant listening to the savage cries that s=
hook
the residencia. And then, swi=
ft and
light as a thought, she was again beside me, binding up my hand, laying it =
in
her bosom, moaning and mourning over it with dove-like sounds. They were not words that came to h=
er,
they were sounds more beautiful than speech, infinitely touching, infinitely
tender; and yet as I lay there, a thought stung to my heart, a thought woun=
ded
me like a sword, a thought, like a worm in a flower, profaned the holiness =
of
my love. Yes, they were beaut=
iful
sounds, and they were inspired by human tenderness; but was their beauty hu=
man?
All day I lay there. For a long time the cries of that
nameless female thing, as she struggled with her half-witted whelp, resound=
ed
through the house, and pierced me with despairing sorrow and disgust. They were the death-cry of my love=
; my
love was murdered; was not only dead, but an offence to me; and yet, think =
as I
pleased, feel as I must, it still swelled within me like a storm of sweetne=
ss,
and my heart melted at her looks and touch. This horror that had sprung out, t=
his
doubt upon Olalla, this savage and bestial strain that ran not only through=
the
whole behaviour of her family, but found a place in the very foundations and
story of our love--though it appalled, though it shocked and sickened me, w=
as
yet not of power to break the knot of my infatuation.
When the cries had ceased, there came a scrapi=
ng
at the door, by which I knew Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke =
to
him--I know not what. With th=
at
exception, she stayed close beside me, now kneeling by my bed and fervently
praying, now sitting with her eyes upon mine. So then, for these six hours I dra=
nk in
her beauty, and silently perused the story in her face. I saw the golden coin hover on her
breaths; I saw her eyes darken and brighter, and still speak no language but
that of an unfathomable kindness; I saw the faultless face, and, through the
robe, the lines of the faultless body.&nbs=
p;
Night came at last, and in the growing darkness of the chamber, the
sight of her slowly melted; but even then the touch of her smooth hand ling=
ered
in mine and talked with me. T=
o lie thus
in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the beloved, is to reawake to
love from whatever shock of disillusion.&n=
bsp;
I reasoned with myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I w=
as very
bold to accept the worst. What
mattered it, if that imperious sentiment survived; if her eyes still beckon=
ed
and attached me; if now, even as before, every fibre of my dull body yearned
and turned to her? Late on in=
the
night some strength revived in me, and I spoke:--
'Olalla,' I said, 'nothing matters; I ask noth=
ing;
I am content; I love you.'
She knelt down awhile and prayed, and I devout=
ly
respected her devotions. The moon had begun to shine in upon one side of ea=
ch
of the three windows, and make a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw
her indistinctly. When she re=
arose
she made the sign of the cross.
'It is for me to speak,' she said, 'and for yo=
u to
listen. I know; you can but
guess. I prayed, how I prayed=
for
you to leave this place. I be=
gged
it of you, and I know you would have granted me even this; or if not, O let=
me
think so!'
'I love you,' I said.
'And yet you have lived in the world,' she sai=
d;
after a pause, 'you are a man and wise; and I am but a child. Forgive me, if I seem to teach, wh=
o am
as ignorant as the trees of the mountain; but those who learn much do but s=
kim
the face of knowledge; they seize the laws, they conceive the dignity of the
design--the horror of the living fact fades from their memory. It is we who sit at home with evil=
who
remember, I think, and are warned and pity. Go, rather, go now, and keep me in
mind. So I shall have a life =
in the
cherished places of your memory: a life as much my own, as that which I lea=
d in
this body.'
'I love you,' I said once more; and reaching o=
ut
my weak hand, took hers, and carried it to my lips, and kissed it. Nor did she resist, but winced a l=
ittle;
and I could see her look upon me with a frown that was not unkindly, only s=
ad
and baffled. And then it seem=
ed she
made a call upon her resolution; plucked my hand towards her, herself at the
same time leaning somewhat forward, and laid it on the beating of her heart=
. 'There,'
she cried, 'you feel the very footfall of my life. It only moves for you; it is yours=
. But is it even mine? It is mine indeed to offer you, as=
I
might take the coin from my neck, as I might break a live branch from a tre=
e,
and give it you. And yet not
mine! I dwell, or I think I d=
well
(if I exist at all), somewhere apart, an impotent prisoner, and carried abo=
ut
and deafened by a mob that I disown.
This capsule, such as throbs against the sides of animals, knows you=
at
a touch for its master; ay, it loves you!&=
nbsp;
But my soul, does my soul? =
span>I
think not; I know not, fearing to ask.&nbs=
p;
Yet when you spoke to me your words were of the soul; it is of the s=
oul
that you ask--it is only from the soul that you would take me.'
'Olalla,' I said, 'the soul and the body are o=
ne,
and mostly so in love. What the body chooses, the soul loves; where the body
clings, the soul cleaves; body for body, soul to soul, they come together at
God's signal; and the lower part (if we can call aught low) is only the
footstool and foundation of the highest.'
'Have you,' she said, 'seen the portraits in t=
he
house of my fathers? Have you looked at my mother or at Felipe? Have your eyes never rested on that
picture that hangs by your bed? She
who sat for it died ages ago; and she did evil in her life. But, look-again: there is my hand =
to the
least line, there are my eyes and my hair.=
What is mine, then, and what am I?&=
nbsp;
If not a curve in this poor body of mine (which you love, and for the
sake of which you dotingly dream that you love me) not a gesture that I can
frame, not a tone of my voice, not any look from my eyes, no, not even now =
when
I speak to him I love, but has belonged to others? Others, ages dead, have
wooed other men with my eyes; other men have heard the pleading of the same
voice that now sounds in your ears.
The hands of the dead are in my bosom; they move me, they pluck me, =
they
guide me; I am a puppet at their command; and I but reinform features and a=
ttributes
that have long been laid aside from evil in the quiet of the grave. Is it me you love, friend? or the =
race
that made me? The girl who do=
es not
know and cannot answer for the least portion of herself? or the stream of w=
hich
she is a transitory eddy, the tree of which she is the passing fruit? The race exists; it is old, it is =
ever
young, it carries its eternal destiny in its bosom; upon it, like waves upo=
n the
sea, individual succeeds to individual, mocked with a semblance of self- co=
ntrol,
but they are nothing. We spea=
k of
the soul, but the soul is in the race.'
'You fret against the common law,' I said. 'You rebel against the voice of Go=
d,
which he has made so winning to convince, so imperious to command. Hear it, and how it speaks between
us! Your hand clings to mine,=
your
heart leaps at my touch, the unknown elements of which we are compounded aw=
ake
and run together at a look; the clay of the earth remembers its independent
life and yearns to join us; we are drawn together as the stars are turned a=
bout
in space, or as the tides ebb and flow, by things older and greater than we
ourselves.'
'Alas!' she said, 'what can I say to you? My fathers, eight hundred years ag=
o,
ruled all this province: they were wise, great, cunning, and cruel; they we=
re a
picked race of the Spanish; their flags led in war; the king called them his
cousin; the people, when the rope was slung for them or when they returned =
and
found their hovels smoking, blasphemed their name. Presently a change began. Man has risen; if he has sprung fr=
om the
brutes, he can descend again to the same level. The breath of weariness blew on th=
eir
humanity and the cords relaxed; they began to go down; their minds fell on
sleep, their passions awoke in gusts, heady and senseless like the wind in =
the
gutters of the mountains; beauty was still handed down, but no longer the
guiding wit nor the human heart; the seed passed on, it was wrapped in fles=
h,
the flesh covered the bones, but they were the bones and the flesh of brute=
s,
and their mind was as the mind of flies.&n=
bsp;
I speak to you as I dare; but you have seen for yourself how the whe=
el
has gone backward with my doomed race.&nbs=
p;
I stand, as it were, upon a little rising ground in this desperate
descent, and see both before and behind, both what we have lost and to what=
we
are condemned to go farther downward.
And shall I--I that dwell apart in the house of the dead, my body,
loathing its ways--shall I repeat the spell? Shall I bind another spirit, reluc=
tant
as my own, into this bewitched and tempest-broken tenement that I now suffer
in? Shall I hand down this cu=
rsed
vessel of humanity, charge it with fresh life as with fresh poison, and dash
it, like a fire, in the faces of posterity? But my vow has been given; the race
shall cease from off the earth. At
this hour my brother is making ready; his foot will soon be on the stair; a=
nd
you will go with him and pass out of my sight for ever. Think of me sometimes as one to wh=
om the
lesson of life was very harshly told, but who heard it with courage; as one=
who
loved you indeed, but who hated herself so deeply that her love was hateful=
to
her; as one who sent you away and yet would have longed to keep you for eve=
r;
who had no dearer hope than to forget you, and no greater fear than to be
forgotten.'
She had drawn towards the door as she spoke, h=
er
rich voice sounding softer and farther away; and with the last word she was
gone, and I lay alone in the moonlit chamber. What I might have done had not I l=
ain bound
by my extreme weakness, I know not; but as it was there fell upon me a great
and blank despair. It was not=
long
before there shone in at the door the ruddy glimmer of a lantern, and Felipe
coming, charged me without a word upon his shoulders, and carried me down to
the great gate, where the cart was waiting. In the moonlight the hills stood o=
ut sharply,
as if they were of cardboard; on the glimmering surface of the plateau, and
from among the low trees which swung together and sparkled in the wind, the
great black cube of the residencia stood out bulkily, its mass only broken =
by
three dimly lighted windows in the northern front above the gate. They were Olalla's windows, and as=
the
cart jolted onwards I kept my eyes fixed upon them till, where the road dip=
ped
into a valley, they were lost to my view forever. Felipe walked in silence beside the
shafts, but from time to time he would cheek the mule and seem to look back
upon me; and at length drew quite near and laid his hand upon my head. There was such kindness in the tou=
ch,
and such a simplicity, as of the brutes, that tears broke from me like the
bursting of an artery.
'Felipe,' I said, 'take me where they will ask=
no
questions.'
He said never a word, but he turned his mule
about, end for end, retraced some part of the way we had gone, and, striking
into another path, led me to the mountain village, which was, as we say in
Scotland, the kirkton of that thinly peopled district. Some broken memories dwell in my m=
ind of
the day breaking over the plain, of the cart stopping, of arms that helped =
me
down, of a bare room into which I was carried, and of a swoon that fell upo=
n me
like sleep.
The next day and the days following the old pr=
iest
was often at my side with his snuff-box and prayer book, and after a while,
when I began to pick up strength, he told me that I was now on a fair way to
recovery, and must as soon as possible hurry my departure; whereupon, witho=
ut naming
any reason, he took snuff and looked at me sideways. I did not affect ignorance; I knew=
he
must have seen Olalla. 'Sir,'=
said
I, 'you know that I do not ask in wantonness. What of that family?'
He said they were very unfortunate; that it se=
emed
a declining race, and that they were very poor and had been much neglected.=
'But she has not,' I said. 'Thanks, doubtless, to yourself, s=
he is instructed
and wise beyond the use of women.'
'Yes,' he said; 'the Senorita is
well-informed. But the family=
has
been neglected.'
'The mother?' I queried.
'Yes, the mother too,' said the Padre, taking
snuff. 'But Felipe is a well-=
intentioned
lad.'
'The mother is odd?' I asked.
'Very odd,' replied the priest.
'I think, sir, we beat about the bush,' said
I. 'You must know more of my
affairs than you allow. You m=
ust
know my curiosity to be justified on many grounds. Will you not be frank with me?'
'My son,' said the old gentleman, 'I will be v=
ery
frank with you on matters within my competence; on those of which I know
nothing it does not require much discretion to be silent. I will not fence with you, I take =
your
meaning perfectly; and what can I say, but that we are all in God's hands, =
and
that His ways are not as our ways?
I have even advised with my superiors in the church, but they, too, =
were
dumb. It is a great mystery.'=
'Is she mad?' I asked.
'I will answer you according to my belief. She is not,' returned the Padre, '=
or she
was not. When she was young--=
God
help me, I fear I neglected that wild lamb--she was surely sane; and yet,
although it did not run to such heights, the same strain was already notabl=
e;
it had been so before her in her father, ay, and before him, and this incli=
ned
me, perhaps, to think too lightly of it.&n=
bsp;
But these things go on growing, not only in the individual but in the
race.'
'When she was young,' I began, and my voice fa=
iled
me for a moment, and it was only with a great effort that I was able to add,
'was she like Olalla?'
'Now God forbid!' exclaimed the Padre. 'God forbid that any man should th= ink so slightingly of my favourite penitent. No, no; the Senorita (but for her beauty, which I wish most honestly= she had less of) has not a hair's resemblance to what her mother was at the same age. I could not bear to have= you think so; though, Heaven knows, it were, perhaps, better that you should.'<= o:p>
At this, I raised myself in bed, and opened my
heart to the old man; telling him of our love and of her decision, owning my
own horrors, my own passing fancies, but telling him that these were at an =
end;
and with something more than a purely formal submission, appealing to his j=
udgment.
He heard me very patiently and without surpris=
e;
and when I had done, he sat for some time silent. Then he began: 'The church,' and
instantly broke off again to apologise.&nb=
sp;
'I had forgotten, my child, that you were not a Christian,' said
he. 'And indeed, upon a point=
so
highly unusual, even the church can scarce be said to have decided. But would you have my opinion? The Senorita is, in a matter of th=
is
kind, the best judge; I would accept her judgment.'
On the back of that he went away, nor was he
thenceforward so assiduous in his visits; indeed, even when I began to get
about again, he plainly feared and deprecated my society, not as in distaste
but much as a man might be disposed to flee from the riddling sphynx. The villagers, too, avoided me; th=
ey
were unwilling to be my guides upon the mountain. I thought they looked at me askanc=
e, and
I made sure that the more superstitious crossed themselves on my approach.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> At first I set this down to my her=
etical
opinions; but it began at length to dawn upon me that if I was thus redoubt=
ed
it was because I had stayed at the residencia. All men despise the savage notions=
of
such peasantry; and yet I was conscious of a chill shadow that seemed to fa=
ll
and dwell upon my love. It di=
d not
conquer, but I may not deify that it restrained my ardour.
Some miles westward of the village there was a=
gap
in the sierra, from which the eye plunged direct upon the residencia; and
thither it became my daily habit to repair. A wood crowned the summit; and just
where the pathway issued from its fringes, it was overhung by a considerable
shelf of rock, and that, in its turn, was surmounted by a crucifix of the s=
ize of
life and more than usually painful in design. This was my perch; thence, day aft=
er
day, I looked down upon the plateau, and the great old house, and could see
Felipe, no bigger than a fly, going to and fro about the garden. Sometimes mists would draw across =
the
view, and be broken up again by mountain winds; sometimes the plain slumber=
ed
below me in unbroken sunshine; it would sometimes be all blotted out by
rain. This distant post, these
interrupted sights of the place where my life had been so strangely changed,
suited the indecision of my humour.
I passed whole days there, debating with myself the various elements=
of
our position; now leaning to the suggestions of love, now giving an ear to =
prudence,
and in the end halting irresolute between the two.
One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there ca=
me
by that way a somewhat gaunt peasant wrapped in a mantle. He was a stranger, and plainly did=
not
know me even by repute; for, instead of keeping the other side, he drew near
and sat down beside me, and we had soon fallen in talk. Among other things he told me he h=
ad
been a muleteer, and in former years had much frequented these mountains; l=
ater
on, he had followed the army with his mules, had realised a competence, and=
was
now living retired with his family.
'Do you know that house?' I inquired, at last,
pointing to the residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that kept me =
from
the thought of Olalla.
He looked at me darkly and crossed himself.
'Too well,' he said, 'it was there that one of=
my
comrades sold himself to Satan; the Virgin shield us from temptations! He has paid the price; he is now b=
urning
in the reddest place in Hell!'
A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; a=
nd
presently the man resumed, as if to himself: 'Yes,' he said, 'O yes, I know
it. I have passed its doors.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was snow upon the pass, the =
wind
was driving it; sure enough there was death that night upon the mountains, =
but
there was worse beside the hearth.
I took him by the arm, Senor, and dragged him to the gate; I conjured
him, by all he loved and respected, to go forth with me; I went on my knees
before him in the snow; and I could see he was moved by my entreaty. And just then she came out on the
gallery, and called him by his name; and he turned, and there was she stand=
ing
with a lamp in her hand and smiling on him to come back. I cried out aloud to God, and thre=
w my
arms about him, but he put me by, and left me alone. He had made his choice; God help
us. I would pray for him, but=
to
what end? there are sins that not even the Pope can loose.'
'And your friend,' I asked, 'what became of hi=
m?'
'Nay, God knows,' said the muleteer. 'If all be true that we hear, his =
end
was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.'
'Do you mean that he was killed?' I asked.
'Sure enough, he was killed,' returned the man=
. 'But how? Ay, how? But these are things that it is si=
n to
speak of.'
'The people of that house . . . ' I began.
But he interrupted me with a savage outburst.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'The people?' he cried. 'What
people? There are neither men=
nor
women in that house of Satan's! What? have you lived here so long, and never
heard?' And here he put his m=
outh
to my ear and whispered, as if even the fowls of the mountain might have
over-heard and been stricken with horror.
What he told me was not true, nor was it even
original; being, indeed, but a new edition, vamped up again by village
ignorance and superstition, of stories nearly as ancient as the race of
man. It was rather the applic=
ation
that appalled me. In the old =
days,
he said, the church would have burned out that nest of basilisks; but the a=
rm
of the church was now shortened; his friend Miguel had been unpunished by t=
he
hands of men, and left to the more awful judgment of an offended God. This was wrong; but it should be s=
o no
more. The Padre was sunk in a=
ge; he
was even bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock were now awake to the=
ir
own danger; and some day--ay, and before long--the smoke of that house shou=
ld go
up to heaven.
He left me filled with horror and fear. Which way to turn I knew not; whet=
her
first to warn the Padre, or to carry my ill-news direct to the threatened
inhabitants of the residencia. Fate
was to decide for me; for, while I was still hesitating, I beheld the veiled
figure of a woman drawing near to me up the pathway. No veil could deceive my penetrati=
on; by
every line and every movement I recognised Olalla; and keeping hidden behin=
d a
corner of the rock, I suffered her to gain the summit. Then I came forward. She knew me and paused, but did not
speak; I, too, remained silent; and we continued for some time to gaze upon
each other with a passionate sadness.
'I thought you had gone,' she said at length.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'It is all that you can do for me-=
-to
go. It is all I ever asked of
you. And you still stay. But do you know, that every day he=
aps up
the peril of death, not only on your head, but on ours? A report has gone about the mounta=
in; it
is thought you love me, and the people will not suffer it.'
I saw she was already informed of her danger, =
and
I rejoiced at it. 'Olalla,' I said, 'I am ready to go this day, this very h=
our,
but not alone.'
She stepped aside and knelt down before the
crucifix to pray, and I stood by and looked now at her and now at the objec=
t of
her adoration, now at the living figure of the penitent, and now at the
ghastly, daubed countenance, the painted wounds, and the projected ribs of =
the
image. The silence was only b=
roken
by the wailing of some large birds that circled sidelong, as if in surprise=
or
alarm, about the summit of the hills. Presently Olalla rose again, turned
towards me, raised her veil, and, still leaning with one hand on the shaft =
of
the crucifix, looked upon me with a pale and sorrowful countenance.
'I have laid my hand upon the cross,' she
said. 'The Padre says you are=
no
Christian; but look up for a moment with my eyes, and behold the face of the
Man of Sorrows. We are all su=
ch as
He was--the inheritors of sin; we must all bear and expiate a past which was
not ours; there is in all of us--ay, even in me--a sparkle of the divine. Like Him, we must endure for a lit=
tle
while, until morning returns bringing peace. Suffer me to pass on upon my way a=
lone;
it is thus that I shall be least lonely, counting for my friend Him who is =
the
friend of all the distressed; it is thus that I shall be the most happy, ha=
ving
taken my farewell of earthly happiness, and willingly accepted sorrow for my
portion.'
I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, tho=
ugh
I was no friend to images, and despised that imitative and grimacing art of
which it was a rude example, some sense of what the thing implied was carri=
ed
home to my intelligence. The =
face
looked down upon me with a painful and deadly contraction; but the rays of a
glory encircled it, and reminded me that the sacrifice was voluntary. It stood there, crowning the rock,=
as it
still stands on so many highway sides, vainly preaching to passers-by, an e=
mblem
of sad and noble truths; that pleasure is not an end, but an accident; that
pain is the choice of the magnanimous; that it is best to suffer all things=
and
do well. I turned and went do=
wn the
mountain in silence; and when I looked back for the last time before the wo=
od
closed about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix.
=
=
They
had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six. About eight some villagers came ro=
und
for the performance, and were told how matters stood. It seemed a liberty for a mounteba=
nk to
fall ill like real people, and they made off again in dudgeon. By ten Madame Tentaillon was grave=
ly
alarmed, and had sent down the street for Doctor Desprez.
The Doctor was at work over his manuscripts in=
one
corner of the little dining-room, and his wife was asleep over the fire in
another, when the messenger arrived.
'Sapristi!' said the Doctor, 'you should have =
sent
for me before. It was a case =
for
hurry.' And he followed the
messenger as he was, in his slippers and skull-cap.
The inn was not thirty yards away, but the
messenger did not stop there; he went in at one door and out by another into
the court, and then led the way by a flight of steps beside the stable, to =
the
loft where the mountebank lay sick.
If Doctor Desprez were to live a thousand years, he would never forg=
et
his arrival in that room; for not only was the scene picturesque, but the
moment made a date in his existence.
We reckon our lives, I hardly know why, from the date of our first s=
orry
appearance in society, as if from a first humiliation; for no actor can come
upon the stage with a worse grace.
Not to go further back, which would be judged too curious, there are
subsequently many moving and decisive accidents in the lives of all, which
would make as logical a period as this of birth. And here, for instance, Do=
ctor
Desprez, a man past forty, who had made what is called a failure in life, a=
nd
was moreover married, found himself at a new point of departure when he ope=
ned
the door of the loft above Tentaillon's stable.
It was a large place, lighted only by a single
candle set upon the floor. The mountebank lay on his back upon a pallet; a
large man, with a Quixotic nose inflamed with drinking. Madame Tentaillon stooped over him,
applying a hot water and mustard embrocation to his feet; and on a chair cl=
ose
by sat a little fellow of eleven or twelve, with his feet dangling. These three were the only occupant=
s,
except the shadows. But the s=
hadows
were a company in themselves; the extent of the room exaggerated them to a
gigantic size, and from the low position of the candle the light struck upw=
ards
and produced deformed foreshortenings. The mountebank's profile was enlarged
upon the wall in caricature, and it was strange to see his nose shorten and
lengthen as the flame was blown about by draughts. As for Madame Tentaillon, her shad=
ow was
no more than a gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemisphere of
head. The chair legs were spi=
ndled
out as long as stilts, and the boy set perched atop of them, like a cloud, =
in
the corner of the roof.
It was the boy who took the Doctor's fancy.
At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a
leap. He remembered the look =
now. The little fellow, although he was=
as
straight as a dart, had the eyes that go usually with a crooked back; he was
not at all deformed, and yet a deformed person seemed to be looking at you =
from
below his brows. The Doctor drew a long breath, he was so much relieved to =
find
a theory (for he loved theories) and to explain away his interest.
For all that, he despatched the invalid with
unusual haste, and, still kneeling with one knee on the floor, turned a lit=
tle
round and looked the boy over at his leisure. The boy was not in the least put o=
ut,
but looked placidly back at the Doctor.
'Is this your father?' asked Desprez.
'Oh, no,' returned the boy; 'my master.'
'Are you fond of him?' continued the Doctor.
'No, sir,' said the boy.
Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expres=
sive
glances.
'That is bad, my man,' resumed the latter, wit=
h a
shade of sternness. 'Every one should be fond of the dying, or conceal their
sentiments; and your master here is dying.=
If I have watched a bird a little while stealing my cherries, I have=
a
thought of disappointment when he flies away over my garden wall, and I see=
him
steer for the forest and vanish. How much more a creature such as this, so
strong, so astute, so richly endowed with faculties! When I think that, in a few hours,=
the
speech will be silenced, the breath extinct, and even the shadow vanished f=
rom the
wall, I who never saw him, this lady who knew him only as a guest, are touc=
hed
with some affection.'
The boy was silent for a little, and appeared =
to
be reflecting.
'You did not know him,' he replied at last, 'he
was a bad man.'
'He is a little pagan,' said the landlady. 'For that matter, they are all the=
same,
these mountebanks, tumblers, artists, and what not. They have no interior.'
But the Doctor was still scrutinising the litt=
le
pagan, his eyebrows knotted and uplifted.
'What is your name?' he asked.
'Jean-Marie,' said the lad.
Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden
flashes of excitement, and felt his head all over from an ethnological poin=
t of
view.
'Celtic, Celtic!' he said.
'Celtic!' cried Madame Tentaillon, who had per=
haps
confounded the word with hydrocephalous.&n=
bsp;
'Poor lad! is it dangerous?'
'That depends,' returned the Doctor grimly.
'I tumble,' was the answer.
'So!
Tumble?' repeated Desprez.
'Probably healthful. I
hazard the guess, Madame Tentaillon, that tumbling is a healthful way of
life. And have you never done
anything else but tumble?'
'Before I learned that, I used to steal,' answ=
ered
Jean-Marie gravely.
'Upon my word!' cried the doctor. 'You are a nice little man for you=
r age. Madame, when my confrere comes from
Bourron, you will communicate my unfavourable opinion. I leave the case in his hands; but=
of
course, on any alarming symptom, above all if there should be a sign of ral=
ly,
do not hesitate to knock me up. I
am a doctor no longer, I thank God; but I have been one. Good night, madame. Good sleep to you, Jean-Marie.'
=
Doctor
Desprez always rose early. Be=
fore
the smoke arose, before the first cart rattled over the bridge to the day's
labour in the fields, he was to be found wandering in his garden. Now he would pick a bunch of grape=
s; now
he would eat a big pear under the trellice; now he would draw all sorts of
fancies on the path with the end of his cane; now he would go down and watch
the river running endlessly past the timber landing- place at which he moor=
ed
his boat. There was no time, =
he
used to say, for making theories like the early morning. 'I rise earlier than any one else =
in the
village,' he once boasted. 'I=
t is a
fair consequence that I know more and wish to do less with my knowledge.'
The Doctor was a connoisseur of sunrises, and
loved a good theatrical effect to usher in the day. He had a theory of dew, by which he
could predict the weather. In=
deed,
most things served him to that end: the sound of the bells from all the
neighbouring villages, the smell of the forest, the visits and the behaviou=
r of
both birds and fishes, the look of the plants in his garden, the dispositio=
n of
cloud, the colour of the light, and last, although not least, the arsenal of
meteorological instruments in a louvre-boarded hutch upon the lawn. Ever since he had settled at Gretz=
, he
had been growing more and more into the local meteorologist, the unpaid
champion of the local climate. He
thought at first there was no place so healthful in the arrondissement. By the end of the second year, he
protested there was none so wholesome in the whole department. And for some time before he met
Jean-Marie he had been prepared to challenge all France and the better part=
of
Europe for a rival to his chosen spot.
'Doctor,' he would say--'doctor is a foul
word. It should not be used t=
o ladies. It implies disease. I remark it, as a flaw in our
civilisation, that we have not the proper horror of disease. Now I, for my part, have washed my=
hands
of it; I have renounced my laureation; I am no doctor; I am only a worshipp=
er
of the true goddess Hygieia. =
Ah, believe
me, it is she who has the cestus!
And here, in this exiguous hamlet, has she placed her shrine: here s=
he
dwells and lavishes her gifts; here I walk with her in the early morning, a=
nd
she shows me how strong she has made the peasants, how fruitful she has made
the fields, how the trees grow up tall and comely under her eyes, and the
fishes in the river become clean and agile at her presence.--Rheumatism!' he
would cry, on some malapert interruption, 'O, yes, I believe we do have a
little rheumatism. That could
hardly be avoided, you know, on a river.&n=
bsp;
And of course the place stands a little low; and the meadows are mar=
shy,
there's no doubt. But, my dea=
r sir,
look at Bourron! Bourron stan=
ds
high. Bourron is close to the
forest; plenty of ozone there, you would say. Well, compared with Gretz, Bourron=
is a
perfect shambles.'
The morning after he had been summoned to the
dying mountebank, the Doctor visited the wharf at the tail of his garden, a=
nd
had a long look at the running water.
This he called prayer; but whether his adorations were addressed to =
the
goddess Hygieia or some more orthodox deity, never plainly appeared. For he had uttered doubtful oracle=
s,
sometimes declaring that a river was the type of bodily health, sometimes
extolling it as the great moral preacher, continually preaching peace,
continuity, and diligence to man's tormented spirits. After he had watched a mile or so =
of the
clear water running by before his eyes, seen a fish or two come to the surf=
ace
with a gleam of silver, and sufficiently admired the long shadows of the tr=
ees
falling half across the river from the opposite bank, with patches of moving
sunlight in between, he strolled once more up the garden and through his ho=
use
into the street, feeling cool and renovated.
The sound of his feet upon the causeway began =
the
business of the day; for the village was still sound asleep. The church tower looked very airy =
in the
sunlight; a few birds that turned about it, seemed to swim in an atmosphere=
of
more than usual rarity; and the Doctor, walking in long transparent shadows,
filled his lungs amply, and proclaimed himself well contented with the morn=
ing.
On one of the posts before Tentaillon's carria=
ge
entry he espied a little dark figure perched in a meditative attitude, and =
immediately
recognised Jean-Marie.
'Aha!' he said, stopping before him humorously,
with a hand on either knee. '=
So we
rise early in the morning, do we?
It appears to me that we have all the vices of a philosopher.'
The boy got to his feet and made a grave
salutation.
'And how is our patient?' asked Desprez.
It appeared the patient was about the same.
'And why do you rise early in the morning?' he
pursued.
Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed th=
at
he hardly knew.
'You hardly know?' repeated Desprez. 'We hardly know anything, my man, =
until
we try to learn. Interrogate =
your
consciousness. Come, push me =
this
inquiry home. Do you like it?=
'
'Yes,' said the boy slowly; 'yes, I like it.'<= o:p>
'And why do you like it?' continued the
Doctor. '(We are now pursuing=
the
Socratic method.) Why do you =
like
it?'
'It is quiet,' answered Jean-Marie; 'and I have
nothing to do; and then I feel as if I were good.'
Doctor Desprez took a seat on the post at the
opposite side. He was beginni=
ng to
take an interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought before he spoke, =
and
tried to answer truly. 'It ap=
pears
you have a taste for feeling good,' said the Doctor. 'Now, there you puzzle me extremel=
y; for
I thought you said you were a thief; and the two are incompatible.'
'Is it very bad to steal?' asked Jean-Marie.
'Such is the general opinion, little boy,' rep=
lied
the Doctor.
'No; but I mean as I stole,' explained the
other. 'For I had no choice. I
think it is surely right to have bread; it must be right to have bread, the=
re
comes so plain a want of it. =
And
then they beat me cruelly if I returned with nothing,' he added. 'I was not ignorant of right and w=
rong;
for before that I had been well taught by a priest, who was very kind to
me.' (The Doctor made a horri=
ble
grimace at the word 'priest.') 'But it seemed to me, when one had nothing to
eat and was beaten, it was a different affair. I would not have stolen for tartle=
ts, I
believe; but any one would steal for baker's bread.'
'And so I suppose,' said the Doctor, with a ri=
sing
sneer, 'you prayed God to forgive you, and explained the case to Him at
length.'
'Why, sir?' asked Jean-Marie. 'I do not see.'
'Your priest would see, however,' retorted
Desprez.
'Would he?' asked the boy, troubled for the fi=
rst
time. 'I should have thought =
God
would have known.'
'Eh?' snarled the Doctor.
'I should have thought God would have understo=
od
me,' replied the other. 'You do not, I see; but then it was God that made me
think so, was it not?'
'Little boy, little boy,' said Dr. Desprez, 'I told you already you had the vices of philosophy; if you display the virtues also, I must go. I am a stude= nt of the blessed laws of health, an observer of plain and temperate nature in her common walks; and I cannot preserve my equanimity in presence of a monster. Do you understand?'<= o:p>
'No, sir,' said the boy.
'I will make my meaning clear to you,' replied=
the
doctor. 'Look there at the
sky--behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and then up and up, tur=
ning
your chin back, right to the top of the dome, where it is already as blue a=
s at
noon. Is not that a beautiful
colour? Does it not please the
heart? We have seen it all our
lives, until it has grown in with our familiar thoughts. Now,' changing his tone, 'suppose =
that
sky to become suddenly of a live and fiery amber, like the colour of clear =
coals,
and growing scarlet towards the top--I do not say it would be any the less
beautiful; but would you like it as well?'
'I suppose not,' answered Jean-Marie.
'Neither do I like you,' returned the Doctor,
roughly. 'I hate all odd peop=
le,
and you are the most curious little boy in all the world.'
Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and t=
hen
he raised his head again and looked over at the Doctor with an air of candid
inquiry. 'But are not you a v=
ery
curious gentleman?' he asked.
The Doctor threw away his stick, bounded on the boy, clasped him to his bosom, and kissed him on both cheeks. 'Admirable, admirable imp!' he cri= ed. 'What a morning, what an hour for a theorist of forty-two! No,' he continued, apostrophising heaven, 'I did not know such boys existed; I was ignorant they made them so; I had doubted of my race; and now! It is like,' he added, picking up = his stick, 'like a lovers' meeting. I have bruised my favourite staff in that moment of enthusiasm. The injury, however, is not grave.= ' He caught the boy looking at him in obvious wonder, embarrassment, and alarm.&= nbsp; 'Hullo!' said he, 'why do you look at me like that? Egad, I believe the boy despises me. Do you despise me, boy?'<= o:p>
'O, no,' replied Jean-Marie, seriously; 'only =
I do
not understand.'
'You must excuse me, sir,' returned the Doctor,
with gravity; 'I am still so young.
O, hang him!' he added to himself.&=
nbsp;
And he took his seat again and observed the boy sardonically. 'He has spoiled the quiet of my mo=
rning,'
thought he. 'I shall be nervo=
us all
day, and have a febricule when I digest.&n=
bsp;
Let me compose myself.' And
so he dismissed his pre-occupations by an effort of the will which he had l=
ong
practised, and let his soul roam abroad in the contemplation of the
morning. He inhaled the air,
tasting it critically as a connoisseur tastes a vintage, and prolonging the
expiration with hygienic gusto. He
counted the little flecks of cloud along the sky. He followed the movements of the b=
irds round
the church tower--making long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning airy
somersaults in fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions. And in t=
his
way he regained peace of mind and animal composure, conscious of his limbs,
conscious of the sight of his eyes, conscious that the air had a cool taste,
like a fruit, at the top of his throat; and at last, in complete abstractio=
n,
he began to sing. The Doctor =
had
but one air--, 'Malbrouck s'en va-t-en guerre;' even with that he was on te=
rms
of mere politeness; and his musical exploits were always reserved for momen=
ts when
he was alone and entirely happy.
He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained
expression on the boy's face. 'What do you think of my singing?' he inquire=
d,
stopping in the middle of a note; and then, after he had waited some little
while and received no answer, 'What do you think of my singing?' he repeate=
d,
imperiously.
'I do not like it,' faltered Jean-Marie.
'Oh, come!' cried the Doctor. 'Possibly you are a performer your=
self?'
'I sing better than that,' replied the boy.
The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in
stupefaction. He was aware th=
at he
was angry, and blushed for himself in consequence, which made him angrier.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'If this is how you address your m=
aster!'
he said at last, with a shrug and a flourish of his arms.
'I do not speak to him at all,' returned the
boy. 'I do not like him.'
'Then you like me?' snapped Doctor Desprez, wi=
th
unusual eagerness.
'I do not know,' answered Jean-Marie.
The Doctor rose. 'I shall wish you a good morning,'=
he
said. 'You are too much for
me. Perhaps you have blood in=
your
veins, perhaps celestial ichor, or perhaps you circulate nothing more gross
than respirable air; but of one thing I am inexpugnably assured:--that you =
are
no human being. No, boy'--shaking his stick at him--'you are not a human
being. Write, write it in your
memory--"I am not a human being--I have no pretension to be a human
being--I am a dive, a dream, an angel, an acrostic, an illusion--what you
please, but not a human being."
And so accept my humble salutations and farewell!'
And with that the Doctor made off along the st=
reet
in some emotion, and the boy stood, mentally gaping, where he left him.
=
Madame
Desprez, who answered to the Christian name of Anastasie, presented an
agreeable type of her sex; exceedingly wholesome to look upon, a stout brun=
e,
with cool smooth cheeks, steady, dark eyes, and hands that neither art nor
nature could improve. She was=
the
sort of person over whom adversity passes like a summer cloud; she might, in
the worst of conjunctions, knit her brows into one vertical furrow for a mo=
ment,
but the next it would be gone. She
had much of the placidity of a contented nun; with little of her piety,
however; for Anastasie was of a very mundane nature, fond of oysters and old
wine, and somewhat bold pleasantries, and devoted to her husband for her own
sake rather than for his. She=
was
imperturbably good-natured, but had no idea of self-sacrifice. To live in that pleasant old house=
, with
a green garden behind and bright flowers about the window, to eat and drink=
of
the best, to gossip with a neighbour for a quarter of an hour, never to wear
stays or a dress except when she went to Fontainebleau shopping, to be kept=
in a
continual supply of racy novels, and to be married to Doctor Desprez and ha=
ve
no ground of jealousy, filled the cup of her nature to the brim. Those who =
had
known the Doctor in bachelor days, when he had aired quite as many theories,
but of a different order, attributed his present philosophy to the study of
Anastasie. It was her brute
enjoyment that he rationalised and perhaps vainly imitated.
Madame Desprez was an artist in the kitchen, a=
nd
made coffee to a nicety. She had a knack of tidiness, with which she had
infected the Doctor; everything was in its place; everything capable of pol=
ish
shone gloriously; and dust was a thing banished from her empire. Aline, their single servant, had no
other business in the world but to scour and burnish. So Doctor Desprez lived in his hou=
se
like a fatted calf, warmed and cosseted to his heart's content.
The midday meal was excellent. There was a ripe melon, a fish fro=
m the river
in a memorable Bearnaise sauce, a fat fowl in a fricassee, and a dish of
asparagus, followed by some fruit.
The Doctor drank half a bottle plus one glass, the wife half a bottle
minus the same quantity, which was a marital privilege, of an excellent
Cote-Rotie, seven years old. =
Then
the coffee was brought, and a flask of Chartreuse for madame, for the Doctor
despised and distrusted such decoctions; and then Aline left the wedded pai=
r to
the pleasures of memory and digestion.
'It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cheri=
shed
one,' observed the Doctor--'this coffee is adorable--a very fortunate
circumstance upon the whole--Anastasie, I beseech you, go without that pois=
on
for to-day; only one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my
reputation.'
'What is this fortunate circumstance, my frien=
d?'
inquired Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence.=
'That we have no children, my beautiful,' repl=
ied
the Doctor. 'I think of it mo=
re and
more as the years go on, and with more and more gratitude towards the Power
that dispenses such afflictions.
Your health, my darling, my studious quiet, our little kitchen
delicacies, how they would all have suffered, how they would all have been
sacrificed! And for what? Children are the last word of human
imperfection. Health flees be=
fore
their face. They cry, my dear=
; they
put vexatious questions; they demand to be fed, to be washed, to be educate=
d,
to have their noses blown; and then, when the time comes, they break our
hearts, as I break this piece of sugar.&nb=
sp;
A pair of professed egoists, like you and me, should avoid offspring,
like an infidelity.'
'Indeed!' said she; and she laughed. 'Now, that is like you--to take cr=
edit
for the thing you could not help.'
'My dear,' returned the Doctor, solemnly, 'we
might have adopted.'
'Never!' cried madame. 'Never, Doctor, with my consent. If the child were my own flesh and
blood, I would not say no. Bu=
t to
take another person's indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have =
too
much sense.'
'Precisely,' replied the Doctor. 'We both had. And I am all the better pleased wi=
th our
wisdom, because--because--' He
looked at her sharply.
'Because what?' she asked, with a faint
premonition of danger.
'Because I have found the right person,' said =
the
Doctor firmly, 'and shall adopt him this afternoon.'
Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. 'You have lost your reason,' she s=
aid;
and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten trouble.
'Not so, my dear,' he replied; 'I retain its
complete exercise. To the pro=
of:
instead of attempting to cloak my inconsistency, I have, by way of preparing
you, thrown it into strong relief.
You will there, I think, recognise the philosopher who has the ecsta=
sy
to call you wife. The fact is=
, I
have been reckoning all this while without an accident. I never thought to find a son of my
own. Now, last night, I found
one. Do not unnecessarily ala=
rm
yourself, my dear; he is not a drop of blood to me that I know. It is his mind, darling, his mind =
that
calls me father.'
'His mind!' she repeated with a titter between
scorn and hysterics. 'His min=
d,
indeed! Henri, is this an idi=
otic
pleasantry, or are you mad? H=
is mind! And what of my mind?'
'Truly,' replied the Doctor with a shrug, 'you
have your finger on the hitch. He
will be strikingly antipathetic to my ever beautiful Anastasie. She will never understand him; he =
will
never understand her. You married the animal side of my nature, dear and it=
is
on the spiritual side that I find my affinity for Jean-Marie. So much so, that, to be perfectly =
frank,
I stand in some awe of him myself.
You will easily perceive that I am announcing a calamity for you.
Anastasie controlled herself. 'You know how willing I am to humo=
ur
you,' she said, 'in all reasonable matters. But on this point--'
'My dear love,' interrupted the Doctor, eager =
to
prevent a refusal, 'who wished to leave Paris? Who made me give up cards, and the
opera, and the boulevard, and my social relations, and all that was my life
before I knew you? Have I been
faithful? Have I been
obedient? Have I not borne my=
doom
with cheerfulness? In all hon=
esty,
Anastasie, have I not a right to a stipulation on my side? I have, and you know it. I stipulate my son.'
Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her
colours instantly. 'You will =
break
my heart,' she sighed.
'Not in the least,' said he. 'You will feel a trifling inconven=
ience
for a month, just as I did when I was first brought to this vile hamlet; th=
en your
admirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you already as content as
ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.'
'You know I can refuse you nothing,' she said,
with a last flicker of resistance; 'nothing that will make you truly
happier. But will this? Are y=
ou
sure, my husband? Last night,=
you
say, you found him! He may be=
the
worst of humbugs.'
'I think not,' replied the Doctor. 'But do not suppose me so unwary a=
s to
adopt him out of hand. I am, I
flatter myself, a finished man of the world; I have had all possibilities in
view; my plan is contrived to meet them all. I take the lad as stable boy. If he pilfer, if he grumble, if he
desire to change, I shall see I was mistaken; I shall recognise him for no =
son
of mine, and send him tramping.'
'You will never do so when the time comes,' sa=
id
his wife; 'I know your good heart.'
She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh; =
the
Doctor smiled as he took it and carried it to his lips; he had gained his p=
oint
with greater ease than he had dared to hope; for perhaps the twentieth time=
he
had proved the efficacy of his trusty argument, his Excalibur, the hint of =
a return
to Paris. Six months in the
capital, for a man of the Doctor's antecedents and relations, implied no le=
ss a
calamity than total ruin. Anastasie had saved the remainder of his fortune =
by
keeping him strictly in the country.
The very name of Paris put her in a blue fear; and she would have
allowed her husband to keep a menagerie in the back garden, let alone adopt=
ing
a stable-boy, rather than permit the question of return to be discussed.
About four of the afternoon, the mountebank
rendered up his ghost; he had never been conscious since his seizure. Doctor Desprez was present at his =
last
passage, and declared the farce over.
Then he took Jean-Marie by the shoulder and led him out into the inn
garden where there was a convenient bench beside the river. Here he sat him down and made the =
boy place
himself on his left.
'Jean-Marie,' he said very gravely, 'this worl=
d is
exceedingly vast; and even France, which is only a small corner of it, is a
great place for a little lad like you.&nbs=
p;
Unfortunately it is full of eager, shouldering people moving on; and
there are very few bakers' shops for so many eaters. Your master is dead; you are not f=
it to
gain a living by yourself; you do not wish to steal? No.
Your situation then is undesirable; it is, for the moment,
critical. On the other hand, =
you behold
in me a man not old, though elderly, still enjoying the youth of the heart =
and
the intelligence; a man of instruction; easily situated in this world's
affairs; keeping a good table:--a man, neither as friend nor host, to be
despised. I offer you your fo=
od and
clothes, and to teach you lessons in the evening, which will be infinitely =
more
to the purpose for a lad of your stamp than those of all the priests in
Europe. I propose no wages, b=
ut if
ever you take a thought to leave me, the door shall be open, and I will give
you a hundred francs to start the world upon. In return, I have an old horse and
chaise, which you would very speedily learn to clean and keep in order. Do not hurry yourself to answer, a=
nd
take it or leave it as you judge aright.&n=
bsp;
Only remember this, that I am no sentimentalist or charitable person,
but a man who lives rigorously to himself; and that if I make the proposal,=
it
is for my own ends--it is because I perceive clearly an advantage to
myself. And now, reflect.'
'I shall be very glad. I do not see what else I can do. I thank you, sir, most kindly, and=
I
will try to be useful,' said the boy.
'Thank you,' said the Doctor warmly, rising at=
the
same time and wiping his brow, for he had suffered agonies while the thing =
hung
in the wind. A refusal, after=
the
scene at noon, would have placed him in a ridiculous light before
Anastasie. 'How hot and heavy=
is
the evening, to be sure! I ha=
ve
always had a fancy to be a fish in summer, Jean-Marie, here in the Loing be=
side
Gretz. I should lie under a w=
ater-lily
and listen to the bells, which must sound most delicately down below. That would be a life--do you not t=
hink
so too?'
'Yes,' said Jean-Marie.
'Thank God you have imagination!' cried the
Doctor, embracing the boy with his usual effusive warmth, though it was a
proceeding that seemed to disconcert the sufferer almost as much as if he h=
ad
been an English schoolboy of the same age.=
'And now,' he added, 'I will take you to my wife.'
Madame Desprez sat in the dining-room in a cool
wrapper. All the blinds were =
down,
and the tile floor had been recently sprinkled with water; her eyes were ha=
lf
shut, but she affected to be reading a novel as the they entered. Though she was a bustling woman, s=
he
enjoyed repose between whiles and had a remarkable appetite for sleep.
The Doctor went through a solemn form of
introduction, adding, for the benefit of both parties, 'You must try to like
each other for my sake.'
'He is very pretty,' said Anastasie. 'Will you kiss me, my pretty littl=
e fellow?'
The Doctor was furious, and dragged her into t=
he
passage. 'Are you a fool,
Anastasie?' he said. 'What is=
all
this I hear about the tact of women?
Heaven knows, I have not met with it in my experience. You address my little philosopher =
as if
he were an infant. He must be
spoken to with more respect, I tell you; he must not be kissed and Georgy-p=
orgy'd
like an ordinary child.'
'I only did it to please you, I am sure,' repl=
ied
Anastasie; 'but I will try to do better.'
The Doctor apologised for his warmth. 'But I do wish him,' he continued,=
'to
feel at home among us. And re=
ally
your conduct was so idiotic, my cherished one, and so utterly and distantly=
out
of place, that a saint might have been pardoned a little vehemence in
disapproval. Do, do try--if i=
t is
possible for a woman to understand young people--but of course it is not, a=
nd I
waste my breath. Hold your to=
ngue
as much as possible at least, and observe my conduct narrowly; it will serve
you for a model.'
Anastasie did as she was bidden, and considered
the Doctor's behaviour. She observed that he embraced the boy three times in
the course of the evening, and managed generally to confound and abash the
little fellow out of speech and appetite.&=
nbsp;
But she had the true womanly heroism in little affairs. Not only did she refrain from the =
cheap
revenge of exposing the Doctor's errors to himself, but she did her best to
remove their ill-effect on Jean-Marie.&nbs=
p;
When Desprez went out for his last breath of air before retiring for=
the
night, she came over to the boy's side and took his hand.
'You must not be surprised nor frightened by my
husband's manners,' she said. 'He
is the kindest of men, but so clever that he is sometimes difficult to
understand. You will soon gro=
w used
to him, and then you will love him, for that nobody can help. As for me, you may be sure, I shal=
l try
to make you happy, and will not bother you at all. I think we should be excellent fri=
ends,
you and I. I am not clever, b=
ut I
am very good-natured. Will yo=
u give
me a kiss?'
He held up his face, and she took him in her a=
rms
and then began to cry. The woman had spoken in complaisance; but she had wa=
rmed
to her own words, and tenderness followed.=
The Doctor, entering, found them enlaced: he concluded that his wife=
was
in fault; and he was just beginning, in an awful voice, 'Anastasie--,' when=
she
looked up at him, smiling, with an upraised finger; and he held his peace,
wondering, while she led the boy to his attic.
=
The
installation of the adopted stable-boy was thus happily effected, and the
wheels of life continued to run smoothly in the Doctor's house. Jean- Marie did his horse and carr=
iage
duty in the morning; sometimes helped in the housework; sometimes walked ab=
road
with the Doctor, to drink wisdom from the fountain-head; and was introduced=
at
night to the sciences and the dead tongues. He retained his singular placidity=
of
mind and manner; he was rarely in fault; but he made only a very partial
progress in his studies, and remained much of a stranger in the family.
The Doctor was a pattern of regularity. All forenoon he worked on his great
book, the 'Comparative Pharmacopoeia, or Historical Dictionary of all
Medicines,' which as yet consisted principally of slips of paper and pins.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When finished, it was to fill many
personable volumes, and to combine antiquarian interest with professional
utility. But the Doctor was
studious of literary graces and the picturesque; an anecdote, a touch of
manners, a moral qualification, or a sounding epithet was sure to be prefer=
red
before a piece of science; a little more, and he would have written the
'Comparative Pharmacopoeia' in verse!
The article 'Mummia,' for instance, was already complete, though the
remainder of the work had not progressed beyond the letter A. It was exceedingly copious and ent=
ertaining,
written with quaintness and colour, exact, erudite, a literary article; but=
it
would hardly have afforded guidance to a practising physician of to-day.
After the midday meal and a proper period of
digestion, he walked, sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by Jean-Marie;=
for
madame would have preferred any hardship rather than walk.
She was, as I have said, a very busy person,
continually occupied about material comforts, and ready to drop asleep over=
a
novel the instant she was disengaged.
This was the less objectionable, as she never snored or grew distemp=
ered
in complexion when she slept. On
the contrary, she looked the very picture of luxurious and appetising ease,=
and
woke without a start to the perfect possession of her faculties. I am afraid she was greatly an ani=
mal,
but she was a very nice animal to have about. In this way, she had little t=
o do
with Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which had been established between them on
the first night remained unbroken; they held occasional conversations, most=
ly
on household matters; to the extreme disappointment of the Doctor, they
occasionally sallied off together to that temple of debasing superstition, =
the
village church; madame and he, both in their Sunday's best, drove twice a m=
onth
to Fontainebleau and returned laden with purchases; and in short, although =
the
Doctor still continued to regard them as irreconcilably anti-pathetic, their
relation was as intimate, friendly, and confidential as their natures suffe=
red.
I fear, however, that in her heart of hearts,
madame kindly despised and pitied the boy.=
She had no admiration for his class of virtues; she liked a smart,
polite, forward, roguish sort of boy, cap in hand, light of foot, meeting t=
he
eye; she liked volubility, charm, a little vice--the promise of a second Do=
ctor
Desprez. And it was her
indefeasible belief that Jean-Marie was dull. 'Poor dear boy,' she had said once=
, 'how
sad it is that he should be so stupid!'&nb=
sp;
She had never repeated that remark, for the Doctor had raged like a =
wild
bull, denouncing the brutal bluntness of her mind, bemoaning his own fate t=
o be
so unequally mated with an ass, and, what touched Anastasie more nearly,
menacing the table china by the fury of his gesticulations. But she adhered silently to her op=
inion;
and when Jean-Marie was sitting, stolid, blank, but not unhappy, over his
unfinished tasks, she would snatch her opportunity in the Doctor's absence,=
go
over to him, put her arms about his neck, lay her cheek to his, and communi=
cate
her sympathy with his distress. 'Do
not mind,' she would say; 'I, too, am not at all clever, and I can assure y=
ou that
it makes no difference in life.'
The Doctor's view was naturally different. That gentleman never wearied of the
sound of his own voice, which was, to say the truth, agreeable enough to
hear. He now had a listener, =
who
was not so cynically indifferent as Anastasie, and who sometimes put him on=
his
mettle by the most relevant objections.&nb=
sp;
Besides, was he not educating the boy? And education, philosophers are ag=
reed,
is the most philosophical of duties. What can be more heavenly to poor mank=
ind
than to have one's hobby grow into a duty to the State? Then, indeed, do the ways of life =
become
ways of pleasantness. Never h=
ad the
Doctor seen reason to be more content with his endowments. Philosophy flowed smoothly from his
lips. He was so agile a
dialectician that he could trace his nonsense, when challenged, back to some
root in sense, and prove it to be a sort of flower upon his system. He slipped out of antinomies like a
fish, and left his disciple marvelling at the rabbi's depth.
Moreover, deep down in his heart the Doctor was
disappointed with the ill- success of his more formal education. A boy, chosen by so acute an obser=
ver
for his aptitude, and guided along the path of learning by so philosophic an
instructor, was bound, by the nature of the universe, to make a more obviou=
s and
lasting advance. Now Jean-Mar=
ie was
slow in all things, impenetrable in others; and his power of forgetting was
fully on a level with his power to learn.&=
nbsp;
Therefore the Doctor cherished his peripatetic lectures, to which the
boy attended, which he generally appeared to enjoy, and by which he often
profited.
Many and many were the talks they had together;
and health and moderation proved the subject of the Doctor's divagations. To these he lovingly returned.
'I lead you,' he would say, 'by the green past=
ures. My system, my beliefs, my medicine=
s, are
resumed in one phrase--to avoid excess. Blessed nature, healthy, temperate
nature, abhors and exterminates excess.&nb=
sp;
Human law, in this matter, imitates at a great distance her provisio=
ns;
and we must strive to supplement the efforts of the law. Yes, boy, we must be a law to ours=
elves
and for ourselves and for our neighbours--lex armata--armed, emphatic,
tyrannous law. If you see a c=
rapulous
human ruin snuffing, dash from him his box! The judge, though in a way an admi=
ssion
of disease, is less offensive to me than either the doctor or the priest. Above all the doctor--the doctor a=
nd the
purulent trash and garbage of his pharmacopoeia! Pure air--from the neighbourhood o=
f a
pinetum for the sake of the turpentine--unadulterated wine, and the reflect=
ions
of an unsophisticated spirit in the presence of the works of nature--these,=
my
boy, are the best medical appliances and the best religious comforts. Devote yourself to these. Hark! there are the bells of Bourr=
on
(the wind is in the north, it will be fair). How clear and airy is the sound! The nerves are harmonised and quie=
ted;
the mind attuned to silence; and observe how easily and regularly beats the
heart! Your unenlightened doctor would see nothing in these sensations; and=
yet
you yourself perceive they are a part of health.--Did you remember your cin=
chona
this morning? Good. Cinchona also is a work of nature;=
it
is, after all, only the bark of a tree which we might gather for ourselves =
if we
lived in the locality.--What a world is this! Though a professed atheist, I deli=
ght to
bear my testimony to the world.
Look at the gratuitous remedies and pleasures that surround our
path! The river runs by the g=
arden
end, our bath, our fishpond, our natural system of drainage. There is a well in the court which=
sends
up sparkling water from the earth's very heart, clean, cool, and, with a li=
ttle
wine, most wholesome. The dis=
trict
is notorious for its salubrity; rheumatism is the only prevalent complaint,=
and
I myself have never had a touch of it. I tell you--and my opinion is based =
upon
the coldest, clearest processes of reason--if I, if you, desired to leave t=
his
home of pleasures, it would be the duty, it would be the privilege, of our =
best
friend to prevent us with a pistol bullet.'
One beautiful June day they sat upon the hill
outside the village. The rive=
r, as
blue as heaven, shone here and there among the foliage. The indefatigable birds turned and
flickered about Gretz church tower.
A healthy wind blew from over the forest, and the sound of innumerab=
le thousands
of tree-tops and innumerable millions on millions of green leaves was abroa=
d in
the air, and filled the ear with something between whispered speech and
singing. It seemed as if every
blade of grass must hide a cigale; and the fields rang merrily with their
music, jingling far and near as with the sleigh-bells of the fairy queen. From their station on the slope th=
e eye
embraced a large space of poplar'd plain upon the one hand, the waving hill=
-tops
of the forest on the other, and Gretz itself in the middle, a handful of
roofs. Under the bestriding a=
rch of
the blue heavens, the place seemed dwindled to a toy. It seemed incredible that people d=
welt,
and could find room to turn or air to breathe, in such a corner of the
world. The thought came home =
to the
boy, perhaps for the first time, and he gave it words.
'How small it looks!' he sighed.
'Ay,' replied the Doctor, 'small enough now. Yet it was once a walled city; thr=
iving,
full of furred burgesses and men in armour, humming with affairs;--with tall
spires, for aught that I know, and portly towers along the battlements. A thousand chimneys ceased smoking=
at
the curfew bell. There were g=
ibbets
at the gate as thick as scarecrows.
In time of war, the assault swarmed against it with ladders, the arr=
ows
fell like leaves, the defenders sallied hotly over the drawbridge, each sid=
e uttered
its cry as they plied their weapons.
Do you know that the walls extended as far as the Commanderie? Tradition so reports. Alas, what a long way off is all t=
his
confusion--nothing left of it but my quiet words spoken in your ear--and the
town itself shrunk to the hamlet underneath us! By-and-by came the English wars--y=
ou
shall hear more of the English, a stupid people, who sometimes blundered in=
to
good--and Gretz was taken, sacked, and burned. It is the history of many towns; b=
ut
Gretz never rose again; it was never rebuilt; its ruins were a quarry to se=
rve
the growth of rivals; and the stones of Gretz are now erect along the stree=
ts of
Nemours. It gratifies me that=
our
old house was the first to rise after the calamity; when the town had come =
to
an end, it inaugurated the hamlet.'
'I, too, am glad of that,' said Jean-Marie.
'It should be the temple of the humbler virtue=
s,'
responded the Doctor with a savoury gusto.=
'Perhaps one of the reasons why I love my little hamlet as I do, is =
that
we have a similar history, she and I.
Have I told you that I was once rich?'
'I do not think so,' answered Jean-Marie. 'I do not think I should have forg=
otten. I am sorry you should have lost yo=
ur
fortune.'
'Sorry?' cried the Doctor. 'Why, I find I have scarce begun y=
our education
after all. Listen to me! Would you rather live in the old G=
retz
or in the new, free from the alarms of war, with the green country at the d=
oor,
without noise, passports, the exactions of the soldiery, or the jangle of t=
he
curfew-bell to send us off to bed by sundown?'
'I suppose I should prefer the new,' replied t=
he
boy.
'Precisely,' returned the Doctor; 'so do I.
This was too much for Jean-Marie. That a place should so transform t=
he most
excellent of men transcended his belief.&n=
bsp;
Paris, he protested, was even an agreeable place of residence. 'Nor when I lived in that city did=
I
feel much difference,' he pleaded.
'What!' cried the Doctor. 'Did you not steal when you were t=
here?'
But the boy could never be brought to see that=
he
had done anything wrong when he stole.&nbs=
p;
Nor, indeed, did the Doctor think he had; but that gentleman was nev=
er
very scrupulous when in want of a retort.
'And now,' he concluded, 'do you begin to
understand? My only friends w=
ere
those who ruined me. Gretz ha=
s been
my academy, my sanatorium, my heaven of innocent pleasures. If millions are offered me, I wave=
them back:
Retro, Sathanas!--Evil one, begone!
Fix your mind on my example; despise riches, avoid the debasing
influence of cities. Hygiene--hygiene and mediocrity of fortune--these be y=
our
watchwords during life!'
The Doctor's system of hygiene strikingly
coincided with his tastes; and his picture of the perfect life was a faithf=
ul
description of the one he was leading at the time. But it is easy to convince a boy, =
whom
you supply with all the facts for the discussion. And besides, there was one thing
admirable in the philosophy, and that was the enthusiasm of the philosopher=
. There was never any one more vigor=
ously
determined to be pleased; and if he was not a great logician, and so had no
right to convince the intellect, he was certainly something of a poet, and =
had
a fascination to seduce the heart.
What he could not achieve in his customary humour of a radiant
admiration of himself and his circumstances, he sometimes effected in his f=
its
of gloom.
'Boy,' he would say, 'avoid me to-day. If I were superstitious, I should =
even
beg for an interest in your prayers.
I am in the black fit; the evil spirit of King Saul, the hag of the
merchant Abudah, the personal devil of the mediaeval monk, is with me--is in
me,' tapping on his breast. '=
The
vices of my nature are now uppermost; innocent pleasures woo me in vain; I =
long
for Paris, for my wallowing in the mire.&n=
bsp;
See,' he would continue, producing a handful of silver, 'I denude
myself, I am not to be trusted with the price of a fare. Take it, keep it for me, squander =
it on
deleterious candy, throw it in the deepest of the river--I will homologate =
your
action. Save me from that par=
t of
myself which I disown. If you=
see
me falter, do not hesitate; if necessary, wreck the train! I speak, of course, by a parable.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Any extremity were better than for=
me to
reach Paris alive.'
Doubtless the Doctor enjoyed these little scen=
es,
as a variation in his part; they represented the Byronic element in the
somewhat artificial poetry of his existence; but to the boy, though he was
dimly aware of their theatricality, they represented more. The Doctor made perhaps too little=
, the
boy possibly too much, of the reality and gravity of these temptations.
One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie.
'In theory, yes,' replied the Doctor. 'But it is found in experience tha=
t no
one does so. All the world im=
agine
they will be exceptional when they grow wealthy; but possession is debasing,
new desires spring up; and the silly taste for ostentation eats out the hea=
rt
of pleasure.'
'Then you might be better if you had less,' sa=
id
the boy.
'Certainly not,' replied the Doctor; but his v=
oice
quavered as he spoke.
'Why?' demanded pitiless innocence.
Doctor Desprez saw all the colours of the rain=
bow
in a moment; the stable universe appeared to be about capsizing with him. 'Because,' said he--affecting
deliberation after an obvious pause--'because I have formed my life for my
present income. It is not goo=
d for
men of my years to be violently dissevered from their habits.'
That was a sharp brush. The Doctor breathed hard, and fell=
into taciturnity
for the afternoon. As for the=
boy,
he was delighted with the resolution of his doubts; even wondered that he h=
ad
not foreseen the obvious and conclusive answer. His faith in the Doctor was a stout
piece of goods. Desprez was
inclined to be a sheet in the wind's eye after dinner, especially after Rho=
ne
wine, his favourite weakness. He
would then remark on the warmth of his feeling for Anastasie, and with infl=
amed
cheeks and a loose, flustered smile, debate upon all sorts of topics, and be
feebly and indiscreetly witty. But
the adopted stable-boy would not permit himself to entertain a doubt that
savoured of ingratitude. It i=
s quite
true that a man may be a second father to you, and yet take too much to dri=
nk;
but the best natures are ever slow to accept such truths.
The Doctor thoroughly possessed his heart, but
perhaps he exaggerated his influence over his mind. Certainly Jean-Marie adopted some =
of his
master's opinions, but I have yet to learn that he ever surrendered one of =
his
own. Convictions existed in h=
im by
divine right; they were virgin, unwrought, the brute metal of decision. He could add others indeed, but he=
could
not put away; neither did he care if they were perfectly agreed among
themselves; and his spiritual pleasures had nothing to do with turning them
over or justifying them in words.
Words were with him a mere accomplishment, like dancing. When he was by himself, his pleasu=
res
were almost vegetable. He wou=
ld
slip into the woods towards Acheres, and sit in the mouth of a cave among g=
rey
birches. His soul stared straight out of his eyes; he did not move or think=
; sunlight,
thin shadows moving in the wind, the edge of firs against the sky, occupied=
and
bound his faculties. He was p=
ure
unity, a spirit wholly abstracted.
A single mood filled him, to which all the objects of sense contribu=
ted,
as the colours of the spectrum merge and disappear in white light.
So while the Doctor made himself drunk with wo=
rds,
the adopted stable-boy bemused himself with silence.
=
The
Doctor's carriage was a two-wheeled gig with a hood; a kind of vehicle in m=
uch
favour among country doctors. On
how many roads has one not seen it, a great way off between the poplars!--in
how many village streets, tied to a gate-post! This sort of chariot is affected--=
particularly
at the trot--by a kind of pitching movement to and fro across the axle, whi=
ch
well entitles it to the style of a Noddy.&=
nbsp;
The hood describes a considerable arc against the landscape, with a
solemnly absurd effect on the contemplative pedestrian. To ride in such a carriage cannot =
be
numbered among the things that appertain to glory; but I have no doubt it m=
ay
be useful in liver complaint.
Thence, perhaps, its wide popularity among physicians.
One morning early, Jean-Marie led forth the
Doctor's noddy, opened the gate, and mounted to the driving-seat. The Doctor followed, arrayed from =
top to
toe in spotless linen, armed with an immense flesh-coloured umbrella, and g=
irt
with a botanical case on a baldric; and the equipage drove off smartly in a
breeze of its own provocation. They
were bound for Franchard, to collect plants, with an eye to the 'Comparativ=
e Pharmacopoeia.'
A little rattling on the open roads, and they =
came
to the borders of the forest and struck into an unfrequented track; the nod=
dy
yawed softly over the sand, with an accompaniment of snapping twigs. There was a great, green, softly
murmuring cloud of congregated foliage overhead. In the arcades of the forest the a=
ir
retained the freshness of the night.
The athletic bearing of the trees, each carrying its leafy mountain,
pleased the mind like so many statues; and the lines of the trunk led the e=
ye admiringly
upward to where the extreme leaves sparkled in a patch of azure. Squirrels leaped in mid air. It was a proper spot for a devotee=
of
the goddess Hygieia.
'Have you been to Franchard, Jean-Marie?' inqu=
ired
the Doctor. 'I fancy not.'
'Never,' replied the boy.
'It is ruin in a gorge,' continued Desprez,
adopting his expository voice; 'the ruin of a hermitage and chapel. History tells us much of Franchard=
; how
the recluse was often slain by robbers; how he lived on a most insufficient
diet; how he was expected to pass his days in prayer. A letter is preserved, addressed t=
o one
of these solitaries by the superior of his order, full of admirable hygienic
advice; bidding him go from his book to praying, and so back again, for
variety's sake, and when he was weary of both to stroll about his garden and
observe the honey bees. It is=
to
this day my own system. You m=
ust
often have remarked me leaving the "Pharmacopoeia"--often even in=
the
middle of a phrase--to come forth into the sun and air. I admire the writer of that letter=
from
my heart; he was a man of thought on the most important subjects. But, indeed, had I lived in the Mi=
ddle
Ages (I am heartily glad that I did not) I should have been an eremite
myself--if I had not been a professed buffoon, that is. These were the only philosophical =
lives
yet open: laughter or prayer; sneers, we might say, and tears. Until the sun of the Positive aros=
e, the
wise man had to make his choice between these two.'
'I have been a buffoon, of course,' observed
Jean-Marie.
'I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your
profession,' said the Doctor, admiring the boy's gravity. 'Do you ever laugh?'
'Oh, yes,' replied the other. 'I laugh often. I am very fond of jokes.'
'Singular being!' said Desprez. 'But I divagate (I perceive in a t=
housand
ways that I grow old). Franch=
ard
was at length destroyed in the English wars, the same that levelled Gretz.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But--here is the point--the hermit=
s (for
there were already more than one) had foreseen the danger and carefully
concealed the sacrificial vessels.
These vessels were of monstrous value, Jean-Marie--monstrous
value--priceless, we may say; exquisitely worked, of exquisite material.
'I should like to have seen them turning into
dust,' said Jean-Marie. 'Otherwise, I should not have cared so greatly.'
'You have no imagination,' cried the Doctor. 'Picture to yourself the scene.
'It is only money,' replied Jean-Marie. 'It would do harm.'
'O, come!' cried Desprez, 'that is philosophy;=
it
is all very fine, but not to the point just now. And besides, it is not "only
money," as you call it; there are works of art in the question; the
vessels were carved. You speak like a child. You weary me exceedingly, quoting =
my
words out of all logical connection, like a parroquet.'
'And at any rate, we have nothing to do with i=
t,'
returned the boy submissively.
They struck the Route Ronde at that moment; and
the sudden change to the rattling causeway combined, with the Doctor's
irritation, to keep him silent. The
noddy jigged along; the trees went by, looking on silently, as if they had
something on their minds. The
Quadrilateral was passed; then came Franchard. They put up the horse at the little
solitary inn, and went forth strolling.&nb=
sp;
The gorge was dyed deeply with heather; the rocks and birches standi=
ng
luminous in the sun. A great
humming of bees about the flowers disposed Jean-Marie to sleep, and he sat =
down
against a clump of heather, while the Doctor went briskly to and fro, with
quick turns, culling his simples.
The boy's head had fallen a little forward, his
eyes were closed, his fingers had fallen lax about his knees, when a sudden=
cry
called him to his feet. It wa=
s a
strange sound, thin and brief; it fell dead, and silence returned as though=
it
had never been interrupted. H=
e had
not recognised the Doctor's voice; but, as there was no one else in all the=
valley,
it was plainly the Doctor who had given utterance to the sound. He looked r=
ight
and left, and there was Desprez, standing in a niche between two boulders, =
and
looking round on his adopted son with a countenance as white as paper.
'A viper!' cried Jean-Marie, running towards
him. 'A viper! You are bitten!'
The Doctor came down heavily out of the cleft,
and, advanced in silence to meet the boy, whom he took roughly by the shoul=
der.
'I have found it,' he said, with a gasp.
'A plant?' asked Jean-Marie.
Desprez had a fit of unnatural gaiety, which t=
he
rocks took up and mimicked. 'A
plant!' he repeated scornfully.
'Well--yes--a plant. A=
nd here,'
he added suddenly, showing his right hand, which he had hitherto concealed
behind his back--'here is one of the bulbs.'
Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with ea=
rth.
'That?' said he. 'It is a plate!'
'It is a coach and horses,' cried the Doctor.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Boy,' he continued, growing warme=
r, 'I
plucked away a great pad of moss from between these boulders, and disclosed=
a
crevice; and when I looked in, what do you suppose I saw? I saw a house in Paris with a cour=
t and
garden, I saw my wife shining with diamonds, I saw myself a deputy, I saw
you--well, I--I saw your future,' he concluded, rather feebly. 'I have just discovered America,' =
he
added.
'But what is it?' asked the boy.
'The Treasure of Franchard,' cried the Doctor;
and, throwing his brown straw hat upon the ground, he whooped like an Indian
and sprang upon Jean- Marie, whom he suffocated with embraces and bedewed w=
ith
tears. Then he flung himself =
down
among the heather and once more laughed until the valley rang.
But the boy had now an interest of his own, a
boy's interest. No sooner was=
he
released from the Doctor's accolade than he ran to the boulders, sprang into
the niche, and, thrusting his hand into the crevice, drew forth one after
another, encrusted with the earth of ages, the flagons, candlesticks, and
patens of the hermitage of Franchard.
A casket came last, tightly shut and very heavy.
'O what fun!' he cried.
But when he looked back at the Doctor, who had
followed close behind and was silently observing, the words died from his
lips. Desprez was once more t=
he
colour of ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of bestial greed posse=
ssed
him.
'This is childish,' he said. 'We lose precious time. Back to the inn, harness the trap,=
and
bring it to yon bank. Run for=
your
life, and remember--not one whisper.
I stay here to watch.'
Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not witho=
ut
surprise. The noddy was broug=
ht
round to the spot indicated; and the two gradually transported the treasure
from its place of concealment to the boot below the driving seat. Once it was all stored the Doctor
recovered his gaiety.
'I pay my grateful duties to the genius of this
dell,' he said. 'O, for a live
coal, a heifer, and a jar of country wine!=
I am in the vein for sacrifice, for a superb libation. Well, and why not? We are at Franchard. English pale ale is to be had--not
classical, indeed, but excellent.
Boy, we shall drink ale.'
'But I thought it was so unwholesome,' said
Jean-Marie, 'and very dear besides.'
'Fiddle-de-dee!' exclaimed the Doctor gaily. 'To the inn!'
And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his hea=
d,
with an elastic, youthful air. The
horse was turned, and in a few seconds they drew up beside the palings of t=
he
inn garden.
'Here,' said Desprez--'here, near the table, so
that we may keep an eye upon things.'
They tied the horse, and entered the garden, t=
he
Doctor singing, now in fantastic high notes, now producing deep reverberati=
ons
from his chest. He took a seat, rapped loudly on the table, assailed the wa=
iter
with witticisms; and when the bottle of Bass was at length produced, far mo=
re charged
with gas than the most delirious champagne, he filled out a long glassful of
froth and pushed it over to Jean-Marie.&nb=
sp;
'Drink,' he said; 'drink deep.'
'I would rather not,' faltered the boy, true to
his training.
'What?' thundered Desprez.
'I am afraid of it,' said Jean-Marie: 'my
stomach--'
'Take it or leave it,' interrupted Desprez
fiercely; 'but understand it once for all--there is nothing so contemptible=
as
a precisian.'
Here was a new lesson! The boy sat bemused, looking at the
glass but not tasting it, while the Doctor emptied and refilled his own, at
first with clouded brow, but gradually yielding to the sun, the heady,
prickling beverage, and his own predisposition to be happy.
'Once in a way,' he said at last, by way of a
concession to the boy's more rigorous attitude, 'once in a way, and at so
critical a moment, this ale is a nectar for the gods. The habit, indeed, is debasing; wi=
ne,
the juice of the grape, is the true drink of the Frenchman, as I have often=
had
occasion to point out; and I do not know that I can blame you for refusing =
this
outlandish stimulant. You can=
have
some wine and cakes. Is the b=
ottle
empty? Well, we will not be p=
roud;
we will have pity on your glass.'
The beer being done, the Doctor chafed bitterly
while Jean-Marie finished his cakes.
'I burn to be gone,' he said, looking at his watch. 'Good God, how slow you eat!' And yet to eat slowly was his own
particular prescription, the main secret of longevity!
His martyrdom, however, reached an end at last;
the pair resumed their places in the buggy, and Desprez, leaning luxuriously
back, announced his intention of proceeding to Fontainebleau.
'To Fontainebleau?' repeated Jean-Marie.
'My words are always measured,' said the
Doctor. 'On!'
The Doctor was driven through the glades of paradise; the air, the light, the shining leaves, the very movements of the vehicle, seemed to fall in tune with his golden meditations; with his head thrown back, he dreamed a series of sunny visions, ale and pleasure dancing= in his veins. At last he spoke.<= o:p>
'I shall telegraph for Casimir,' he said. 'Good Casimir! a fellow of the low=
er
order of intelligence, Jean-Marie, distinctly not creative, not poetic; and=
yet
he will repay your study; his fortune is vast, and is entirely due to his o=
wn
exertions. He is the very fel=
low to
help us to dispose of our trinkets, find us a suitable house in Paris, and
manage the details of our installation.&nb=
sp;
Admirable Casimir, one of my oldest comrades! It was on his advice, I may add, t=
hat I
invested my little fortune in Turkish bonds; when we have added these spoil=
s of
the mediaeval church to our stake in the Mahometan empire, little boy, we s=
hall
positively roll among doubloons, positively roll! Beautiful forest,' he cried,
'farewell! Though called to o=
ther
scenes, I will not forget thee. Thy name is graven in my heart. Under the influence of prosperity =
I become
dithyrambic, Jean-Marie. Such=
is
the impulse of the natural soul; such was the constitution of primaeval
man. And I--well, I will not =
refuse
the credit--I have preserved my youth like a virginity; another, who should
have led the same snoozing, countryfied existence for these years, another =
had
become rusted, become stereotype; but I, I praise my happy constitution, re=
tain
the spring unbroken. Fresh op=
ulence
and a new sphere of duties find me unabated in ardour and only more mature =
by knowledge. For this prospective change,
Jean-Marie--it may probably have shocked you. Tell me now, did it not strike you=
as an
inconsistency? Confess--it is useless to dissemble--it pained you?'
'Yes,' said the boy.
'You see,' returned the Doctor, with sublime
fatuity, 'I read your thoughts! Nor
am I surprised--your education is not yet complete; the higher duties of men
have not been yet presented to you fully.&=
nbsp;
A hint--till we have leisure--must suffice. Now that I am once more in possess=
ion of
a modest competence; now that I have so long prepared myself in silent
meditation, it becomes my superior duty to proceed to Paris. My scientific training, my undoubt=
ed
command of language, mark me out for the service of my country. Modesty in such a case would be a =
snare. If sin were a philosophical expres=
sion,
I should call it sinful. A man must not deny his manifest abilities, for th=
at
is to evade his obligations. =
I must
be up and doing; I must be no skulker in life's battle.' So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint=
of
his inconsistency with words; while the boy listened silently, his eyes fix=
ed
on the horse, his mind seething. It
was all lost eloquence; no array of words could unsettle a belief of
Jean-Marie's; and he drove into Fontainebleau filled with pity, horror,
indignation, and despair. In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on t=
he
driving-seat, to guard the treasure; while the Doctor, with a singular,
slightly tipsy airiness of manner, fluttered in and out of cafes, where he
shook hands with garrison officers, and mixed an absinthe with the nicety of
old experience; in and out of shops, from which he returned laden with cost=
ly fruits,
real turtle, a magnificent piece of silk for his wife, a preposterous cane =
for
himself, and a kepi of the newest fashion for the boy; in and out of the
telegraph office, whence he despatched his telegram, and where three hours
later he received an answer promising a visit on the morrow; and generally
pervaded Fontainebleau with the first fine aroma of his divine good humour.=
The sun was very low when they set forth again;
the shadows of the forest trees extended across the broad white road that l=
ed
them home; the penetrating odour of the evening wood had already arisen, li=
ke a
cloud of incense, from that broad field of tree-tops; and even in the stree=
ts
of the town, where the air had been baked all day between white walls, it c=
ame
in whiffs and pulses, like a distant music. Half-way home, the last gold flick=
er
vanished from a great oak upon the left; and when they came forth beyond the
borders of the wood, the plain was already sunken in pearly greyness, and a
great, pale moon came swinging skyward through the filmy poplars. The Doctor sang, the Doctor whistled, the Doct=
or
talked. He spoke of the woods=
, and
the wars, and the deposition of dew; he brightened and babbled of Paris; he
soared into cloudy bombast on the glories of the political arena. All was to be changed; as the day
departed, it took with it the vestiges of an outworn existence, and to-morr=
ow's
sun was to inaugurate the new.
'Enough,' he cried, 'of this life of maceration!' His wife (still beautiful, or he w=
as
sadly partial) was to be no longer buried; she should now shine before
society. Jean-Marie would fin=
d the
world at his feet; the roads open to success, wealth, honour, and post-humo=
us renown. 'And O, by the way,' said he, 'for=
God's
sake keep your tongue quiet! =
You
are, of course, a very silent fellow; it is a quality I gladly recognise in
you--silence, golden silence! But
this is a matter of gravity. =
No
word must get abroad; none but the good Casimir is to be trusted; we shall
probably dispose of the vessels in England.' 'But are they not even ours?' the boy said, al=
most
with a sob--it was the only time he had spoken. 'Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else=
's,'
replied the Doctor. 'But the State would have some claim. If they were stolen, for instance,=
we
should be unable to demand their restitution; we should have no title; we
should be unable even to communicate with the police. Such is the monstrous condition of=
the
law. {263} It is a mere insta=
nce of
what remains to be done, of the injustices that may yet be righted by an ar=
dent,
active, and philosophical deputy.' Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; an=
d as
they drove forward down the road from Bourron, between the rustling poplars=
, he
prayed in his teeth, and whipped up the horse to an unusual speed. Surely, as soon as they arrived, m=
adame
would assert her character, and bring this waking nightmare to an end. Their entrance into Gretz was heralded and
accompanied by a most furious barking; all the dogs in the village seemed to
smell the treasure in the noddy.
But there was no one in the street, save three lounging landscape pa=
inters
at Tentaillon's door. Jean-Ma=
rie
opened the green gate and led in the horse and carriage; and almost at the =
same
moment Madame Desprez came to the kitchen threshold with a lighted lantern;=
for
the moon was not yet high enough to clear the garden walls. 'Close the gates, Jean-Marie!' cried the Docto=
r,
somewhat unsteadily alighting.
'Anastasie, where is Aline?' 'She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,'
said madame. 'All is for the best!' exclaimed the Doctor
fervently. 'Here, quick, come=
near
to me; I do not wish to speak too loud,' he continued. 'Darling, we are
wealthy!' 'Wealthy!' repeated the wife. 'I have found the treasure of Franchard,' repl=
ied
her husband. 'See, here are t=
he
first fruits; a pineapple, a dress for my ever-beautiful--it will suit her-=
-trust
a husband's, trust a lover's, taste!
Embrace me, darling! T=
his
grimy episode is over; the butterfly unfolds its painted wings. To-morrow Casimir will come; in a =
week
we may be in Paris--happy at last!
You shall have diamonds.
Jean-Marie, take it out of the boot, with religious care, and bring =
it
piece by piece into the dining-room.
We shall have plate at table!
Darling, hasten and prepare this turtle; it will be a whet--it will =
be
an addition to our meagre ordinary.
I myself will proceed to the cellar. We shall have a bottle of that lit=
tle Beaujolais
you like, and finish with the Hermitage; there are still three bottles
left. Worthy wine for a worthy
occasion.' 'But, my husband; you put me in a whirl,' she
cried. 'I do not comprehend.'=
'The turtle, my adored, the turtle!' cried the
doctor; and he pushed her towards the kitchen, lantern and all. Jean-Marie stood dumfounded. He had pictured to himself a diffe=
rent scene--a
more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the spot. The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on
his legs, perhaps, and now and then taking the wall with his shoulder; for =
it
was long since he had tasted absinthe, and he was even then reflecting that=
the
absinthe had been a misconception.
Not that he regretted excess on such a glorious day, but he made a
mental memorandum to beware; he must not, a second time, become the victim =
of a
deleterious habit. He had his=
wine out
of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial vessels, some on =
the
white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still crusted with historic
earth. He was in and out of t=
he
kitchen, plying Anastasie with vermouth, heating her with glimpses of the
future, estimating their new wealth at ever larger figures; and before they=
sat
down to supper, the lady's virtue had melted in the fire of his enthusiasm,=
her
timidity had disappeared; she, too, had begun to speak disparagingly of the
life at Gretz; and as she took her place and helped the soup, her eyes shone
with the glitter of prospective diamonds. All through the meal, she and the Doctor made =
and
unmade fairy plans. They bobbed and bowed and pledged each other. Their faces ran over with smiles; =
their
eyes scattered sparkles, as they projected the Doctor's political honours a=
nd
the lady's drawing-room ovations. 'But you will not be a Red!' cried Anastasie.<=
o:p> 'I am Left Centre to the core,' replied the
Doctor. 'Madame Gastein will present us--we shall find
ourselves forgotten,' said the lady. 'Never,' protested the Doctor. 'Beauty and talent leave a mark.'<=
o:p> 'I have positively forgotten how to dress,' she
sighed. 'Darling, you make me blush,' cried he. 'Yours has been a tragic marriage!=
' 'But your success--to see you appreciated,
honoured, your name in all the papers, that will be more than pleasure--it =
will
be heaven!' she cried. 'And once a week,' said the Doctor, archly
scanning the syllables, 'once a week--one good little game of baccarat?' 'Only once a week?' she questioned, threatening
him with a finger. 'I swear it by my political honour,' cried he.=
'I spoil you,' she said, and gave him her hand=
. He covered it with kisses. Jean-Marie escaped into the night. The moon swung high over Gretz.
=
The
next morning there was a most unusual outcry, in the Doctor's house. The la=
st
thing before going to bed, the Doctor had locked up some valuables in the
dining-room cupboard; and behold, when he rose again, as he did about four
o'clock, the cupboard had been broken open, and the valuables in question h=
ad
disappeared. Madame and Jean-=
Marie
were summoned from their rooms, and appeared in hasty toilets; they found t=
he Doctor
raving, calling the heavens to witness and avenge his injury, pacing the ro=
om
bare-footed, with the tails of his night-shirt flirting as he turned.
'Gone!' he said; 'the things are gone, the for=
tune
gone! We are paupers once
more. Boy! what do you know of
this? Speak up, sir, speak up=
. Do you know of it? Where are they?' He had him by the arm, shaking him=
like
a bag, and the boy's words, if he had any, were jolted forth in inarticulate
murmurs. The Doctor, with a
revulsion from his own violence, set him down again. He observed Anastasie in tears. 'A=
nastasie,'
he said, in quite an altered voice, 'compose yourself, command your
feelings. I would not have yo=
u give
way to passion like the vulgar. This--this
trifling accident must be lived down.
Jean-Marie, bring me my smaller medicine chest. A gentle laxative is indicated.'
And he dosed the family all round, leading the=
way
himself with a double quantity. The
wretched Anastasie, who had never been ill in the whole course of her
existence, and whose soul recoiled from remedies, wept floods of tears as s=
he
sipped, and shuddered, and protested, and then was bullied and shouted at u=
ntil
she sipped again. As for
Jean-Marie, he took his portion down with stoicism.
'I have given him a less amount,' observed the
Doctor, 'his youth protecting him against emotion. And now that we have thus parried =
any morbid
consequences, let us reason.'
'I am so cold,' wailed Anastasie.
'Cold!' cried the Doctor. 'I give thanks to God that I am ma=
de of fierier
material. Why, madam, a blow =
like
this would set a frog into a transpiration. If you are cold, you can retire; a=
nd, by
the way, you might throw me down my trousers. It is chilly for the legs.'
'Oh, no!' protested Anastasie; 'I will stay wi=
th
you.'
'Nay, madam, you shall not suffer for your
devotion,' said the Doctor. '=
I will
myself fetch you a shawl.' An=
d he
went upstairs and returned more fully clad and with an armful of wraps for =
the
shivering Anastasie. 'And now=
,' he
resumed, 'to investigate this crime.
Let us proceed by induction.
Anastasie, do you know anything that can help us?' Anastasie knew nothing. 'Or you, Jean-Marie?'
'Not I,' replied the boy steadily.
'Good,' returned the Doctor. 'We shall now turn our attention t=
o the material
evidences. (I was born to be a
detective; I have the eye and the systematic spirit.) First, violence has been employed.=
The door was broken open; and it m=
ay be
observed, in passing, that the lock was dear indeed at what I paid for it: a
crow to pluck with Master Goguelat. Second, here is the instrument employed,
one of our own table-knives, one of our best, my dear; which seems to indic=
ate
no preparation on the part of the gang--if gang it was. Thirdly, I observe that nothing ha=
s been
removed except the Franchard dishes and the casket; our own silver has been
minutely respected. This is w=
ily;
it shows intelligence, a knowledge of the code, a desire to avoid legal
consequences. I argue from th=
is
fact that the gang numbers persons of respectability--outward, of course, a=
nd
merely outward, as the robbery proves.&nbs=
p;
But I argue, second, that we must have been observed at Franchard it=
self
by some occult observer, and dogged throughout the day with a skill and
patience that I venture to qualify as consummate. No ordinary man, no occasional cri=
minal,
would have shown himself capable of this combination. We have in our neighbourhood, it i=
s far
from improbable, a retired bandit of the highest order of intelligence.'
'Good heaven!' cried the horrified Anastasie.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Henri, how can you?'
'My cherished one, this is a process of
induction,' said the Doctor. =
'If any
of my steps are unsound, correct me.
You are silent? Then d=
o not,
I beseech you, be so vulgarly illogical as to revolt from my conclusion.
Sure enough, the green paint was in several pl=
aces
scratched and broken; and one of the panels preserved the print of a nailed
shoe. The foot had slipped,
however, and it was difficult to estimate the size of the shoe, and impossi=
ble
to distinguish the pattern of the nails.
'The whole robbery,' concluded the Doctor, 'st=
ep
by step, has been reconstituted.
Inductive science can no further go.'
'It is wonderful,' said his wife. 'You should indeed have been a det=
ective,
Henri. I had no idea of your
talents.'
'My dear,' replied Desprez, condescendingly, 'a
man of scientific imagination combines the lesser faculties; he is a detect=
ive
just as he is a publicist or a general; these are but local applications of=
his
special talent. But now,' he
continued, 'would you have me go further? Would you have me lay my finger on
the culprits--or rather, for I cannot promise quite so much, point out to y=
ou
the very house where they consort?
It may be a satisfaction, at least it is all we are likely to get, s=
ince
we are denied the remedy of law. I
reach the further stage in this way.
In order to fill my outline of the robbery, I require a man likely t=
o be
in the forest idling, I require a man of education, I require a man superio=
r to
considerations of morality. T=
he
three requisites all centre in Tentaillon's boarders. They are painters, therefore they =
are
continually lounging in the forest.
They are painters, therefore they are not unlikely to have some
smattering of education. Last=
ly,
because they are painters, they are probably immoral. And this I prove in t=
wo
ways. First, painting is an a=
rt
which merely addresses the eye; it does not in any particular exercise the
moral sense. And second, pain=
ting,
in common with all the other arts, implies the dangerous quality of
imagination. A man of imagina=
tion
is never moral; he outsoars literal demarcations and reviews life under too
many shifting lights to rest content with the invidious distinctions of the=
law!'
'But you always say--at least, so I understood
you'--said madame, 'that these lads display no imagination whatever.'
'My dear, they displayed imagination, and of a
very fantastic order, too,' returned the Doctor, 'when they embraced their
beggarly profession. Besides--and this is an argument exactly suited to your
intellectual level--many of them are English and American. Where else should we expect to fin=
d a
thief?--And now you had better get your coffee. Because we have lost a treasure, t=
here
is no reason for starving. Fo=
r my
part, I shall break my fast with white wine. I feel unaccountably heated and th=
irsty
to-day. I can only attribute =
it to
the shock of the discovery. And yet, you will bear me out, I supported the
emotion nobly.'
The Doctor had now talked himself back into an
admirable humour; and as he sat in the arbour and slowly imbibed a large
allowance of white wine and picked a little bread and cheese with no very
impetuous appetite, if a third of his meditations ran upon the missing
treasure, the other two- thirds were more pleasingly busied in the retrospe=
ct
of his detective skill.
About eleven Casimir arrived; he had caught an
early train to Fontainebleau, and driven over to save time; and now his cab=
was
stabled at Tentaillon's, and he remarked, studying his watch, that he could
spare an hour and a half. He =
was much
the man of business, decisively spoken, given to frowning in an intellectual
manner. Anastasie's born brot=
her, he
did not waste much sentiment on the lady, gave her an English family kiss, =
and
demanded a meal without delay.
'You can tell me your story while we eat,' he
observed. 'Anything good to-d=
ay,
Stasie?'
He was promised something good. The trio sat down to table in the =
arbour,
Jean-Marie waiting as well as eating, and the Doctor recounted what had
happened in his richest narrative manner.&=
nbsp;
Casimir heard it with explosions of laughter.
'What a streak of luck for you, my good brothe=
r,'
he observed, when the tale was over.
'If you had gone to Paris, you would have played dick- duck-drake wi=
th
the whole consignment in three months.&nbs=
p;
Your own would have followed; and you would have come to me in a
procession like the last time. But
I give you warning--Stasie may weep and Henri ratiocinate--it will not serve
you twice. Your next collapse=
will
be fatal. I thought I had tol=
d you
so, Stasie? Hey? No sense?'
The Doctor winced and looked furtively at
Jean-Marie; but the boy seemed apathetic.
'And then again,' broke out Casimir, 'what
children you are--vicious children, my faith! How could you tell the value of th=
is
trash? It might have been wor=
th
nothing, or next door.'
'Pardon me,' said the Doctor. 'You have your usual flow of spiri=
ts, I perceive,
but even less than your usual deliberation. I am not entirely ignorant of these
matters.'
'Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard
of,' interrupted Casimir, bowing, and raising his glass with a sort of pert
politeness.
'At least,' resumed the Doctor, 'I gave my min=
d to
the subject--that you may be willing to believe--and I estimated that our
capital would be doubled.' An=
d he
described the nature of the find.
'My word of honour!' said Casimir, 'I half bel=
ieve
you! But much would depend on=
the
quality of the gold.'
'The quality, my dear Casimir, was--' And the Doctor, in default of lang=
uage,
kissed his finger-tips.
'I would not take your word for it, my good
friend,' retorted the man of business.&nbs=
p;
'You are a man of very rosy views.&=
nbsp;
But this robbery,' he continued--'this robbery is an odd thing. Of course I pass over your nonsense
about gangs and landscape-painters.
For me, that is a dream. Who was in the house last night?'
'None but ourselves,' replied the Doctor.
'And this young gentleman?' asked Casimir, jer=
king
a nod in the direction of Jean-Marie.
'He too'--the Doctor bowed.
'Well; and if it is a fair question, who is he=
?'
pursued the brother-in- law.
'Jean-Marie,' answered the Doctor, 'combines t=
he
functions of a son and stable-boy.
He began as the latter, but he rose rapidly to the more honourable r=
ank
in our affections. He is, I m=
ay
say, the greatest comfort in our lives.'
'Ha!' said Casimir. 'And previous to becoming one of y=
ou?'
'Jean-Marie has lived a remarkable existence; =
his
experience his been eminently formative,' replied Desprez. 'If I had had to choose an educati=
on for
my son, I should have chosen such another.=
Beginning life with mountebanks and thieves, passing onward to the
society and friendship of philosophers, he may be said to have skimmed the
volume of human life.'
'Thieves?' repeated the brother-in-law, with a
meditative air.
The Doctor could have bitten his tongue out. He foresaw what was coming, and pr=
epared
his mind for a vigorous defence.
'Did you ever steal yourself?' asked Casimir,
turning suddenly on Jean- Marie, and for the first time employing a single
eyeglass which hung round his neck.
'Yes, sir,' replied the boy, with a deep blush=
.
Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips,=
and
nodded to them meaningly. 'He=
y?'
said he; 'how is that?'
'Jean-Marie is a teller of the truth,' returned
the Doctor, throwing out his bust.
'He has never told a lie,' added madame. 'He is the best of boys.'
'Never told a lie, has he not?' reflected
Casimir. 'Strange, very stran=
ge. Give me your attention, my young
friend,' he continued. 'You k=
new
about this treasure?'
'He helped to bring it home,' interposed the
Doctor.
'Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your
tongue,' returned Casimir. 'I mean to question this stable-boy of yours; an=
d if
you are so certain of his innocence, you can afford to let him answer for
himself. Now, sir,' he resume=
d,
pointing his eyeglass straight at Jean-Marie. 'You knew it could be stolen with
impunity? You knew you could =
not be
prosecuted? Come! Did you, or did you not?'
'I did,' answered Jean-Marie, in a miserable
whisper. He sat there changing
colour like a revolving pharos, twisting his fingers hysterically, swallowi=
ng
air, the picture of guilt.
'You knew where it was put?' resumed the
inquisitor.
'Yes,' from Jean-Marie.
'You say you have been a thief before,' contin=
ued
Casimir. 'Now how am I to kno=
w that
you are not one still? I supp=
ose
you could climb the green gate?'
'Yes,' still lower, from the culprit.
'Well, then, it was you who stole these
things. You know it, and you =
dare
not deny it. Look me in the
face! Raise your sneak's eyes=
, and answer!'
But in place of anything of that sort Jean-Mar=
ie
broke into a dismal howl and fled from the arbour. Anastasie, as she pursued to captu=
re and
reassure the victim, found time to send one Parthian arrow--'Casimir, you a=
re a
brute!'
'My brother,' said Desprez, with the greatest
dignity, 'you take upon yourself a licence--'
'Desprez,' interrupted Casimir, 'for Heaven's =
sake
be a man of the world. You telegraph me to leave my business and come down =
here
on yours. I come, I ask the
business, you say "Find me this thief!" Well, I find him; I say "Ther=
e he
is!" You need not like i=
t, but
you have no manner of right to take offence.'
'Well,' returned the Doctor, 'I grant that; I =
will
even thank you for your mistaken zeal.&nbs=
p;
But your hypothesis was so extravagantly monstrous--'
'Look here,' interrupted Casimir; 'was it you =
or
Stasie?'
'Certainly not,' answered the Doctor.
'Very well; then it was the boy. Say no more about it,' said the br=
other-
in-law, and he produced his cigar-case.
'I will say this much more,' returned Desprez:=
'if
that boy came and told me so himself, I should not believe him; and if I did
believe him, so implicit is my trust, I should conclude that he had acted f=
or
the best.'
'Well, well,' said Casimir, indulgently. 'Have you a light? I must be going. And by the way, I wish you would l=
et me
sell your Turks for you. I always told you, it meant smash. I tell you so again. Indeed, it was partly that that br=
ought
me down. You never acknowledg=
e my
letters--a most unpardonable habit.'
'My good brother,' replied the Doctor blandly,=
'I
have never denied your ability in business; but I can perceive your
limitations.'
'Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment,'
observed the man of business. 'Your
limitation is to be downright irrational.'
'Observe the relative position,' returned the
Doctor with a smile. 'It is y=
our
attitude to believe through thick and thin in one man's judgment--your
own. I follow the same opinio=
n, but
critically and with open eyes.
Which is the more irrational?--I leave it to yourself.'
'O, my dear fellow!' cried Casimir, 'stick to =
your
Turks, stick to your stable-boy, go to the devil in general in your own way=
and
be done with it. But don't
ratiocinate with me--I cannot bear it.&nbs=
p;
And so, ta-ta. I might=
as
well have stayed away for any good I've done. Say good-bye from me to Stasie, an=
d to
the sullen hang-dog of a stable-boy, if you insist on it; I'm off.'
And Casimir departed. The Doctor, that night, dissected =
his
character before Anastasie. '=
One
thing, my beautiful,' he said, 'he has learned one thing from his lifelong
acquaintance with your husband: the word ratiocinate. It shines in his vocabulary, like a
jewel in a muck-heap. And, even so, he continually misapplies it. For you must have observed he uses=
it as
a sort of taunt, in the sense of to ergotise, implying, as it were--the poo=
r,
dear fellow!--a vein of sophistry.
As for his cruelty to Jean-Marie, it must be forgiven him--it is not=
his
nature, it is the nature of his life.
A man who deals with money, my dear, is a man lost.'
With Jean-Marie the process of reconciliation =
had
been somewhat slow. At first =
he was
inconsolable, insisted on leaving the family, went from paroxysm to paroxys=
m of
tears; and it was only after Anastasie had been closeted for an hour with h=
im,
alone, that she came forth, sought out the Doctor, and, with tears in her e=
yes,
acquainted that gentleman with what had passed.
'At first, my husband, he would hear of nothin=
g,'
she said. 'Imagine! if he had=
left
us! what would the treasure be to that?&nb=
sp;
Horrible treasure, it has brought all this about! At last, after he has sobbed his v=
ery heart
out, he agrees to stay on a condition--we are not to mention this matter, t=
his
infamous suspicion, not even to mention the robbery. On that agreement only, the poor, =
cruel
boy will consent to remain among his friends.'
'But this inhibition,' said the Doctor, 'this
embargo--it cannot possibly apply to me?'
'To all of us,' Anastasie assured him.
'My cherished one,' Desprez protested, 'you mu=
st
have misunderstood. It cannot=
apply
to me. He would naturally com=
e to
me.'
'Henri,' she said, 'it does; I swear to you it
does.'
'This is a painful, a very painful circumstanc=
e,'
the Doctor said, looking a little black.&n=
bsp;
'I cannot affect, Anastasie, to be anything but justly wounded. I feel this, I feel it, my wife,
acutely.'
'I knew you would,' she said. 'But if you had seen his distress!=
We must make allowances, we must
sacrifice our feelings.'
'I trust, my dear, you have never found me ave=
rse
to sacrifices,' returned the Doctor very stiffly.
'And you will let me go and tell him that you =
have
agreed? It will be like your =
noble
nature,' she cried.
So it would, he perceived--it would be like his
noble nature! Up jumped his
spirits, triumphant at the thought.
'Go, darling,' he said nobly, 'reassure him. The subject is buried; more--I mak=
e an
effort, I have accustomed my will to these exertions--and it is forgotten.'=
A little after, but still with swollen eyes and
looking mortally sheepish, Jean-Marie reappeared and went ostentatiously ab=
out
his business. He was the only
unhappy member of the party that sat down that night to supper. As for the Doctor, he was radiant.=
He thus sang the requiem of the
treasure:--
'This has been, on the whole, a most amusing
episode,' he said. 'We are no=
t a
penny the worse--nay, we are immensely gainers. Our philosophy has been exercised;=
some
of the turtle is still left--the most wholesome of delicacies; I have my st=
aff,
Anastasie has her new dress, Jean-Marie is the proud possessor of a fashion=
able
kepi. Besides, we had a glass=
of Hermitage
last night; the glow still suffuses my memory. I was growing positively niggardly=
with
that Hermitage, positively niggardly.
Let me take the hint: we had one bottle to celebrate the appearance =
of
our visionary fortune; let us have a second to console us for its occultati=
on. The third I hereby dedicate to
Jean-Marie's wedding breakfast.'
=
The
Doctor's house has not yet received the compliment of a description, and it=
is
now high time that the omission were supplied, for the house is itself an a=
ctor
in the story, and one whose part is nearly at an end. Two stories in height, walls of a =
warm
yellow, tiles of an ancient ruddy brown diversified with moss and lichen, it
stood with one wall to the street in the angle of the Doctor's property.
Indeed, in this particular winter, after the
finding and losing of the treasure, the Desprez' had an anxiety of a very
different order, and one which lay nearer their hearts. Jean-Marie was plainly not himself=
. He had fits of hectic activity, wh=
en he
made unusual exertions to please, spoke more and faster, and redoubled in a=
ttention
to his lessons. But these were
interrupted by spells of melancholia and brooding silence, when the boy was
little better than unbearable.
'Silence,' the Doctor moralised--'you see,
Anastasie, what comes of silence.
Had the boy properly unbosomed himself, the little disappointment ab=
out
the treasure, the little annoyance about Casimir's incivility, would long a=
go
have been forgotten. As it is=
, they
prey upon him like a disease. He
loses flesh, his appetite is variable and, on the whole, impaired. I keep him on the strictest regime=
n, I
exhibit the most powerful tonics; both in vain.'
'Don't you think you drug him too much?' asked
madame, with an irrepressible shudder.
'Drug?' cried the Doctor; 'I drug? Anastasie, you are mad!'
Time went on, and the boy's health still slowly
declined. The Doctor blamed t=
he
weather, which was cold and boisterous.&nb=
sp;
He called in his confrere from Bourron, took a fancy for him, magnif=
ied
his capacity, and was pretty soon under treatment himself--it scarcely appe=
ared
for what complaint. He and
Jean-Marie had each medicine to take at different periods of the day. The Doctor used to lie in wait for=
the
exact moment, watch in hand. =
'There
is nothing like regularity,' he would say, fill out the doses, and dilate on
the virtues of the draught; and if the boy seemed none the better, the Doct=
or
was not at all the worse.
Gunpowder Day, the boy was particularly low. It was scowling, squally weather.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Huge broken companies of cloud sai=
led
swiftly overhead; raking gleams of sunlight swept the village, and were
followed by intervals of darkness and white, flying rain. At times the wind lifted up its vo=
ice and
bellowed. The trees were all
scourging themselves along the meadows, the last leaves flying like dust.
The Doctor, between the boy and the weather, w=
as
in his element; he had a theory to prove.&=
nbsp;
He sat with his watch out and a barometer in front of him, waiting f=
or
the squalls and noting their effect upon the human pulse. 'For the true philosopher,' he rem=
arked
delightedly, 'every fact in nature is a toy.' A letter came to him; but, as its
arrival coincided with the approach of another gust, he merely crammed it i=
nto
his pocket, gave the time to Jean-Marie, and the next moment they were both
counting their pulses as if for a wager.
At nightfall the wind rose into a tempest. It besieged the hamlet, apparently=
from
every side, as if with batteries of cannon; the houses shook and groaned; l=
ive
coals were blown upon the floor.
The uproar and terror of the night kept people long awake, sitting w=
ith
pallid faces giving ear.
It was twelve before the Desprez family
retired. By half-past one, wh=
en the
storm was already somewhat past its height, the Doctor was awakened from a
troubled slumber, and sat up. A
noise still rang in his ears, but whether of this world or the world of dre=
ams
he was not certain. Another c=
lap of
wind followed. It was accompa=
nied
by a sickening movement of the whole house, and in the subsequent lull Desp=
rez
could hear the tiles pouring like a cataract into the loft above his head.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He plucked Anastasie bodily out of=
bed.
'Run!' he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel
into her hands; 'the house is falling!&nbs=
p;
To the garden!'
She did not pause to be twice bidden; she was =
down
the stair in an instant. She =
had
never before suspected herself of such activity. The Doctor meanwhile, with the spe=
ed of
a piece of pantomime business, and undeterred by broken shins, proceeded to
rout out Jean-Marie, tore Aline from her virgin slumbers, seized her by the=
hand,
and tumbled downstairs and into the garden, with the girl tumbling behind h=
im,
still not half awake.
The fugitives rendezvous'd in the arbour by so=
me
common instinct. Then came a
bull's-eye flash of struggling moonshine, which disclosed their four figures
standing huddled from the wind in a raffle of flying drapery, and not witho=
ut a
considerable need for more. A=
t the humiliating
spectacle Anastasie clutched her nightdress desperately about her and burst
loudly into tears. The Doctor=
flew
to console her; but she elbowed him away.&=
nbsp;
She suspected everybody of being the general public, and thought the
darkness was alive with eyes.
Another gleam and another violent gust arrived
together; the house was seen to rock on its foundation, and, just as the li=
ght
was once more eclipsed, a crash which triumphed over the shouting of the wi=
nd
announced its fall, and for a moment the whole garden was alive with skippi=
ng
tiles and brickbats. One such
missile grazed the Doctor's ear; another descended on the bare foot of Alin=
e,
who instantly made night hideous with her shrieks.
By this time the hamlet was alarmed, lights
flashed from the windows, hails reached the party, and the Doctor answered,
nobly contending against Aline and the tempest. But this prospect of help only awa=
kened Anastasie
to a more active stage of terror.
'Henri, people will be coming,' she screamed in
her husband's ear.
'I trust so,' he replied.
'They cannot.=
I would rather die,' she wailed.
'My dear,' said the Doctor reprovingly, 'you a=
re excited. I gave you some clothes. What have you done with them?'
'Oh, I don't know--I must have thrown them
away! Where are they?' she so=
bbed.
Desprez groped about in the darkness. 'Admirable!' he remarked; 'my grey=
velveteen
trousers! This will exactly m=
eet
your necessities.'
'Give them to me!' she cried fiercely; but as =
soon
as she had them in her hands her mood appeared to alter--she stood silent f=
or a
moment, and then pressed the garment back upon the Doctor. 'Give it to Aline,' she said--'poo=
r girl.'
'Nonsense!' said the Doctor. 'Aline does not know what she is a=
bout. Aline
is beside herself with terror; and at any rate, she is a peasant. Now I am
really concerned at this exposure for a person of your housekeeping habits;=
my
solicitude and your fantastic modesty both point to the same remedy--the
pantaloons.' He held them rea=
dy.
'It is impossible. You do not understand,' she said w=
ith
dignity.
By this time rescue was at hand. It had been found impracticable to=
enter
by the street, for the gate was blocked with masonry, and the nodding ruin
still threatened further avalanches.
But between the Doctor's garden and the one on the right hand there =
was
that very picturesque contrivance--a common well; the door on the Desprez' =
side
had chanced to be unbolted, and now, through the arched aperture a man's be=
arded
face and an arm supporting a lantern were introduced into the world of windy
darkness, where Anastasie concealed her woes. The light struck here and there am=
ong
the tossing apple boughs, it glinted on the grass; but the lantern and the
glowing face became the centre of the world. Anastasie crouched back from the
intrusion.
'This way!' shouted the man. 'Are you all safe?' Aline, still screaming, ran to the=
new
comer, and was presently hauled head-foremost through the wall.
'Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn,' sa=
id
the husband.
'I cannot,' she replied.
'Are we all to die of exposure, madame?' thund=
ered
Doctor Desprez.
'You can go!' she cried. 'Oh, go, go away! I can stay here; I am quite warm.'=
The Doctor took her by the shoulders with an o=
ath.
'Stop!' she screamed. 'I will put them on.'
She took the detested lendings in her hand once
more; but her repulsion was stronger than shame. 'Never!' she cried, shuddering, an=
d flung
them far away into the night.
Next moment the Doctor had whirled her to the
well. The man was there and t=
he
lantern; Anastasie closed her eyes and appeared to herself to be about to
die. How she was transported
through the arch she knew not; but once on the other side she was received =
by
the neighbour's wife, and enveloped in a friendly blanket.
Beds were made ready for the two women, clothe=
s of
very various sizes for the Doctor and Jean-Marie; and for the remainder of =
the
night, while madame dozed in and out on the borderland of hysterics, her
husband sat beside the fire and held forth to the admiring neighbours. He showed them, at length, the cau=
ses of
the accident; for years, he explained, the fall had been impending; one sign
had followed another, the joints had opened, the plaster had cracked, the o=
ld
walls bowed inward; last, not three weeks ago, the cellar door had begun to
work with difficulty in its grooves.
'The cellar!' he said, gravely shaking his head over a glass of mull=
ed
wine. 'That reminds me of my =
poor
vintages. By a manifest provi=
dence
the Hermitage was nearly at an end.
One bottle--I lose but one bottle of that incomparable wine. It had been set apart against Jean=
- Marie's
wedding. Well, I must lay dow=
n some
more; it will be an interest in life.
I am, however, a man somewhat advanced in years. My great work is now buried in the=
fall
of my humble roof; it will never be completed--my name will have been writ =
in
water. And yet you find me ca=
lm--I
would say cheerful. Can your =
priest
do more?'
By the first glimpse of day the party sallied
forth from the fireside into the street.&n=
bsp;
The wind had fallen, but still charioted a world of troubled clouds;=
the
air bit like frost; and the party, as they stood about the ruins in the rai=
ny twilight
of the morning, beat upon their breasts and blew into their hands for
warmth. The house had entirel=
y fallen,
the walls outward, the roof in; it was a mere heap of rubbish, with here and
there a forlorn spear of broken rafter.&nb=
sp;
A sentinel was placed over the ruins to protect the property, and the
party adjourned to Tentaillon's to break their fast at the Doctor's
expense. The bottle circulated
somewhat freely; and before they left the table it had begun to snow.
For three days the snow continued to fall, and=
the
ruins, covered with tarpaulin and watched by sentries, were left
undisturbed. The Desprez' mea=
nwhile
had taken up their abode at Tentaillon's.&=
nbsp;
Madame spent her time in the kitchen, concocting little delicacies, =
with
the admiring aid of Madame Tentaillon, or sitting by the fire in thoughtful
abstraction. The fall of the house affected her wonderfully little; that bl=
ow
had been parried by another; and in her mind she was continually fighting o=
ver again
the battle of the trousers. H=
ad she
done right? Had she done wron=
g? And now she would applaud her
determination; and anon, with a horrid flush of unavailing penitence, she w=
ould
regret the trousers. No junct=
ure in
her life had so much exercised her judgment. In the meantime the Doctor had bec=
ome
vastly pleased with his situation.
Two of the summer boarders still lingered behind the rest, prisoners=
for
lack of a remittance; they were both English, but one of them spoke French
pretty fluently, and was, besides, a humorous, agile-minded fellow, with wh=
om the
Doctor could reason by the hour, secure of comprehension. Many were the glasses they emptied=
, many
the topics they discussed.
'Anastasie,' the Doctor said on the third morn=
ing,
'take an example from your husband, from Jean-Marie! The excitement has done more for t=
he boy
than all my tonics, he takes his turn as sentry with positive gusto. As for me, you behold me. I have made friends with the Egypt=
ians;
and my Pharaoh is, I swear it, a most agreeable companion. You alone are hipped. About a house--a few dresses? What are they in comparison to the
"Pharmacopoeia"--the labour of years lying buried below stones an=
d sticks
in this depressing hamlet? Th=
e snow
falls; I shake it from my cloak!
Imitate me. Our income=
will
be impaired, I grant it, since we must rebuild; but moderation, patience, a=
nd
philosophy will gather about the hearth.&n=
bsp;
In the meanwhile, the Tentaillons are obliging; the table, with your
additions, will pass; only the wine is execrable--well, I shall send for so=
me
to-day. My Pharaoh will be
gratified to drink a decent glass; aha! and I shall see if he possesses that
acme of organisation--a palate. If
he has a palate, he is perfect.'
'Henri,' she said, shaking her head, 'you are a
man; you cannot understand my feelings; no woman could shake off the memory=
of
so public a humiliation.' The
Doctor could not restrain a titter.
'Pardon me, darling,' he said; 'but really, to the philosophical
intelligence, the incident appears so small a trifle. You looked extremely well--'
'Henri!' she cried.
'Well, well, I will say no more,' he replied.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Though, to be sure, if you had
consented to indue--A propos,' he broke off, 'and my trousers! They are lyi=
ng
in the snow--my favourite trousers!'
And he dashed in quest of Jean-Marie.
Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the i=
nn
with a spade under one arm and a curious sop of clothing under the other.
The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands. 'They have been!' he said. 'Their =
tense
is past. Excellent pantaloons=
, you
are no more! Stay, something =
in the
pocket,' and he produced a piece of paper.=
'A letter! ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the
gale, when I was absorbed in delicate investigations. It is still legible. From poor, dear Casimir! It is as well,' he chuckled, 'that=
I
have educated him to patience. Poor
Casimir and his correspondence--his infinitesimal, timorous, idiotic
correspondence!'
He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet
letter; but, as he bent himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended =
on
his brow.
'Bigre!' he cried, with a galvanic start.
And then the letter was whipped into the fire,=
and
the Doctor's cap was on his head in the turn of a hand.
'Ten minutes!=
I can catch it, if I run,' he cried. 'It is always late. I go to Paris.=
I shall telegraph.'
'Henri! what is wrong?' cried his wife.
'Ottoman Bonds!' came from the disappearing
Doctor; and Anastasie and Jean-Marie were left face to face with the wet
trousers. Desprez had gone to
Paris, for the second time in seven years; he had gone to Paris with a pair=
of
wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a country nightcap, and tw=
enty
francs in his pocket. The fal=
l of
the house was but a secondary marvel; the whole world might have fallen and
scarce left his family more petrified.
=
On the
morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere spectre of himself, was brought
back in the custody of Casimir.
They found Anastasie and the boy sitting together by the fire; and
Desprez, who had exchanged his toilette for a ready-made rig-out of poor
materials, waved his hand as he entered, and sank speechless on the nearest
chair. Madame turned direct to
Casimir.
'What is wrong?' she cried.
'Well,' replied Casimir, 'what have I told you=
all
along? It has come. It is a c=
lean
shave, this time; so you may as well bear up and make the best of it. House down, too, eh? Bad luck, upon my soul.'
'Are we--are we--ruined?' she gasped.
The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. 'Ruined,' he replied, 'you are rui=
ned by
your sinister husband.'
Casimir observed the consequent embrace through
his eyeglass; then he turned to Jean-Marie. 'You hear?' he said. 'They are ruined; no more pickings=
, no
more house, no more fat cutlets. It
strikes me, my friend, that you had best be packing; the present speculatio=
n is
about worked out.' And he nod=
ded to
him meaningly.
'Never!' cried Desprez, springing up. 'Jean-Marie, if you prefer to leav=
e me,
now that I am poor, you can go; you shall receive your hundred francs, if so
much remains to me. But if yo=
u will
consent to stay'--the Doctor wept a little--'Casimir offers me a place--as
clerk,' he resumed. 'The emoluments are slender, but they will be enough for
three. It is too much already=
to
have lost my fortune; must I lose my son?'
Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word=
.
'I don't like boys who cry,' observed
Casimir. 'This one is always =
crying. Here! you clear out of this for a
little; I have business with your master and mistress, and these domestic
feelings may be settled after I am gone.&n=
bsp;
March!' and he held the door open.
Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief.
By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Mari=
e.
'Hey?' said Casimir. 'Gone, you see. Took the hint at once.'
'I do not, I confess,' said Desprez, 'I do not
seek to excuse his absence. It
speaks a want of heart that disappoints me sorely.'
'Want of manners,' corrected Casimir. 'Heart, he never had. Why, Desprez, for a clever fellow,=
you
are the most gullible mortal in creation.&=
nbsp;
Your ignorance of human nature and human business is beyond belief.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You are swindled by heathen Turks,
swindled by vagabond children, swindled right and left, upstairs and
downstairs. I think it must b=
e your
imagination. I thank my stars=
I
have none.'
'Pardon me,' replied Desprez, still humbly, but
with a return of spirit at sight of a distinction to be drawn; 'pardon me,
Casimir. You possess, even to=
an
eminent degree, the commercial imagination. It was the lack of that in me--it
appears it is my weak point--that has led to these repeated shocks. By the commercial imagination the
financier forecasts the destiny of his investments, marks the falling house=
--'
'Egad,' interrupted Casimir: 'our friend the
stable-boy appears to have his share of it.'
The Doctor was silenced; and the meal was
continued and finished principally to the tune of the brother-in-law's not =
very
consolatory conversation. He
entirely ignored the two young English painters, turning a blind eyeglass to
their salutations, and continuing his remarks as if he were alone in the bo=
som
of his family; and with every second word he ripped another stitch out of t=
he
air balloon of Desprez's vanity. By the time coffee was over the poor Doctor
was as limp as a napkin.
'Let us go and see the ruins,' said Casimir.
They strolled forth into the street. The fall of the house, like the lo=
ss of
a front tooth, had quite transformed the village. Through the gap the eye commanded a
great stretch of open snowy country, and the place shrank in comparison.
Casimir looked at the mound of ruins, he tried=
the
quality of the tarpaulin. 'H'=
m,' he
said, 'I hope the cellar arch has stood.&n=
bsp;
If it has, my good brother, I will give you a good price for the win=
es.'
'We shall start digging to-morrow,' said the
sentry. 'There is no more fea=
r of
snow.'
'My friend,' returned Casimir sententiously, '=
you
had better wait till you get paid.'
The Doctor winced, and began dragging his
offensive brother-in-law towards Tentaillon's. In the house there would be fewer
auditors, and these already in the secret of his fall.
'Hullo!' cried Casimir, 'there goes the stable=
-boy
with his luggage; no, egad, he is taking it into the inn.'
And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross =
the
snowy street and enter Tentaillon's, staggering under a large hamper.
The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope.
'What can he have?' he said. 'Let us go and see.' And he hurried on.
'His luggage, to be sure,' answered Casimir. 'He is on the move--thanks to the
commercial imagination.'
'I have not seen that hamper for--for ever so
long,' remarked the Doctor.
'Nor will you see it much longer,' chuckled
Casimir; 'unless, indeed, we interfere.&nb=
sp;
And by the way, I insist on an examination.'
'You will not require,' said Desprez, positive=
ly
with a sob; and, casting a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, he began to
run.
'What the devil is up with him, I wonder?' Cas=
imir
reflected; and then, curiosity taking the upper hand, he followed the Docto=
r's
example and took to his heels.
The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Ma=
rie
himself so little and so weary, that it had taken him a great while to bund=
le
it upstairs to the Desprez' private room; and he had just set it down on the
floor in front of Anastasie, when the Doctor arrived, and was closely follo=
wed
by the man of business. Boy a=
nd
hamper were both in a most sorry plight; for the one had passed four months
underground in a certain cave on the way to Acheres, and the other had run
about five miles as hard as his legs would carry him, half that distance un=
der
a staggering weight.
'Jean-Marie,' cried the Doctor, in a voice that
was only too seraphic to be called hysterical, 'is it--? It is!' he cried. 'O, my son, my son!' And he sat do=
wn
upon the hamper and sobbed like a little child.
'You will not go to Paris now,' said Jean-Marie
sheepishly.
'Casimir,' said Desprez, raising his wet face,=
'do
you see that boy, that angel boy?
He is the thief; he took the treasure from a man unfit to be entrust=
ed
with its use; he brings it back to me when I am sobered and humbled. These, Casimir, are the Fruits of =
my
Teaching, and this moment is the Reward of my Life.'
'Tiens,' said Casimir.
=
=
{5} Boggy.
{15}
Clock
{16}
Enjoy.
{140}
To come forrit--to offer oneself as a communicant.
{144}
It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a blac=
k man. This appears in several witch tria=
ls and
I think in Law's Memorials, that delightful store-house of the quaint and
grisly.
{263}
Let it be so, for my tale!