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diff --git a/344-h/344-h.htm b/344-h/344-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ba4f45 --- /dev/null +++ b/344-h/344-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10018 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Merry Men, by Robert Louis Stevenson</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.citation {vertical-align: top; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Merry Men, by Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Merry Men<br /> +and Other Tales and Fables</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Robert Louis Stevenson</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October, 1995 [eBook #344]<br /> +[Most recently updated: May 17, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN ***</div> + +<h1><span class="smcap">The Merry Men</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">and</span><br /> +Other Tales and Fables</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break"> +<span class="smcap">by</span><br /> +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON +</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">tenth edition</span> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LONDON<br /> +CHATTO & WINDUS<br /> +1904 +</p> + +<p class="center"> +Three of the following Tales have appeared in the <i>Cornhill Magazine</i>; one +in <i>Longman’s</i>; one in Mr. Henry Norman’s Christmas Annual; +and one in the <i>Court and Society Review</i>. The Author desires to make +proper acknowledgements to the Publishers concerned. +</p> + +<h2>Dedication</h2> + +<p> +<span class="smcap"><i>My dear Lady Taylor</i></span>, +</p> + +<p> +<i>To your name</i>, <i>if I wrote on brass</i>, <i>I could add nothing</i>; +<i>it has been already written higher than I could dream to reach</i>, <i>by a +strong and dear hand</i>; <i>and if I now dedicate to you these tales</i>, +<i>it is not as the writer who brings you his work</i>, <i>but as the friend +who would remind you of his affection</i>. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +<i>ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</i> +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Skerryvore</span>, <span class="smcap">Bournemouth</span>. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale01"><b>THE MERRY MEN</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER 1. EILEAN AROS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER 2. WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER 3. LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER 4. THE GALE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER 5. A MAN OUT OF THE SEA</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale02"><b>WILL O’ THE MILL</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER 1. THE PLAIN AND THE STARS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER 2. THE PARSON’S MARJORY</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER 3. DEATH</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale03"><b>MARKHEIM</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale04"><b>THRAWN JANET</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale05"><b>OLALLA</b></a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#tale06"><b>THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER 1. BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER 2. MORNING TALK</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER 3. THE ADOPTION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER 4. THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER 5. TREASURE TROVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER 6. A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER 7. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER 8. THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale01"></a>THE MERRY MEN</h2> + +<h3><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +EILEAN AROS.</h3> + +<p> +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 ashore the night before at Grisapol; I +had such breakfast as the little inn afforded, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 Darnaway, 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 him 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 one 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 Edinburgh 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 heard 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 with my classes, I was +returning thither with so light a heart that July day. +</p> + +<p> +The Ross, as we call it, is a promontory neither wide nor high, but as rough as +God made it to this day; the deep sea on either 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. <i>The Mountain of +the Mist</i>, they say the words signify in the Gaelic 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 think that it must make them for itself; since when all heaven was +clear to the sea level, there would ever be a streamer on Ben Kyaw. It brought +water, too, and was mossy<a name="citation5"></a><a href="#footnote5" +class="citation">[5]</a> to the top in consequence. I have seen us sitting in +broad sunshine on the Ross, and the rain falling black like crape upon the +mountain. But the wetness of it made it often appear more beautiful to my eyes; +for when the sun struck upon the hill sides, there were many wet rocks and +watercourses that shone like jewels even as far as Aros, fifteen miles away. +</p> + +<p> +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 could have found +them from the track. A large part of the Ross is covered with big granite +rocks, some of them larger 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, on a +day of wind and a high spring, I have heard the Roost roaring, like a battle +where it runs by Aros, and the great and fearful voices of the breakers that we +call the Merry Men. +</p> + +<p> +Aros itself—Aros Jay, I have heard the natives call it, and they say it +means <i>the House of God</i>—Aros itself was not properly 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 was +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 day 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 ground 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, with a +pier hard by for a boat, and from the door you could watch the vapours blowing +on Ben Kyaw. +</p> + +<p> +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 world 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 many +as six-and-forty buried reefs. But it is nearer in shore that the danger is +worst; for the tide, here running like a mill race, makes a long belt of broken +water—a <i>Roost</i> we call it—at the tail of the land. I have +often been out there in a dead calm at the slack of the tide; and a strange +place it is, with the sea swirling and combing up and boiling like the +cauldrons of a linn, and now and again a little dancing mutter of sound as +though the <i>Roost</i> were talking 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 their 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. +</p> + +<p> +The truth is, that in a south-westerly wind, that part of our archipelago is no +better than a trap. If a ship got through the reefs, and weathered the Merry +Men, it would be to come ashore on the south coast of Aros, 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 forward to set lights upon the +headlands and buoys along the channels of our iron-bound, inhospitable islands. +</p> + +<p> +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 the 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 that 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. And, indeed, I think he had +some claim 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 monkish underlings who had a +cell there, that the islet owes its holy and beautiful name, the House of God. +</p> + +<p> +Among these old wives’ stories there was one which I was inclined to hear +with more credulity. As I was told, in that tempest which 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 flying even as she +sank. There was some likelihood in this tale; for another of that fleet lay +sunk on the north side, twenty miles from Grisapol. It was told, I thought, +with more detail and gravity than its companion stories, and there 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 +<i>Espirito Santo</i> they called it, a great ship of many decks of guns, laden +with treasure and grandees of Spain, and fierce soldadoes, that now lay fathom +deep to all eternity, done with her wars and voyages, in Sandag bay, upon the +west of Aros. No more salvos of ordnance for that 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 learned 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. +</p> + +<p> +And now I must tell you, as I walked from Grisapol that day, the <i>Espirito +Santo</i> 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 found a +note of this very ship, the <i>Espirito Santo</i>, 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 for 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 dignity and wealth. +</p> + +<p> +This was a design of which I soon had reason to repent. My mind was sharply +turned on different reflections; and since I became the witness of a strange +judgment 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; which, poor girl, she would have been happier without. For Aros was +no place for her, with 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 skipper sailing out of the Clyde about the islands, and +now, with infinite discontent, managing his sheep and a little “long +shore fishing for the necessary bread. If it was sometimes weariful to me, who +was there but a month or two, you may fancy what it was to her who 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! +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS.</h3> + +<p> +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 first 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 long +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, the name of it unknown to me. +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Rorie,” said I, as we began the return voyage, “this is +fine wood. How came you by that?” +</p> + +<p> +“It will be hard to cheesel,” Rorie opined reluctantly; and just +then, dropping the oars, he made another of those dives into the stern which I +had remarked as he came across to fetch me, and, leaning his hand on my +shoulder, stared with an awful look into the waters of the bay. +</p> + +<p> +“What is wrong?” I asked, a good deal startled. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +transparent, but, out here in the middle of the bay, exceeding deep. For some +time I could see naught; but at last it did seem to me as if something +dark—a great fish, 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, exterminating 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. +</p> + +<p> +“He will be waiting for the right man,” said Rorie. +</p> + +<p> +Mary met me on the beach, and led me up the brae and into the house of Aros. +Outside and inside there were many changes. The garden was fenced with the same +wood that I had noted in the boat; 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 finest of linen and silver; and all these new +riches were displayed in the plain old kitchen that I knew so well, with the +high-backed settle, and the stools, and 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 walls and the bare wooden +floor, and the three patchwork rugs that were of yore its sole +adornment—poor man’s patchwork, the like of it unknown in cities, +woven with homespun, and Sunday black, and sea-cloth polished on the bench of +rowing. The room, like the house, had been a sort of wonder in that +country-side, it was so neat and habitable; 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary, girl,” said I, “this is the place I had learned to +call my home, and I do not know it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 better, under God’s pleasure, they had gone down +into the sea, and the Merry Men were dancing on them now.” +</p> + +<p> +Mary was always serious; it was perhaps the only trait that she shared with her +father; but the tone with which she uttered these words was even graver than of +custom. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk say,” said Mary. +</p> + +<p> +“True,” I returned; “and a wreck is like a judgment. What was +she called?” +</p> + +<p> +“They ca’d her the <i>Christ-Anna</i>,” said a voice behind +me; and, turning round, I saw my uncle standing in the doorway. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 seemed, 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, or the bones of the dead. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay” he repeated, dwelling upon the first part of the word, +“the <i>Christ-Anna</i>. It’s an awfu’ name.” +</p> + +<p> +I made him my salutations, and complimented him upon his look of health; for I +feared he had perhaps been ill. +</p> + +<p> +“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<a name="citation15"></a><a href="#footnote15" +class="citation">[15]</a>, 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 +girzie,” he interrupted himself to cry with some asperity, “what +for hae ye no put out the twa candlesticks?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why should we need them at high noon?” she asked. +</p> + +<p> +But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea. “We’ll bruik<a +name="citation16"></a><a href="#footnote16" class="citation">[16]</a> them +while we may,” he said; and so two massive candlesticks of wrought silver +were added to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that rough sea-side +farm. +</p> + +<p> +“She cam’ ashore Februar’ 10, about ten at nicht,” 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 +thinking, that <i>Christ-Anna</i>; for she would neither steer nor stey +wi’ them. A sair day they had of it; their hands was never aff the +sheets, and it perishin’ cauld—ower cauld to snaw; and aye 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 +would have had a prood, prood heart that won ashore upon the back o’ +that.” +</p> + +<p> +“And were all lost?” I cried. “God held them!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wheesht!” he said sternly. “Nane shall pray for the deid on +my hearth-stane.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 strong 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 <i>Christ-Anna</i>. +She but to have come in ram-stam an’ 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. Mony’s the gliff I got mysel’ in the great deep; and why the +Lord should 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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +And now they shout and sing to Thee,<br /> +For Thou hast made them glad, +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +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— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +And in<br /> +Great waters trading be,<br /> +Within the deep these men God’s works<br /> +And His great wonders see. +</p> + +<p> +Weel, it’s easy sayin’ sae. Maybe Dauvit wasnae very weel acquant +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 +that God showed to the <i>Christ-Anna</i>—wonders, do I ca’ them? +Judgments, rather: judgments in the 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 yett to hell!” +</p> + +<p> +I observed, as my uncle spoke, that his voice was unnaturally moved and his +manner unwontedly demonstrative. He leaned forward at these last words, 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 with a +deep-seated fire, and that the lines about his mouth were drawn and tremulous. +</p> + +<p> +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 +mind; 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 would +“remember in mercy fower puir, feckless, fiddling, sinful creatures here +by their lee-lane beside the great and dowie waters.” +</p> + +<p> +Soon there came an interchange of speeches between him and Rorie. +</p> + +<p> +“Was it there?” asked my uncle. +</p> + +<p> +“Ou, ay!” said Rorie. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You mean the fish?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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 childish superstitions. +</p> + +<p> +“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 fechtin’, an’ the sun glintin’ down +into it, day by day? Na; the sea’s like the land, but fearsomer. If +there’s folk ashore, there’s folk in the sea—deid they may +be, but they’re folk whatever; and as for deils, there’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, if ane that was a reprobate, ane the Lord hated, +had gane by there wi’ his sin still 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 <i>Christ-Anna</i>, ye would ken by now the +mercy o’ the seas. If ye had sailed it for as lang as me, ye would hate +the thocht of it as I do. If ye had but used the een God gave ye, ye would hae +learned the wickedness o’ that fause, saut, cauld, bullering creature, +and of a’ that’s in it by the 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!” +</p> + +<p> +We were all somewhat staggered by this outburst; 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. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“No clearly,” replied the other. “I misdoobt if a mere man +could see 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 smoored 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 deil, 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 Loch Uskevagh, an’ the cocks were crawin’ in Benbecula.” +</p> + +<p> +“It will have been a merman,” Rorie said. +</p> + +<p> +“A merman!” screamed my uncle with immeasurable scorn. “Auld +wives’ clavers! There’s nae sic things as mermen.” +</p> + +<p> +“But what was the creature like?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken what like it was! It had +a kind of a heid upon it—man could say nae mair.” +</p> + +<p> +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 spite of his incredulity, listened with +uneasy interest. +</p> + +<p> +“Aweel, aweel,” he said, “it may be sae; I may be wrang; but +I find nae word o’ mermen in the Scriptures.” +</p> + +<p> +“And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, maybe,” objected Rorie, +and his argument appeared to carry weight. +</p> + +<p> +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 rational +and tranquil than before. He spoke evenly and almost cheerfully of my career, +with every now and then a reference 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. 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 strong current runs at certain periods of the flood and ebb +respectively; but in this northern bay—Aros Bay, as it is +called—where the house stands and on which 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 can be seen at all; +but when it is calm, as it often is, there appear certain strange, +undecipherable marks—sea-runes, as we may name them—on the glassy +surface of the bay. The like is common in a thousand places on the coast; and +many a boy must have amused himself as I did, seeking to read in them some +reference to himself or those he loved. It was to these marks that my uncle now +directed my attention, struggling, as he did so, with an evident reluctance. +</p> + +<p> +“Do ye see yon scart upo’ the water?” he inquired; “yon +ane wast the gray stane? Ay? Weel, it’ll no be like a letter, wull +it?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly it is,” I replied. “I have often remarked it. It +is like a C.” +</p> + +<p> +He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then added +below his breath: “Ay, for the <i>Christ-Anna</i>.” +</p> + +<p> +“I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,” said I; “for my +name is Charles.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so ye saw’t afore?”, he ran on, not heeding my remark. +“Weel, weel, but that’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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said I. “I see another very plainly, near the Ross +side, where the road comes down—an M.” +</p> + +<p> +“An M,” he repeated very low; and then, again after another pause: +“An’ what wad ye make o’ that?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,” I answered, growing +somewhat red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I was on the threshold of +a decisive explanation. +</p> + +<p> +But we were each following his own train of thought to the exclusion of the +other’s. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I would say naething o’ thae clavers to Mary,” he observed, +and began to walk forward. +</p> + +<p> +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 love; +but I was at the same time far more deeply exercised at the change that had +befallen my uncle. He was never an ordinary, never, in the strict sense, an +amiable, man; but there was nothing in even the worst that I had known of him +before, to prepare me for so strange a transformation. It was impossible to +close the eyes against one fact; that he had, as the saying goes, something 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 arrested 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 came to a halt, and stood staring for awhile on that expanse. Then he +turned to me and laid a hand on my arm. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +He turned at once, and, without another word, we retraced our steps to the +house of Aros. +</p> + +<p> +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 +beating about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on my mind. +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” I said, “I have not come to Aros without a hope. If +that should prove well 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 +that her hands shook. “Mary,” I cried in fear, “do ye no like +me?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, Charlie man,” she said, “is this a time to speak of it? +Let me be, a while; let me be the way I am; it’ll not be you that loses +by the waiting!” +</p> + +<p> +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. Only just this one thing more: what ails +you?” +</p> + +<p> +She owned it was her father, but would enter into 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 account long syne; and I would just have wished they had ta’en +their gear with them—poor souls!” +</p> + +<p> +This was scarcely any great encouragement for me to tell her of the <i>Espirito +Santo</i>; 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 beard; and he was speiring high and low for that same +ship.” +</p> + +<p> +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 calling 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 no time over my undertaking; and if +the ship lay sunk in Sandag Bay, as perhaps both he and I supposed, it should +not be for the advantage of this ringed adventurer, but for Mary and myself, +and for the good, old, honest, kindly family of the Darnaways. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY.</h3> + +<p> +I was early afoot next morning; and as soon as I had a bite to eat, set forth +upon a tour of exploration. Something 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. 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-west, where the isles lie thickliest congregated, some half-a-dozen small +and ragged clouds hung together in a covey; and the head of Ben Kyaw wore, not +merely a few streamers, but a solid hood of vapour. There was a threat in the +weather. 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 dwellers in these parts attributed, if not prescience, +at least a quality of warning, to that strange and dangerous creature of the +tides. +</p> + +<p> +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 prevailing +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 certain 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 Sandag Bay, but one small segment of the horizon and, in +heavy weather, the breakers flying high over a deep sea reef. +</p> + +<p> +From half-way down the hill, I had perceived the 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 directly 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 to 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. Here was a grave; and I had to ask myself, +with a chill, what manner of man lay there in his last sleep, awaiting the +signal of the Lord in that solitary, sea-beat resting-place? My mind supplied +no answer but what I feared to entertain. Shipwrecked, at least, he must have +been; perhaps, like the old Armada mariners, from some 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 lain 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 there, 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; and yet my mind misgave me even with a fear, that perhaps he +was near me where I stood, guarding his sepulchre, and lingering on the scene +of his unhappy fate. +</p> + +<p> +Certainly it was with a spirit somewhat over-shadowed 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 could not make out clearly whether she was called +<i>Christiania</i>, after the Norwegian city, or <i>Christiana</i>, after the +good woman, Christian’s wife, in that old book 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 the colour was faded and +weathered, and the paint peeling off in strips. The wreck of the mainmast lay +alongside, 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 billows. +</p> + +<p> +I do not know whether it came most from the ship or from the grave, but I fell +into some melancholy scruples, as I stood there, leaning with one hand against +the battered timbers. The homelessness of men and even of 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 consent 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 <i>Espirito +Santo</i>, had left her bones in Sandag Bay, and how weak it would be to +consider rights so long extinguished and misfortunes so long forgotten in the +process of time. +</p> + +<p> +I had my theory of where to seek for her remains. The set of the current 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 close 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 crystal, 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. The +shadows of the rocks lay out for some distance at their feet, so that my own +shadow, moving, pausing, and stooping on the top of that, reached sometimes +half across the bay. It was above all in this belt of shadows that I hunted for +the <i>Espirito Santo</i>; since it was there the undertow ran strongest, +whether in or out. Cool as the whole water seemed this broiling day, it looked, +in that part, yet cooler, and had a mysterious invitation for the eyes. Peer as +I pleased, however, I could see nothing but a few fishes or a bush of +sea-tangle, and here and there a lump of rock that had fallen from above and +now lay separate on the sandy floor. Twice did I pass from one end to the other +of the rocks, and in the whole distance I could see nothing of the wreck, nor +any place but one where it was possible for it to be. This was a large terrace +in five fathoms of water, raised off the surface of the sand to a considerable +height, and looking from above like a mere outgrowth of the rocks on which I +walked. It was one mass of great sea-tangles like a grove, which prevented me +judging of its nature, but in shape and size it bore some likeness to a +vessel’s hull. At least it was my best chance. If the <i>Espirito +Santo</i> lay not there under the tangles, it lay nowhere at all in Sandag Bay; +and I prepared to put the question to the proof, once and for all, and either +go back to Aros a rich man or cured for ever of my dreams of wealth. +</p> + +<p> +I stripped to the skin, and stood on the extreme margin with my hands clasped, +irresolute. 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 +uncle’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 plunged into the sea. +</p> + +<p> +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 stretched 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-growths 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 upon 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 hand, and the +thought of its owner appeared before me like the presence of an actual 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—the 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, soundless 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 Sandag +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 words, “the dead are down there,” echoed in my ears; +and though I determined to dive once more, it was with a strong repugnance that +I stepped forward to the margin of the rocks. +</p> + +<p> +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 and blackness filled its bosom, where flashes of +light and clouds of shadow tossed confusedly together. Even the terrace below +obscurely rocked and quivered. It seemed a graver thing to venture on this +place of ambushes; and when I leaped into the sea the second time it was with a +quaking in my soul. +</p> + +<p> +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, not a sign of any +wreck; the <i>Espirito Santo</i> was not there. I remember I had almost a sense +of relief in my disappointment, and I was about ready to leave go, when +something 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 the last moment there came a sudden flush of +current, dredging through the tangles 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 friendly rocks with the bone of a +man’s leg in my grasp. +</p> + +<p> +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 piece of mankind that the full horror of the +charnel ocean burst upon my spirit. 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 enough from the spot; no fortune was vast enough to tempt me +back again. The bones of the drowned dead should henceforth roll undisturbed by +me, whether on tangle or minted gold. But as soon as I trod the good earth +again, and had covered my nakedness against the sun, I knelt down over against +the ruins of the brig, and out of the fulness of my heart prayed long and +passionately 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. The horror, at least, was lifted +from 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 remained of my concern beyond a deep determination to meddle no more +with the spoils of wrecked vessels or the treasures of the dead. +</p> + +<p> +I was already some way up the hill before I paused to breathe and look behind +me. The sight that met my eyes was doubly strange. +</p> + +<p> +For, first, the storm that I had foreseen was now advancing with almost +tropical rapidity. 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 white 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 was a splashing run of sea that I could +hear from where I stood. The change upon the sky was even more 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 contexture, the sun still +poured a sheaf of spreading rays; and here and there, from all its edges, vast +inky streamers lay forth along the yet unclouded sky. The menace was express +and imminent. Even as I gazed, the sun was blotted out. At any moment the +tempest might fall upon Aros in its might. +</p> + +<p> +The suddenness of this change of weather so fixed 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 surmounted +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 several men in that deserted +spot. The boat was lying by the rocks. A pair 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 off +upon the ledge two men in black clothes, whom I judged to be superior in rank, +laid their heads together over some task which at first I did not understand, +but 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 reached +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 carrying my relies with them, and set +forth out of the bay with all speed of oars. +</p> + +<p> +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 that 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, obscure islet of the western sea. The Madrid +historian, the search instituted by Dr. Robertson, the bearded stranger 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 that +these strangers must be Spaniards in quest of ancient treasure and the lost +ship of the Armada. But the people living in outlying islands, such as Aros, +are answerable for their own security; there 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 heavily, 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, heavily +sparred, handsome schooner, lying to at the south end of Aros. Since I had not +seen her in the morning when I had looked around so closely at the signs of the +weather, and upon these 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 good 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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +THE GALE.</h3> + +<p> +I found my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs of the weather, with a +pipe in his fingers. +</p> + +<p> +“Uncle,” said I, “there were men ashore at Sandag +Bay—” +</p> + +<p> +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 and +fell back against the end of the house with his jaw fallen, his eyes staring, +and his long face as white as paper. We must have looked at one another +silently for a quarter of a minute, before he made answer in this extraordinary +fashion: “Had he a hair kep on?” +</p> + +<p> +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 ashore alive. For the first and only +time I lost toleration for the man who was my benefactor and the father of the +woman I hoped to call my wife. +</p> + +<p> +“These were living men,” said I, “perhaps Jacobites, perhaps +the French, perhaps pirates, perhaps adventurers come here 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 morning by his grave; he will not wake before +the trump of doom.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Come,” said I. “You must think for others. You must come up +the hill with me, and see this ship.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +heavily 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. Only +once he replied to me complainingly, and like one in bodily pain: “Ay, +ay, man, I’m coming.” Long 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. +</p> + +<p> +At last we emerged above the sky-line of the hill, 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 there last; already it had begun to break over +some of the outward reefs, and already it moaned aloud in the sea-caves of +Aros. I looked, at first, in vain for the schooner. +</p> + +<p> +“There she is,” I said at last. But her new position, and the +course she was now lying, puzzled me. “They cannot mean to beat to +sea,” I cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Good God!” said I, “they are all lost.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” returned my uncle, “a’—a’ lost. They +hadnae a chance but to rin for Kyle Dona. The gate they’re gaun the 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 bonny!” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him, and it was then that I began to fancy him no longer in his +right mind. He was peering up to me, as if for sympathy, a timid joy in his +eyes. All that had passed between us was already forgotten in the prospect of +this fresh disaster. +</p> + +<p> +“If it were not too late,” I cried with indignation, “I would +take the coble and go out to warn them.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 <i>Christ-Anna</i> was naething to +this.” +</p> + +<p> +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 was 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. 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, he was lying on his belly +on the summit, with his hands stretched forth and clutching in the heather. He +seemed rejuvenated, mind and body. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Are ye wearied, lad?” she asked after a while. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I’ll be sure of one thing,” she returned: “I’ll +be where my duty is.” +</p> + +<p> +“You forget, you have a duty to yourself,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay, man?” she replied, pounding at the dough; “will you have +found that in the Bible, now?” +</p> + +<p> +“Mary,” I said solemnly, “you must not laugh at me just now. +God knows I am in no heart for laughing. If we could 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 your 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 +but to flee—for that’s the word—flee, like a bird out of the +fowler’s snare, from this accursed island.” +</p> + +<p> +She had stopped her work by this time. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you think, now,” said she, “do you think, now, I have +neither eyes nor ears? Do ye think I havenae broken my heart to have these +braws (as he calls 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 wrong 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 for 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.” +</p> + +<p> +I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and when I roused my head at +last to speak, she got before me. +</p> + +<p> +“Charlie,” she said, “what’s right for me, neednae be +right for you. There’s sin upon this house and trouble; you are a +stranger; take your things upon your back and go your ways to better places and +to better folk, and if you were ever minded to come back, though it were twenty +years syne, you would find me aye waiting.” +</p> + +<p> +“Mary Ellen,” I said, “I asked you to be my wife, and you +said as good as yes. That’s done for good. Wherever you are, I am; as I +shall answer to my God.” +</p> + +<p> +As I said the words, the wind suddenly burst out 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 house. +</p> + +<p> +“God pity all poor folks at sea!” she said. “We’ll see +no more of my father till the morrow’s morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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 at 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 would speak together by the hour at the gable end, in guarded +tones and with an air of secrecy and almost of guilt; and if she questioned +either, as at first she 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 +once—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 Aros by the returning waters. It was with a shriek of +agony that he had leaped across the gut, and he had reached home thereafter in +a fever-fit of fear. 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. +</p> + +<p> +Rorie alone came in to supper; but a little later my uncle appeared, took a +bottle under his arm, put some bread in his pocket, and set forth again to his +outlook, followed this time by Rorie. I heard that the schooner was losing +ground, but the crew were still fighting every inch with hopeless ingenuity and +course; and the news filled my mind with blackness. +</p> + +<p> +A little after sundown the full fury of the gale 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 howling +without, the fire between us sputtering with raindrops. Our thoughts were far +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 hearts +bounded in our sides. Now the storm in its might would seize and shake the four +corners of the roof, roaring like Leviathan in anger. Anon, in a lull, cold +eddies of tempest moved shudderingly in the room, lifting the hair upon our +heads and passing between us as we sat. And again the wind would break forth in +a chorus of melancholy sounds, hooting low in the chimney, wailing with +flutelike softness round the house. +</p> + +<p> +It was perhaps eight o’clock when Rorie came in and pulled me +mysteriously to the door. 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. +</p> + +<p> +The night, though we were so little past midsummer, was as dark as January. +Intervals of a groping twilight alternated with spells of utter blackness; and +it was impossible to trace the reason of these changes in the flying horror 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. Over +all the lowlands of the Ross, the wind must have blown as fierce as on the open +sea; and God only knows the uproar that was raging around the head of Ben Kyaw. +Sheets of mingled spray and rain were driven in our faces. All round the isle +of Aros the surf, with an incessant, hammering thunder, beat upon the reefs and +beaches. 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 this hurly-burly I could hear the changeful voices of the +Roost and the intermittent 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. +</p> + +<p> +Arm in arm, and staggering against the wind, Rorie and I won every yard of +ground with conscious effort. We slipped on the wet sod, we fell together +sprawling on the rocks. Bruised, 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, like a parapet, makes a place of shelter from the +common winds, where a man may sit in quiet and see the tide and the mad billows +contending at his feet. As he might look down from the window 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 waters 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 +same 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 +about us, heavy as a wave. And yet the spectacle was rather maddening in its +levity than impressive by its force. 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 Men as it +were a tune upon a jigging instrument. +</p> + +<p> +I first caught sight of my uncle when we were still some yards away in one of +the flying glimpses of twilight that chequered 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Has he been drinking?” shouted I to Rorie. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Then—was he so—in February?” I inquired. +</p> + +<p> +Rorie’s “Ay” was a cause of joy to me. The murder, then, had +not sprung in cold blood from calculation; it was an act of madness no more to +be condemned than 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! I have always +thought drunkenness a wild and almost fearful pleasure, rather demoniacal than +human; but drunkenness, out here in the roaring blackness, on the edge of a +cliff above that hell of waters, the man’s head spinning like the Roost, +his foot tottering on the edge of death, his ear watching for the signs of +ship-wreck, surely that, if it were credible in any one, was morally impossible +in a man like my uncle, whose mind was set upon a damnatory creed and haunted +by the darkest superstitions. Yet so it was; and, as we reached the bight of +shelter and could breathe again, I saw the man’s eyes shining in the +night with an unholy glimmer. +</p> + +<p> +“Eh, Charlie, man, it’s grand!” he cried. “See to +them!” he continued, dragging 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?” +</p> + +<p> +He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought it suited with the scene. +</p> + +<p> +“They’re yowlin’ for thon schooner,” he went on, 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 +<i>Christ-Anna</i>, at the hinder end. There’s nane could droon at sea +wantin’ 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, “tak’ a sowp.” +</p> + +<p> +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 almost strangled me to swallow. My kinsman 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 leap up, shouting to receive it. +</p> + +<p> +“Ha’e, bairns!” he cried, “there’s your +han’sel. Ye’ll get bonnier nor that, or morning.” +</p> + +<p> +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 flapping loose, as the boom +fell heavily across the deck; I still see the black outline of the hull, and +still think I can distinguish the figure of a man stretched upon the tiller. +Yet the whole sight we had of her passed swifter than lightning; the very wave +that disclosed her fell burying her for ever; the mingled cry of many voices at +the point of death rose and was quenched in the roaring of the Merry Men. And +with that the tragedy was at an end. The strong ship, with all 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. +</p> + +<p> +How long we lay there together, we three, speechless and motionless, is more +than I can tell, but it must have been for long. At length, one by one, and +almost mechanically, we crawled back into the shelter of the bank. As I lay +against the parapet, wholly wretched and not entirely master of my mind, I +could hear my kinsman maundering 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 +stranding on the shore; and throughout, the name—the +<i>Christ-Anna</i>—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 must 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 remained to witness of the furies of the night. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +A MAN OUT OF THE SEA.</h3> + +<p> +Rorie set out for the house in search of warmth and breakfast; but my uncle was +bent upon examining the shores of Aros, and I felt it a part of duty to +accompany him throughout. He was now docile 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. 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, my hand clutched him by the skirt, I helped him to draw his +pitiful discoveries beyond the reach of the returning wave; a nurse +accompanying a child of seven would have had no different experience. +</p> + +<p> +Yet, weakened as he was by the reaction from his madness of the night before, +the passions that smouldered in his nature were those of a strong man. His +terror 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 from its touch; and once, when his foot slipped and he plunged to the +midleg into a pool of water, the shriek that came up out of his soul was like +the cry of death. He sat still for a while, 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 whole heart seemed to be set on +driftwood, fit, if it was fit for anything, to throw upon the fire. Pleased as +he was with what he found, he still incessantly grumbled at his ill-fortune. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“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 night, as I never +thought to see you—you were drunk.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a religious man,” I replied, “and this is +sin’. +</p> + +<p> +“Ou,” he returned, “if it wasnae sin, I dinnae ken that I +would care for’t. Ye see, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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, falling +one upon another on the trampled sand. Without, the salt air, the scared gulls, +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 pass. +</p> + +<p> +“Thus far shalt thou go,” said I, “and no farther.” And +then I quoted as solemnly as I was able a verse that I had often before fitted +to the chorus of the breakers:— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +But yet the Lord that is on high,<br /> +Is more of might by far,<br /> +Than noise of many waters is,<br /> +As great sea billows are. +</p> + +<p> +“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’ that 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +made 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 minutes 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 entirely +separate on the beach. When we came to the grave I stopped, uncovered my head +in the thick rain, and, looking my kinsman in the face, addressed him. +</p> + +<p> +“A man,” said I, “was in God’s providence suffered 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 +beginning of torment. I ask you in the sight of heaven: Gordon Darnaway, where +is the man for whom Christ died?” +</p> + +<p> +He started visibly at the last words; but there came no answer, and his face +expressed no feeling but a vague alarm. +</p> + +<p> +“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 us 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Even as I spoke the words, the eyes of my uncle wandered from my face. A change +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 more +from his lips: “The <i>Christ-Anna</i>!” +</p> + +<p> +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. The form of a man stood upright on the cabin-hutch of the wrecked ship; +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 close on terror. It seemed scarce possible +that any human soul should have come ashore alive in such a sea as had rated +last night along the coasts of Aros; and the only vessel within miles had gone +down 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Why,” I said, “the man is black!” +</p> + +<p> +And just at that moment, in a voice that I could scarce have recognised, my +kinsman began swearing and praying in a mingled stream. I looked at him; he had +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 incongruities 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +With that, I tried to force him towards the black; 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, +bruised 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 from rock to rock; and I thus found myself torn for a time between two +duties. But I judged, and I pray Heaven that 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 folded 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 +heaven 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 pointed to my uncle, whom we could just see +perched upon a knoll, and touched his head to indicate that he was mad. +</p> + +<p> +We took the long way round the shore, for I feared 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, taking 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 the 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 them, there should their bones be tossed for evermore. In the meantime +the black continued his imitation of the scene, now looking up skyward as +though watching the approach of the storm now, in the character of a seaman, +waving the rest to come aboard; 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 examine 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, like one accepting +fate. +</p> + +<p> +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 all aboard her. He showed no +surprise 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. Respect came upon me and grew stronger, the more I +observed him; I saw he had a powerful mind and a sober and severe character, +such as I loved to commune with; and before we reached the house of Aros I had +almost forgotten, and wholly forgiven him, his uncanny colour. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You did the right,” she said. “God’s will be +done.” And she set out meat for us at once. +</p> + +<p> +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 +seemingly in the same attitude as when I had last observed him. From that +point, as I have said, the 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 head had scarcely risen above the summit of the first +ascent before he had leaped 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 words 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 with incredible speed, he began +to flee from before me along the rocky summit of the hill. An hour before, he +had been dead weary, 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 +left but to turn homeward and make my sad report to Mary. +</p> + +<p> +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. At that age it would have been +a strange 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 had 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 silently and swiftly fled. Rorie had tried to chase him, but in +vain; madness lent a new vigour to his bounds; he sprang from rock to rock over +the widest gullies; he scoured like the wind along the 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 +during the hottest excitement of the chase, even when the fleet-footed servant +had come, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 captured, +were the three difficulties that we had to solve. +</p> + +<p> +“The black,” said I, “is the cause of this attack. It may +even be his presence in the house that keeps my uncle on the hill. We have done +the fair thing; he has 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.” +</p> + +<p> +In this proposal Mary heartily concurred; and bidding the black follow us, we +all three descended to the pier. Certainly, Heaven’s will was declared +against Gordon Darnaway; a thing had happened, never paralleled before in Aros; +during 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 party 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 cleared away, and the night promised to be even warm. We might +compose ourselves, we thought, until the morrow; rest was the chief requisite, +that we might be strengthened for unusual exertions; and as none cared to talk, +we separated at an early hour. +</p> + +<p> +I lay long awake, planning a campaign for the morrow. I was to place the black +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 recalled the configuration of the island, that it +should be possible, though hard, to force 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 direction +of the man whom he supposed to have returned from the dead, and thus one point +of the compass at least would be secure. +</p> + +<p> +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. +Within, Rorie and the black were asleep together in the kitchen; outside was a +wonderful clear night of stars, with here and there a cloud still hanging, last +stragglers of the tempest. 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 +slumber, and when the stars rained their gentle light over land and sea, the +voice of these tide-breakers was still raised for havoc. 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. +</p> + +<p> +It was late when I again woke, and I leaped into my clothes and hurried to the +kitchen. No one was there; Rorie and the black had both stealthily departed +long 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 +late 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 that fatal morning. I do not believe I put twelve +minutes to the whole ascent. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle was gone from his perch. The basket had indeed been torn open 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 fleetness of foot, but in +dexterity of stalking, that the hunters placed their trust. I ran on farther, +keeping 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 gullies of the island. But still no human +thing. +</p> + +<p> +At a stride the sunshine fell on Aros, and the shadows and colours leaped into +being. Not half a moment later, below me to the west, sheep began to scatter as +in a panic. There came a cry. I saw my uncle running. I saw the black jump up +in hot pursuit; and before I had time to understand, Rorie also had appeared, +calling directions in Gaelic as to a dog herding sheep. +</p> + +<p> +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 was nothing before him from that moment but the grave, the wreck, and the +sea in Sandag Bay. And yet Heaven knows that what I did was for the best. +</p> + +<p> +My uncle Gordon saw in what direction, horrible to him, the chase was driving +him. He doubled, darting to the right and left; but high as the fever ran in +his veins, the black was still the swifter. Turn where he would, he was still +forestalled, still driven toward the 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. But all was vain, for it was written otherwise. +The pursuer still ran, the chase still sped before him screaming; they avoided +the grave, and skimmed close past the 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 came to pass before our eyes. There +was never a sharper ending. On that 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 them, racing seaward; and if ever they came up again, +which God alone can tell, it would be ten minutes after, at the far end of Aros +Roost, where the seabirds hover fishing. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale02"></a>WILL O’ THE MILL.</h2> + +<h3><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +THE PLAIN AND THE STARS.</h3> + +<p> +The Mill here Will lived with his adopted parents stood in a falling valley +between 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 lay 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 +from 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 there 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 went 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, except 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 light-footed tourists, all the pedlars +laden with strange wares, were tending downward like the river that accompanied +their path. Nor was this all; for when Will was yet a child a disastrous war +arose 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 pushed 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 faces 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 was +in bed, he could hear the cannon pounding and the feet trampling, and the great +armament sweeping onward and downward past the mill. No one in the valley ever +heard the 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 +him glad when he noticed how the fishes kept their heads up stream. They, at +least, stood faithfully by him, while all else were posting downward to the +unknown world. +</p> + +<p> +One evening he asked the miller where the river went. +</p> + +<p> +“It goes down the valley,” answered he, “and turns a power of +mills—six score mills, they say, from here to Unterdeck—and is none +the wearier after all. And 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 stone men upon them, looking down and +smiling so curious it the water, and living folks leaning their elbows on the +wall and looking over too. And then it goes on and on, and down through marshes +and sands, until at last it falls into the sea, where the ships are that bring +parrots and tobacco from the Indies. Ay, it has a long trot before it as it +goes singing over our weir, bless its heart!” +</p> + +<p> +“And what is the sea?” asked Will. +</p> + +<p> +“The sea!” cried the miller. “Lord help us all, it is the +greatest 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 into water-mountains +bigger than any of ours, and swallows down great ships bigger 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 long +as our river and as old as all the world, with whiskers like a man, and a crown +of silver on her head.” +</p> + +<p> +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 him to the hilltop that overlooks the +valley and the plain. The sun was near setting, and hung low down in a +cloudless sky. Everything was defined and glorified in golden light. Will had +never seen so great an expanse of country in his life; he stood and gazed with +all his eyes. He could see the cities, and the woods and fields, and the bright +curves of the river, and far away to where the rim of the plain trenched along +the shining heavens. An over-mastering emotion 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 the rapidity of thought, and were +succeeded by others. Will covered his face with his hands, and burst into a +violent fit of tears; and the poor miller, sadly disappointed and perplexed, +saw nothing better for it than to take him up in his arms and carry him home in +silence. +</p> + +<p> +From that day forward Will was full of new hopes and longings. Something kept +tugging at his heart-strings; the running water carried his desires along with +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 water in the stream, he felt his heart flow +out after it in an ecstasy of longing. +</p> + +<p> +We are told by men of science that all the ventures 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 thinking +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, were 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 colonists, 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 failure, 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 which 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 with 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. +</p> + +<p> +And yet this would scarcely parallel the intensity 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 very 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 the +cities, full of brisk and beautiful people, playing fountains, bands of music +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 more than worms +and running water, and a hole below a falling bank; but he was differently +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 sunshine, lay far out upon the plain. And 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 easily 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 +looking patiently in their own direction, until Will hardly knew whether to +laugh or cry. +</p> + +<p> +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 in his way, and never forewent an +opportunity of honest profit, turned the mill-house 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 duty 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 +learned 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 attention, 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 mightily +astonished and even more pleased. They thought it a very good thing that they +should have opened their inn. “You see,” the old man would remark, +“he has a kind of talent for a publican; he never would have made +anything else!” And so life wagged on in the valley, with high +satisfaction to all concerned but Will. Every carriage that left the inn-door +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 that 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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man arrived at sunset to pass +the night. 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 prefer 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 about 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 young man whistled, and then broke into a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“My young friend,” he remarked, “you are a very curious +little fellow to be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never +get. Why, you would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in +these fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep +breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains. And let me tell you, those +who go down into the plains are a very short while there before they wish +themselves heartily back again. The air is not so light nor so pure; nor is the +sun any brighter. As for the beautiful men and women, you would see many of +them in rags and many of them deformed with horrible disorders; and a city is +so hard a place for people who are poor and sensitive that many choose to die +by their own hand.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 another; 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 might have been +that once upon a time; but although I live here always, I have asked 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 have 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 cried, “than linger on as I am +doing.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thousands of people,” said the young man, “live and die like +you, and are none the less happy.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” said Will, “if there are thousands who would like, why +should not one of them have my place?” +</p> + +<p> +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 sky, a pattern of transparent +green upon a dusky purple. The fat young man rose, and, taking Will by the arm, +led him out under the open heavens. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you ever look at the stars?” he asked, pointing upwards. +</p> + +<p> +“Often and often,” answered Will. +</p> + +<p> +“And do you know what they are?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have fancied many things.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 are not only worlds, but whole clusters of worlds turning about +each other in the midst of space. We do not know 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 skill of the craftiest +of men can fit out a ship for the nearest of these our neighbours, 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. We may climb the highest mountain, and we are no nearer them. All +we can do is to stand down here 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I see,” he said, turning to the young man. “We are in a +rat-trap.” +</p> + +<p> +“Something of that size. Did you ever see a squirrel turning in a cage? +and another squirrel sitting philosophically over his nuts? I needn’t ask +you which of them looked more of a fool.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +THE PARSON’S MARJORY.</h3> + +<p> +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 river 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 assist 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 notions, 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 parson’s Marjory. +</p> + +<p> +The parson’s Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when Will would be about +thirty; well enough looking, and much better educated than any other girl in +that part of the country, as became her parentage. She held her head very high, +and had 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 man well contented. +</p> + +<p> +Will had never seen much of her; for although the church and parsonage were +only two miles from his own door, he was never known 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. 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 temper and shrewdness, +which make a capital portion in marriage; and so it was currently 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 +that 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 roost in marriage. But +Marjory had never given it a thought, and accompanied her father with the most +unshaken innocence and unconcern. +</p> + +<p> +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 +began 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 shone 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, and so quick with life down to her +finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, that the remainder of created +things became no more than a blot by comparison; and if Will glanced away from +her to her surroundings, the trees looked inanimate and senseless, the clouds +hung in heaven like dead things, and even the mountain tops were disenchanted. +The whole valley could not compare in looks with this one girl. +</p> + +<p> +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 all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for the unspoken +commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches 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. The turn of her wrist, the still sound of her +voice, the light in her eyes, the lines of her body, fell in tune with her +grave and gentle words, like the accompaniment that sustains and harmonises the +voice of the singer. Her influence was one thing, not to be divided or +discussed, only to be felt with gratitude and joy. To Will, her presence +recalled something of his childhood, and the thought of her took its place in +his mind beside that of dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and +lilacs. It is the property of things seen for the first time, or for the first +time after long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edge +of sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passes out +of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face is what renews +a man’s character from the fountain upwards. +</p> + +<p> +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 +bird 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 down upon a stone, and fell into deep +and pleasant thought. The plain lay abroad with its cities 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 higher and higher till they touched +the stars. He saw it was empty bustle after all; for here, without stirring a +feet, waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, he also had attained the +better sunlight. +</p> + +<p> +The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table, while the +parson was filling his pipe. +</p> + +<p> +“Miss Marjory,” he said, “I never knew any one I liked so +well as you. I am mostly 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. +</p> + +<p> +Marjory made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“Speak up, girl,” said the parson. +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, now,” returned Will, “I wouldn’t press her, +parson. I feel tongue-tied myself, 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 to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong; but +that is how I believe things are with me. And if Miss Marjory should feel any +otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake her head.” +</p> + +<p> +Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard. +</p> + +<p> +“How is that, parson?” asked Will. +</p> + +<p> +“The girl must speak,” replied the parson, laying down his pipe. +“Here’s our neighbour who says he loves you, Madge. Do you love +him, ay or no?” +</p> + +<p> +“I think I do,” said Marjory, faintly. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“You must marry,” observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his +mouth. +</p> + +<p> +“Is that the right thing to do, think you?” demanded Will. +</p> + +<p> +“It is indispensable,” said the parson. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well,” replied the wooer. +</p> + +<p> +Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, although a bystander +might scarce have found it out. He continued to take his meals opposite +Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father’s presence; +but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other way changed his +conduct 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 mind for an instant. He sat over the stream, 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 round him in the +wood; he rose early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from grey 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“You like flowers?” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed I love them dearly,” she replied. “Do you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, no,” said he, “not so much. They are a very small +affair, when all is done. I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not +doing as you are just now.” +</p> + +<p> +“How?” she asked, pausing and looking up at him. +</p> + +<p> +“Plucking them,” said he. “They are a deal better off where +they are, and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 do 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 not that fine reasoning? Dear, +dear, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 window of Marjory’s room: +one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark blue hills and silver +starlight. Will’s mind ran a great deal on the window; but his thoughts +were not very lover-like. “There she is in her room,” he thought, +“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 contentment 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 back his head, and, putting his hands before his mouth, shouted aloud to +the populous heavens. Whether from 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!” +</p> + +<p> +The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, and sought +her out. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindly appearance +would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an angel, and she looked down +again upon the ground in silence. He could see her tremble. +</p> + +<p> +“I hope you don’t mind,” he went on, a little taken aback. +“You ought not. I have turned it all over, and upon 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is unnecessary to go round about with me,” she said. “I +very well remember that 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 not 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 went on living with +your father, so that I could walk over and see you once, or maybe 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Do you know that you are insulting me?” she broke out. +</p> + +<p> +“Not I, Marjory,” said he; “if there is anything 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 while, and we +had best stay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of things +in my life. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy, began to +grow angry in consequence. +</p> + +<p> +“It seems you are too proud to say your mind,” he said. +“Believe me that’s a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can +a man be more downright or honourable, to a woman than I have been? I have said +my say, and given you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will you +take my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me for good? +Speak out for the dear God’s sake! You know your father told you a girl +should speak her mind in these affairs.” +</p> + +<p> +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 the 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 himself, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no sooner were +all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyes fixed upon +her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment or distress. +</p> + +<p> +“Father,” she began, “Mr. Will and I have been talking things +over. We see that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he has +agreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no more than my +very good friend, as 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 best, but +perhaps we should do better to leave Mr. Will’s house for the present. I +believe, after what has passed, we should hardly be agreeable inmates for some +days.” +</p> + +<p> +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 and contradict. But she checked him at +once looking up at him with a swift glance and an angry flush upon her cheek. +</p> + +<p> +“You will perhaps have the good grace,” she said, “to let me +explain these matters for myself.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, and 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 father took their +departure that same afternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther down the valley, +to wait, until their own house was ready for them, in another hamlet. But Will +had been observing 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 begin with. All the interest had +gone out of his life, and he might look up at the stars as long as he pleased, +he somehow failed to find support or consolation. And then he was in such a +turmoil of spirit about Marjory. He had been puzzled and irritated at her +behaviour, and yet he could not keep himself from admiring it. He thought he +recognised a fine, perverse angel in that still soul which he had never +hitherto 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. +</p> + +<p> +As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; now pluming +himself on the strength of his determination, now despising his timid and silly +caution. The former was, perhaps, the true thought of his heart, and +represented 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 bring it to an end. So, one warm summer afternoon he put on +his best clothes, took 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 admixture 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 him, he would have done his utmost, and might follow his own way in the +future with an untroubled conscience. He hoped, on the whole, she would refuse +him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roof which sheltered her, peeping +through some willows at an angle of the stream, he was half inclined to reverse +the wish, and more than half ashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose. +</p> + +<p> +Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without affectation or +delay. +</p> + +<p> +“I have been thinking about this marriage,” he began. +</p> + +<p> +“So have I,” she answered. “And I respect you more and more +for 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“At the same time—,” ventured Will. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 about the matter. +</p> + +<p> +For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued 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 whet his appetite. Indeed there +was one corner of the road, whence he could see the church-spire wedged into a +crevice 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.” +</p> + +<p> +At the end of the three years Marjory played him 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 her +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 two, and fell away in +flesh, to the astonishment of his serving-lads. +</p> + +<p> +It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was awakened late one night +by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, 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 sent 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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +DEATH</h3> + +<p> +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 usual +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 thicken on his head. His heart was young +and vigorous; and if his pulses kept a sober time, they still beat strong and +steady in his wrists. He carried 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 was 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 and smiling +mouth, only give another charm by testifying to a simple and easy life. His +talk was full of wise sayings. He had a taste for other people; and other +people had a taste for him. When the valley was full of tourists 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 people out of +towns and colleges. Indeed, he had a very noble old age, and grew daily 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 <i>cafés</i> 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 +would 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 difference 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. Now, I know it is myself, and +stick to that.” +</p> + +<p> +He never showed any symptom of frailty, but kept 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 sympathetic 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 admire a candle all the more when he could compare it with +a planet. +</p> + +<p> +One night, in his seventy-second year, he awoke in bed in such uneasiness of +body and mind that he arose and dressed himself and 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, +and 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 yet the very gist of a +man’s own life to himself—things seen, words heard, looks +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 brain, but revisiting his bodily +senses as they do in profound and vivid dreams. The fat young man leaned his +elbows on the table opposite; Marjory came and went with an apronful of flowers +between the garden and the arbour; he could hear the old parson knocking out +his pipe or blowing his resonant nose. The tide of his consciousness ebbed and +flowed: he was sometimes half-asleep and drowned in his recollections of the +past; and sometimes he was broad awake, wondering at himself. But about the +middle of the night he was startled by the voice of the dead miller calling to +him out of the house as he used to do on the arrival of custom. The +hallucination was so perfect that Will sprang from his seat and stood listening +for the summons to be repeated; and as he listened he became conscious of +another noise besides the brawling 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 and 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 than before; and once again he heard the noise of an +equipage upon the road. And so thrice 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. +</p> + +<p> +From the arbour to the gate was no great distance, and yet it took Will some +time; it seemed as if the dead thickened around him in the court, and crossed +his path at every step. For, first, he was suddenly surprised 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I must be going crazy,” he thought. “Poor Marjory and her +heliotropes!” +</p> + +<p> +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 corner +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 noises +on the road: and he turned in time to meet a stranger, who was advancing to +meet him across the court. There 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Master Will?” asked the new-comer, in brief military fashion. +</p> + +<p> +“That same, sir,” answered Will. “Can I do anything to serve +you?” +</p> + +<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 myself.” +</p> + +<p> +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 sleep; and it seemed as if the lamp +caught fire and the bottle came uncorked with the facility of thought. Still, +he had some curiosity about the appearance of his visitor, and tried in vain to +turn 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 upon him, for he could hear nothing now, not even the river, but the +drumming of his own arteries in his ears. +</p> + +<p> +“Here’s to you,” said the stranger, roughly. +</p> + +<p> +“Here is my service, sir,” replied Will, sipping his wine, which +somehow tasted oddly. +</p> + +<p> +“I understand you are a very positive fellow,” pursued the +stranger. +</p> + +<p> +Will made answer with a smile of some satisfaction and a little nod. +</p> + +<p> +“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 myself; +not one. I have crossed the whims, in my time, of kings and generals and great +artists. And what would you say,” he went on, “if I had come up +here on purpose to cross yours?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 staying where you are. You mean to stick by your inn. Now I +mean you shall come for a turn with me in my barouche; and before this +bottle’s empty, so you shall.” +</p> + +<p> +“That would be an odd thing, to be sure,” replied 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 very +entertaining old gentleman, I would wager you another bottle you lose your +pains with me.” +</p> + +<p> +The dimness of Will’s eyesight had been increasing all this while; but he +was somehow conscious of a sharp and chilling scrutiny which irritated and yet +overmastered him. +</p> + +<p> +“You need not think,” he broke out suddenly, in 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 +reckon I shall find myself prepared.” +</p> + +<p> +The stranger emptied his glass and pushed it away 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. +</p> + +<p> +An ugly thrill spread from the spot he touched. The tones of his voice were +dull and startling, and echoed strangely in Will’s heart. +</p> + +<p> +“I beg your pardon,” he said, with some discomposure. “What +do you mean?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a doctor?” quavered Will. +</p> + +<p> +“The best that ever was,” replied the other; “for I cure both +mind and body with the same prescription. I take away all pain and I forgive +all sins; and where my patients have gone wrong in life, I smooth out all +complications and set them free again upon their feet.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no need of you,” said Will. +</p> + +<p> +“A time comes for all men, Master Will,” replied 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are a strange physician,” said Will, looking steadfastly upon +his guest. +</p> + +<p> +“I am a natural law,” he replied, “and people call me +Death.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why did you not tell me so at first?” cried Will. “I have +been waiting for you these many years. Give me your hand, and welcome.” +</p> + +<p> +“Lean upon my arm,” said the stranger, “for already your +strength abates. Lean on me as heavily as you need; for though I am old, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +One of the servants awoke about this time and heard the noise of horses pawing +before he dropped asleep again; all down the valley that night there was a +rushing as of a smooth and steady wind descending towards the plain; and when +the world rose next morning, sure enough Will o’ the Mill had gone at +last upon his travels. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale03"></a>MARKHEIM</h2> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the dealer, “our windfalls are of various kinds. +Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior +knowledge. Some are dishonest,” and here he held up the candle, so that +the light fell strongly on his visitor, “and in that case,” he +continued, “I profit by my virtue.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will +have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very +strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and 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!” +</p> + +<p> +And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood 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. +</p> + +<p> +“This time,” said he, “you are in error. I have not come to +sell, but to buy. 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 fluent 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 yesterday; I must produce my little +compliment at dinner; and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is not a +thing to be neglected.” +</p> + +<p> +There followed a pause, during which the dealer seemed to weigh this statement +incredulously. The ticking of many clocks among the curious lumber of the shop, +and the faint rushing of the cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the +interval of silence. +</p> + +<p> +“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 to be an obstacle. Here is a nice thing 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 heir of a remarkable collector.” +</p> + +<p> +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, and left no +trace beyond a certain trembling of the hand that now received the glass. +</p> + +<p> +“A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more +clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?” +</p> + +<p> +“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?” +</p> + +<p> +Markheim was looking upon him with an indefinable expression. “You ask me +why not?” he said. “Why, look here—look in it—look at +yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor I—nor any man.” +</p> + +<p> +The little man had jumped back when Markheim had 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 thought in your +mind? Tell me. It will be better for you if you do. Come, tell me about +yourself. I hazard a guess now, that you are in secret a very charitable +man?” +</p> + +<p> +The dealer looked closely at his companion. It was very odd, Markheim did not +appear to be laughing; there was something in his face like an eager sparkle of +hope, but nothing of mirth. +</p> + +<p> +“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. “Ah, have you +been in love? Tell me about that.” +</p> + +<p> +“I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the time, nor +have I the time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 what little we can get, like a man at a cliff’s +edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think upon it—a cliff a mile +high—high enough, if we fall, to dash us out of every 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I have just one word to say to you,” said the dealer. +“Either make your purchase, or walk out of my shop!” +</p> + +<p> +“True true,” said Markheim. “Enough, fooling. To business. +Show me something else.” +</p> + +<p> +The dealer stooped once more, this time to replace the glass upon the shelf, +his thin blond hair falling over his eyes as he did so. Markheim moved a little +nearer, 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 his face—terror, horror, and resolve, fascination and a +physical repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his upper lip, his teeth +looked out. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +Time had some score of small voices in that shop, some stately and slow as was +becoming to their great age; others garrulous and hurried. All these told out +the 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, its flame solemnly +wagging in a draught; and by that inconsiderable movement, the 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 that +leaguer of shadows with a long slit of daylight like a pointing finger. +</p> + +<p> +From these fear-stricken rovings, Markheim’s eyes 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 direct 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, this was still the enemy. “Time was that +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. +</p> + +<p> +The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 repeated, as it were an army of spies; his own eyes met and +detected him; and the sound 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 should 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 gagged the dealer, and not killed him; he should have been more bold, and +killed the servant also; he should have done all things otherwise: poignant +regrets, weary, incessant toiling of the mind to change what was unchangeable, +to plan what was now useless, to be the architect of the irrevocable past. +Meanwhile, and behind all this activity, brute terrors, like the scurrying of +rats in a deserted attic, filled the more 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. +</p> + +<p> +Terror of the people in the street sat down before 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 +neighbouring 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 degree and age and humour, but all, by their own hearths, +prying and hearkening and weaving the rope that was to hang him. 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 transition of +his terrors, the very silence of the place appeared a source of peril, and 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. +</p> + +<p> +But he was now so pulled about by different alarms 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 hearkening with white face beside his window, the passer-by arrested +by a horrible surmise 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. Yes, he was alone, of course; +and yet, in the bulk of empty house above him, he could surely hear a stir of +delicate footing—he was surely conscious, inexplicably conscious of some +presence. 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. +</p> + +<p> +At times, with a strong effort, he would glance at the open door which still +seemed to repel his eyes. The house was tall, the skylight small and dirty, the +day blind with fog; and the light that filtered down to the ground 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? +</p> + +<p> +Suddenly, from the street outside, a very jovial gentleman began to beat with a +staff on the shop-door, accompanying his blows 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 seas 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. +</p> + +<p> +Here was a broad hint to hurry what remained to 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 safety and apparent +innocence—his bed. One visitor had come: at any moment another might +follow and be more obstinate. To have done the deed, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 body of his victim. The human character +had quite departed. Like a suit half-stuffed with bran, the limbs lay +scattered, the trunk doubled, on the floor; and yet the thing repelled him. +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 expression; +but it was as pale as wax, and shockingly smeared with blood about one temple. +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 coloured: 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 +illusion; 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 the thumping of the drums. A bar of that day’s music returned +upon his memory; and at that, for the first time, a qualm came over him, a +breath of nausea, a sudden weakness of the joints, which he must instantly +resist and conquer. +</p> + +<p> +He judged it more prudent to confront than to flee from these considerations; +looking the more hardily in the dead face, bending 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 been +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 same heart which had shuddered before the painted +effigies of crime, looked on its 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 penitence, no, not a tremor. +</p> + +<p> +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 to rain +smartly; and the sound of the shower upon the roof had banished silence. Like +some dripping cavern, the chambers of the house were haunted by an incessant +echoing, which filled the ear and mingled with the ticking of the clocks. And, +as Markheim approached the door, he seemed to hear, in answer to his own +cautious tread, the steps of another foot withdrawing up the stair. The shadow +still palpitated loosely on the threshold. He threw a ton’s weight of +resolve upon his muscles, and drew back the door. +</p> + +<p> +The faint, foggy daylight glimmered dimly on the 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 hung 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 grew 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. If he +were but deaf, he thought, how tranquilly he would possess his soul! And then +again, and hearkening with 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 starting +from their orbits, scouted on every side, and on every side were half-rewarded +as with the tail of something nameless vanishing. The four-and-twenty steps to +the first floor were four-and-twenty agonies. +</p> + +<p> +On that first storey, the doors stood ajar, three 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 thought he wondered a little, recollecting tales of +other murderers and the fear they were said to entertain of heavenly avengers. +It was not so, at least, with him. 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 slavish, 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 bees 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 might 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 +ease; 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, uncarpeted +besides, and strewn with packing cases and incongruous furniture; several great +pier-glasses, in which he beheld himself at various angles, like an actor on 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 bed, +with tapestry hangings. The windows opened to the floor; but by great good +fortune the lower part of the shutters had been closed, and this concealed him +from the neighbours. Here, then, Markheim drew in a packing 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. But the closeness of the occupation +sobered him. With the tail of his eye he saw the door—even glanced at it +from time to time directly, like a besieged commander pleased to verify the +good estate of his defences. 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 +children took up the air and words. How stately, how comfortable was the +melody! 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 and the pealing of the high organ; children +afield, bathers by the brookside, ramblers on the brambly common, kite-flyers +in the windy and cloud-navigated 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 (which he smiled a little to recall) and the +painted Jacobean tombs, and the dim lettering of the Ten Commandments in the +chancel. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, whether the dead man +walking, or the official ministers of human justice, or some chance witness +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 +it, his fear broke loose from his control in a hoarse cry. At the sound of this +the visitant returned. +</p> + +<p> +“Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered +the room and closed the door behind him. +</p> + +<p> +Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a film +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 +he thought he knew him; and at times he thought he bore a likeness to himself; +and always, like a lump of living terror, there lay in his bosom the conviction +that this thing was not of the earth and not of God. +</p> + +<p> +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 politeness. +</p> + +<p> +Markheim made no answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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 house, I need not describe to him the consequences.” +</p> + +<p> +“You know me?” cried the murderer. +</p> + +<p> +The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favourite of mine,” he +said; “and I have long observed and often sought to help you.” +</p> + +<p> +“What are you?” cried Markheim: “the devil?” +</p> + +<p> +“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect the +service I propose to render you.” +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or +rather firmness. “I know you to the soul.” +</p> + +<p> +“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? My life is but a +travesty and slander on myself. I have lived to belie my nature. All men do; +all men are 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 +worse than most; myself is more overlaid; my excuse is known to me and God. +But, had I the time, I could disclose myself.” +</p> + +<p> +“To me?” inquired the visitant. +</p> + +<p> +“To you before all,” returned the murderer. “I supposed you +were intelligent. I thought—since you exist—you would prove a +reader of the heart. And yet you would propose to judge me by my acts! Think of +it; my acts! I was born and I have lived in a land of giants; giants have +dragged me by the wrists since I was born out of my mother—the giants of +circumstance. And you would judge me by my acts! But can you not look within? +Can you not understand that evil is hateful to me? Can you not see within me +the clear writing of conscience, never blurred by any wilful sophistry, +although too often disregarded? Can you not read me for a thing that surely +must be common as humanity—the unwilling sinner?” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“For what price?” asked Markheim. +</p> + +<p> +“I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” returned the other. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,” observed the +visitant. +</p> + +<p> +“Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim cried. +</p> + +<p> +“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 serve 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 have 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 with your +conscience, and to make a truckling peace with God. I came but now from such a +deathbed, and the room was full of sincere mourners, listening to the +man’s last words: and when I looked into that face, which had been set as +a flint against mercy, I found it smiling with hope.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 heart rises at the thought. Is +this, then, your experience of mankind? or is it because you find me with red +hands that you presume such baseness? and is this crime of murder indeed so +impious as to dry up the very springs of good?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. 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 visibly 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. 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 killed a dealer, +but because you are Markheim, that I offer to forward your escape.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will lay my heart open to you,” answered Markheim. “This +crime on which 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 revolt to what I would not; I was a bond-slave to poverty, driven and +scourged. There are robust virtues that can stand in these temptations; mine +was not so: I had a thirst of pleasure. But to-day, and out of this deed, I +pluck both warning and riches—both the power and a fresh resolve to be +myself. I become in all things a free actor in the world; I begin to see myself +all changed, these hands the agents of good, this heart at peace. Something +comes over me out of the past; something of what I have dreamed on Sabbath +evenings to the sound of the church organ, of what I forecast when I shed tears +over noble books, or talked, an innocent child, with my mother. There lies my +life; I have wandered a few years, but now I see once more my city of +destination.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are to use this money on the Stock Exchange, I think?” +remarked the visitor; “and there, if I mistake not, you have already lost +some thousands?” +</p> + +<p> +“Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure +thing.” +</p> + +<p> +“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor quietly. +</p> + +<p> +“Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim. +</p> + +<p> +“That also you will lose,” said the other. +</p> + +<p> +The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well, then, what +matter?” he exclaimed. “Say it be lost, say I am plunged again in +poverty, shall one part of me, and that the worse, continue until the end to +override the better? Evil and good run strong in me, haling me both ways. I do +not love the one thing, I love all. I can conceive great deeds, renunciations, +martyrdoms; and though I be fallen to such a crime as murder, pity is no +stranger to my thoughts. I pity 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 +vices only to direct my life, and my virtues to lie without effect, like some +passive lumber of the mind? Not so; good, also, is a spring of acts.” +</p> + +<p> +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 varieties of humour, I have watched you steadily fall. Fifteen years ago +you would have started at a theft. Three years back you would have blenched at +the name of murder. Is there 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 less dainty, and take on the tone of their +surroundings.” +</p> + +<p> +“I will propound to you one simple question,” said the other; +“and as you answer, I shall read to you your moral horoscope. You have +grown in many things more lax; possibly you do right to be so—and at any +account, it is the same with all men. But granting that, are you in any one +particular, however trifling, more difficult to please with your own conduct, +or do you go in all things with a looser rein?” +</p> + +<p> +“In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. +“No,” he added, with despair, “in none! I have gone down in +all.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then,” said the visitor, “content yourself with what you +are, for you will never change; and the words of your part on this stage are +irrevocably written down.” +</p> + +<p> +Markheim stood for a long while silent, and indeed it was the visitor who first +broke the silence. “That being so,” he said, “shall I show +you the money?” +</p> + +<p> +“And grace?” cried Markheim. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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! Once the +girl within, and the door closed, the same dexterity that has 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 with the mask of danger. Up!” he cried; “up, friend; +your life hangs trembling in the scales: up, and act!” +</p> + +<p> +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. If my life be an ill thing, I can lay it down. Though I +be, as you say truly, at the beck of every small temptation, I can yet, by one +decisive gesture, place myself beyond the reach of all. My love of good is +damned to barrenness; it may, and let it be! But I have still my hatred of +evil; and from that, to your galling disappointment, you shall see that I can +draw both energy and courage.” +</p> + +<p> +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 watch 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 +further side he perceived a quiet haven for his bark. He paused in the passage, +and looked 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. +</p> + +<p> +He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. +</p> + +<p> +“You had better go for the police,” said he: “I have killed +your master.” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale04"></a>THRAWN JANET</h2> + +<p> +The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish of +Balweary, 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 lonely 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 the +terrors of eternity. Many young persons, coming to prepare themselves against +the season of the Holy Communion, were dreadfully affected by his talk. He had +a sermon on lst Peter, v. and 8th, “The devil as a roaring lion,” +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 and +the terror of his bearing in the pulpit. 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 overhanging it on the +one side, and on the other many cold, moorish hilltops rising towards 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 road 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, with two large rooms on each. It opened not directly on +the garden, but on a causewayed path, or passage, giving on the road on the one +hand, and closed on the other 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. The minister walked there +often after 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. +</p> + +<p> +This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man of God of spotless +character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of wonder and subject of inquiry +among the few strangers who were led by chance or business into that unknown, +outlying country. But many even of the people of the parish were ignorant of +the strange events which had marked the first year of Mr. Soulis’s +ministrations; and among those who were better informed, some were naturally +reticent, and others shy 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. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam first into 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 +man, wi’ nae leevin’ experience in religion. The younger sort were +greatly taken wi’ his gifts and his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men +and women were moved even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to be a +self-deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae ill-supplied. It was +before the 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 speerit o’ prayer +in their heart. There was nae doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower +lang at the college. He was careful and troubled for mony 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 service for sae mony, when the hail o’ +God’s Word would gang in the neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the +day and half the nicht forbye, which was scant decent—writin’, nae +less; and first, they were feared he wad read his sermons; and syne it proved +he was writin’ a book himsel’, which was surely no fittin’ +for ane of his years an’ sma’ experience. +</p> + +<p> +Onyway it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse for him +an’ see to his bit denners; and he was recommended to an auld +limmer—Janet M’Clour, they ca’d her—and sae far left to +himsel’ as to be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to the +contrar, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba’weary. +Lang or that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit<a +name="citation140"></a><a href="#footnote140" class="citation">[140]</a> for +maybe thretty year; 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. When 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 her door +cheeks and chairge her wi’ a’ that was ken’t again her, frae +the sodger’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 auld 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 guidwives up and claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff +her back, and pu’d her doun the clachan to the water o’ Dule, to +see if she were a witch or no, soum or droun. The carline skirled till 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 new minister. +</p> + +<p> +“Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “I charge you in +the Lord’s name to let her go.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Woman,” says he to Janet, “is this true?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “in the name of God, and before +me, His unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?” +</p> + +<p> +Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she 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 before them +a’. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, “home with ye, +one and all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.” +</p> + +<p> +And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little 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. +</p> + +<p> +There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when the +morn cam’ there was sic a fear fell upon a’ Ba’weary 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 likeness, +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, and 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 like a pair o’ shears; +and frae that day forth the name o’ God cam never on her lips. Whiles she +wad try to say 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 neither 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. +</p> + +<p> +Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o’ +that black business. The minister was weel thocht o’; he was aye late at +the writing, folk wad see his can’le doon by the Dule water after +twal’ at e’en; and he seemed pleased wi’ himsel’ and +upsitten as at first, though a’ body could see that he was dwining. 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 glebe. +</p> + +<p> +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 an’ +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 uncanny 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 his weary book, he wad be stravaguin’ ower +a’ the countryside like a man possessed, when a’ body else was +blythe to keep caller ben the house. +</p> + +<p> +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 auld days, that +was the kirkyaird o’ Ba’weary, and consecrated by the Papists +before the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. 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’ squawked to ither as they gaed; and it was +clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar. He wasnae +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’ black as hell, and +his e’en were singular to see.<a name="citation144"></a><a +href="#footnote144" class="citation">[144]</a> Mr. Soulis had heard tell +o’ black men, mony’s the time; but there was something unco about +this black man that daunted 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’ says he: “My friend, are you a stranger in this place?” +The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an’ begude to +hirsle to the wa’ on the far side; 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, an’ there he +saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step, an’ lowp, ower Dule water to the +manse. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome 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 sinsyne, when first he set his een +upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue. +</p> + +<p> +“Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?” +</p> + +<p> +“A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye’re +no wise, minister. There’s nae black man in a Ba’weary.” +</p> + +<p> +But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a powney +wi’ the bit in its moo. +</p> + +<p> +“Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black man, I have +spoken with the Accuser of the Brethren.” +</p> + +<p> +And he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in +his heid. +</p> + +<p> +“Hoots,” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, +minister;” an’ gied him a drap brandy that she keept aye by her. +</p> + +<p> +Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a’ his books. It’s a +lang, laigh, mirk 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 swat stood upon him cauld as +well-water; and there was other whiles, when he cam to himsel’ like a +christened bairn and minded naething. +</p> + +<p> +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. 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 was 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 could 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 Mr. Soulis just blamed himsel’, he +said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted 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. +</p> + +<p> +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-lookin’ clouds; it fell as mirk +as the pit; no a star, no a breath o’ wund; ye couldnae 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, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay +an’ he tummled; the gude, caller bed that he got into brunt his very +banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he waukened; whiles he heard the time +o’ nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin’ up the muir, as if somebody was +deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin’ in his lug, an’ +whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He behoved, he judged, to be sick; +an’ sick he was—little he jaloosed the sickness. +</p> + +<p> +At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on the +bed-side, and fell thinkin’ ance mair o’ the black man an’ +Janet. He couldnae weel 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 baith 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 reishling round the +fower quarters of the house; an’ then a’ was aince mair as seelent +as the grave. +</p> + +<p> +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 gear, for he had naething +else. There was a fower-posted bed wi’ auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet +of aik, that was fu’ 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 naethin’ 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 +hairs o’ his heid. Whaten a weary sicht 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. +</p> + +<p> +“God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Soulis; “poor Janet’s +dead.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It’s an awfu’ thing to be your lane at nicht wi’ 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 +think, he was dreepin’ wi’ caul’ swat, an’ naething +could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin’ o’ his ain heart. He micht +maybe 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 minded 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 whaur he +stood. +</p> + +<p> +He took up the can’le again (for he couldnae want 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, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; +naething moved, but the Dule water seepin’ and sabbin’ doon the +glen, an’ yon unhaly footstep that cam’ ploddin doun the stairs +inside the manse. He kenned the foot over weel, for it was Janet’s; and +at ilka step that cam’ a wee thing 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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. The saughs tossed an’ maned thegether, a lang +sigh cam’ ower the hills, 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. +</p> + +<p> +It’s a strange thing that the saul of man should be that thirled into his +perishable body; but the minister saw that, an’ his heart didnae break. +</p> + +<p> +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 strength o’ his speerit, were +glowerin’ frae his een. It seemed she was gaun to speak, but 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Witch, beldame, devil!” he cried, “I charge you, by the +power of God, begone—if you be dead, to the grave—if you be damned, +to hell.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +linkin’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay ravin’ +in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken the day. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale05"></a>OLALLA</h2> + +<p> +“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 air and an easy +conscience. The last is your affair. To the first I think I can help you. It +falls 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 to me in a matter of distress among some of his parishioners. This was +a family—but you are ignorant of Spain, and even the names of our +grandees are hardly known to you; suffice it, then, that they were once great +people, and are now fallen to the brink of destitution. Nothing now belongs to +them but the residencia, and certain leagues of desert mountain, in the greater +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 grew dark, as I had maliciously foreseen it would. It +was out of the question, he said. Then let them starve, said 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 and 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 their pride in +their pocket. I closed with the offer; and, subject to your approval, I have +taken rooms for you in the residencia. The air of these mountains will renew +your blood; and the quiet in which you will there live is worth all the +medicines in the world.” +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor,” said I, “you have been throughout my good angel, +and your advice is a command. But tell me, if you please, something of the +family with which I am to reside.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am coming to that,” replied my friend; “and, indeed, there +is a difficulty in the way. 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 too 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 cannot do so without a most ungracious stipulation. +You are to remain, they say, a stranger; they will give you attendance, but +they refuse from the first the idea of the smallest intimacy.” +</p> + +<p> +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 even sympathise with the feeling that inspired it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 find yourself the gainer. The +family will not much tempt you. A mother, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you say they are high-born,” I objected. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, as to that, I should distinguish,” returned the doctor. +“The mother is; not so the children. The mother was the last +representative of a princely stock, degenerate both in parts and fortune. Her +father was not only poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about the +residencia till his death. Then, much of the fortune having died with him, and +the family being quite extinct, the girl ran wilder than ever, until at last +she married, Heaven knows whom, a muleteer some say, 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 tragically 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,” said I. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not romance, if I were you,” replied the doctor; +“you will find, I fear, a very grovelling and commonplace reality. +Felipe, for instance, I have seen. And what am I to say? He is very rustic, +very cunning, very loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the others are +probably to match. No, no, senor commandante, you must 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.” +</p> + +<p> +The next day Felipe came for me in a rough country 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 Eastern gate, and began to ascend into the +Sierra. I had been so long a prisoner, since I was left behind for dying after +the loss of the convoy, that the mere smell of the earth set me smiling. The +country through which we went was wild and rocky, partially covered with rough +woods, now of the cork-tree, and now of the great Spanish chestnut, and +frequently intersected by the beds of mountain torrents. The sun shone, the +wind rustled joyously; and we had advanced some miles, and the city had already +shrunk into an inconsiderable knoll upon the plain behind us, before my +attention began to be diverted to the companion of my drive. To the eye, he +seemed but a diminutive, loutish, well-made country lad, such as the doctor had +described, mighty quick and active, but devoid of any culture; and this first +impression was with most observers final. What began to strike me was his +familiar, chattering talk; so strangely inconsistent with the terms on which I +was to be received; and partly from his imperfect enunciation, partly from the +sprightly incoherence of the matter, so very difficult to follow clearly +without an effort of the mind. It is true I had before talked with persons of a +similar mental constitution; persons who seemed to live (as he did) by the +senses, taken and possessed by the visual object of the moment and unable to +discharge their minds of that impression. His seemed to me (as I sat, distantly +giving ear) a kind of conversation proper to drivers, who pass much of their +time in a great vacancy of the intellect and threading the sights of a familiar +country. But this was not the case of Felipe; by his own account, he was a +home-keeper; “I wish I was there now,” he said; and then, spying a +tree by the wayside, he broke off to tell me that he had once seen a crow among +its branches. +</p> + +<p> +“A crow?” I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of the remark, and +thinking I had heard imperfectly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What did you hear?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O, it is all right,” he said; and began encouraging his mule with +cries that echoed unhumanly up the mountain walls. +</p> + +<p> +I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well-built, light, 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 was 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, after all, +the true description, when the road began to go down into the narrow and 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 gorge, 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 Scottish +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 Felipe, +sought to draw him out. +</p> + +<p> +“What is the matter?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“O, I am afraid,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Of what are you afraid?” I returned. “This seems one of the +safest places on this very dangerous road.” +</p> + +<p> +“It makes a noise,” he said, with a simplicity of awe that set my +doubts at rest. +</p> + +<p> +The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was like his body, active and +swift, but stunted in development; and I began from 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. +</p> + +<p> +By about four in the afternoon we had crossed the summit of the mountain line, +said farewell to the western sunshine, and began 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 and +musically from glen to glen. Here, too, the spirits of my driver mended, and he +began to sing aloud in a falsetto 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 was 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 some 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 trick 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 seemed to breathe a wonderful contentment with what +is, such as we love to fancy in the attitude of trees, or the quiescence of a +pool. +</p> + +<p> +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 peasant man +came towards us from somewhere in the surrounding dark, carrying a candle 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 glimmer 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 of 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. A bright fire burned in the chimney, and shed abroad a +changeful flicker; close up to the blaze there was drawn a table, laid for +supper; and in the far end a bed stood ready. I was pleased 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 said; “a very fine room. And fire, too; +fire is good; it melts out the pleasure in your bones. And the bed,” he +continued, 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 texture, and then laid down his head and rubbed his +cheeks among them with a grossness 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 wine, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” he said, “not that; that is for you. I hate +it.” +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +mellow 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 strong, +and of a just proportion; red tresses lay like a crown over her brow; her eyes, +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, unpleasantly 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. +</p> + +<p> +The first light of the morning shone full upon the portrait, and, as I lay +awake, my eyes continued to dwell upon it with growing complacency; its beauty +crept about my heart insidiously, silencing my scruples 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 alive, 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 +lips 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. +</p> + +<p> +Felipe served my meals in my own apartment; and his resemblance to the portrait +haunted me. At times it was not; at times, upon 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 +proud 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 odd, endless, wordless songs, and sometimes drawing his hand over +my clothes with an affectionate manner of caressing that never failed to cause +in me an embarrassment of which I was ashamed. But for all that, he was capable +of flashes of causeless anger and fits of sturdy sullenness. At a word of +reproof, 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 unnaturally curious, being in a strange place and surrounded by +staring people; but at the shadow of a question, he shrank back, lowering and +dangerous. Then it was that, for a fraction of a second, this rough lad might +have been the brother of the lady in the frame. But these humours were swift to +pass; and the resemblance died along with them. +</p> + +<p> +In these first days I saw nothing of any one but 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. As a matter of fact, it was for some time irksome; but it happened +before long that I obtained over him so complete a mastery as set my +disquietude at rest. +</p> + +<p> +It fell in this way. He was by nature slothful, and much 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 peasant 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 sometimes 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 more so since I was well assured they were foreign to his +disposition and the fruit 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 was it sustained? I asked myself, and to what length did it +prevail over his instincts? The priest was possibly his inspirer; 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. +</p> + +<p> +At last, in a very unworthy spirit, I determined to debauch the lad from his +good resolutions, and, way-laying him at the gate, 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 the hum of insects. Here he +discovered 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 feast; +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 and crouch there, crying aloud for +pleasure like a child. The sound stirred my sympathies, it was so fresh and +innocent; but as I bettered my pace to draw near, the cry of the 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, spoke 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 +words coming to him with more cleanness than usual, poured out a stream of the +most 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 last 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 are 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.” He screamed aloud, his face stricken ashy and dotted +with needle points of sweat; and when I set him free, he fell to the earth and +nursed his hand and moaned over it like a baby. But he took the lesson in good +part; and whether from that, or from what I had said to him, or the higher +notion he now had of my bodily strength, his original affection was changed +into a dog-like, adoring fidelity. +</p> + +<p> +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 roof, +where was a bartizan, there might be seen between two peaks, a small segment 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 in 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 at two +opposite corners by bastion-like projections, one of which commanded the door, +while both were loopholed for musketry. The lower storey was, besides, naked of +windows, so that the building, if garrisoned, could not be carried without +artillery. It enclosed an open court planted with pomegranate trees. From this +a broad flight of marble stairs ascended to an open gallery, running all round +and resting, towards the court, on slender pillars. 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 upper 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 sleeping palace of the legend. The court, in +particular, seemed the very home of slumber. A hoarse cooing of doves haunted +about 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 +pomegranates; 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 open 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 first 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 look it was her beauty of person that took hold +of me. As she sat back—watching me, I thought, 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 passing, 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, although 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; for not only did I +fail to take her meaning with precision, but the sudden disclosure of her eyes +disturbed me. They were unusually large, the iris golden like Felipe’s, +but the pupil at that moment so distended that they seemed almost black; and +what affected me was not so much their size as (what was perhaps its +consequence) the singular insignificance of their regard. A look more blankly +stupid I have never met. My eyes dropped before it even as I spoke, and I went +on my way upstairs to my own room, at once baffled and embarrassed. 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 were 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 devoid 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 the whole. It should seem, I thought, as +if when the master set his signature to that grave canvas, he had not only +caught the image of one smiling and false-eyed woman, but stamped the essential +quality of a race. +</p> + +<p> +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 round of the stone staircase, +where she lay with the same nonchalance right across my path. In all these +days, I never 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 out, in the rich and broken hoarseness of her voice, her customary idle +salutations to myself. These, I think, were her two chief pleasures, beyond +that of mere quiescence. She seemed always proud of her remarks, as though they +had been witticisms: and, indeed, though they were 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 +would 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 +with a rush of wind, she would sometimes stir, and sit a little up, and seem to +awaken 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 invincible +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 come to like her dull, almost animal neighbourhood; +her beauty and her stupidity soothed and amused me. I began to find a kind of +transcendental good sense in her remarks, and her unfathomable good nature +moved me to admiration and envy. The liking was returned; she enjoyed my +presence half-unconsciously, as a man in deep meditation may enjoy the babbling +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. 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 back 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 uneasy consciousness. +</p> + +<p> +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 handed 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 smiled upon me from the portrait. But 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 creature possibly noxious. Of the mother 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 sometimes 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 readily 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. +</p> + +<p> +I had been about ten days in the residencia, when there sprang up a high and +harsh wind, carrying clouds of dust. It came out of malarious lowlands, and +over several snowy sierras. The 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 touch of one hand upon another grew to be odious. The +wind, besides, came down the gullies of the hills and stormed about the house +with a great, hollow buzzing and whistling that was wearisome to the ear and +dismally depressing to the mind. It did not so much blow in gusts as with the +steady sweep of a waterfall, so that there was no remission of discomfort while +it blew. But higher upon the mountain, it was probably of a more variable +strength, with accesses of fury; for there came down at times a far-off +wailing, 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 an explosion. +</p> + +<p> +I no sooner awoke in bed than I was conscious of the nervous tension and +depression of the weather, and the effect grew stronger 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 with dry heat, and foul and gritty with dust. The court had a forlorn +appearance; now and then a glimmer of sun fled over it; now and then the wind +swooped down upon the pomegranates, and scattered the blossoms, and set the +window shutters clapping on the wall. In the recess 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 distempered even this impassive creature; and as I went +on upstairs I was the less ashamed of my own discomposure. +</p> + +<p> +All day the wind continued; and I sat in my room and made a feint of reading, +or walked up and down, and listened to the riot overhead. Night fell, and I had +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 shaken 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 had come, and groped my +way back again to my own chamber. +</p> + +<p> +By the time Felipe brought my supper and lights, my nerve was utterly gone; +and, had the lad been such as I was used to seeing him, I should have kept him +(even by force had that been necessary) to take off the edge from my +distasteful solitude. 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 reacted on my own. The sight of his +scared 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I think we are all mad to-day,” said I, affecting to laugh. +</p> + +<p> +“It is the black wind,” he replied dolefully. “You feel as if +you must do something, and you don’t know what it is.” +</p> + +<p> +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?” +</p> + +<p> +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 enough myself. +</p> + +<p> +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 would doze, dream horribly, and wake again; and these snatches of +oblivion confused me as to time. But it must have 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 thing, some lunatic or some wild animal, was being foully tortured. The +thought of Felipe and the squirrel 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 must be human; and again they would break forth and fill the house with +ravings worthy of hell. I stood at the 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 blackness of horror on my heart. +</p> + +<p> +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? A human +being? It was inconceivable. A beast? The cries were scarce quite bestial; and +what animal, short of a lion or a tiger, could thus shake the solid walls of +the residencia? And while I was 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 the 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 afflicted +kinswoman by violence? Here was a solution; and yet when I called to mind the +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 could not live in a house where such a thing was half +conceivable, and not probe the matter home and, if necessary, interfere. +</p> + +<p> +The next day came, the wind had blown itself out, and there was nothing to +remind me of the business of the night. Felipe came to my bedside with obvious +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 provinces of +light and shadow. A short walk restored me to myself, and renewed within me the +resolve to plumb this mystery; 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 design in practice. The Senora appeared plunged in +slumber; I stood awhile and marked her, but she did not stir; even if my design +were indiscreet, I had little to fear from such a guardian; and turning away, I +mounted to the gallery and began my exploration of the house. +</p> + +<p> +All morning I went from one door to another, and 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, and +buzzed heavily about the rooms. Here and there a stool or two, a couch, a bed, +or a great carved chair 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 men wore orders on their breasts and had the port of noble offices; the +women were all richly attired; the canvases most of them by famous hands. But +it was not so much these evidences 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 family 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 +humanity, 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 singular unity of look, in the common features +and common bearing, of all these painted generations on the walls of the +residencia, the miracle started out and looked me in the face. And an ancient +mirror falling opportunely in my way, I stood and read my own features a long +while, tracing out on either hand the filaments of descent and the bonds that +knit me with my family. +</p> + +<p> +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 faced 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 confusion, 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 inspect their character. +They were of all sorts, devotional, historical, and scientific, but mostly of a +great age and in the Latin tongue. Some I could see to bear the marks of +constant study; others had been torn across and tossed aside as if in petulance +or disapproval. 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 verses, very roughly metred +in the original Spanish, and which I may render somewhat thus— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Pleasure approached with pain and shame,<br /> +Grief with a wreath of lilies came.<br /> +Pleasure showed the lovely sun;<br /> +Jesu dear, how sweet it shone!<br /> +Grief with her worn hand pointed on,<br /> + Jesu dear, to thee! +</p> + +<p> +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 could 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 sharply punished me for my indiscretion. The thought +that I had thus secretly pushed my way into the confidence of a girl so +strangely situated, and the fear that she might somehow come to hear of it, +oppressed me like guilt. I blamed myself besides 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 saint, 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. +</p> + +<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 appeared 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 seen the daughter, whereupon he remarked that that +was as it should be, and looked at me a little askance. Lastly, I plucked up +courage to refer to the cries that had disturbed me in the night. He heard me +out in silence, and then stopped and partly turned about, as though to mark +beyond doubt that he was dismissing me. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have, then, your authority,” I returned, firmly enough, although +I flushed at the implied reproof, “to let things take their course, and +not to interfere?” +</p> + +<p> +He said “yes,” and with a somewhat uneasy salute turned and left me +where I was. But he had done two things: he had set my conscience at rest, and +he had awakened my delicacy. I made a great effort, once more dismissed the +recollections of the night, and fell once more to brooding on my saintly +poetess. At the same time, I could not quite forget that I had been locked in, +and that night when Felipe brought me my supper I attacked him warily on both +points of interest. +</p> + +<p> +“I never see your sister,” said I casually. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” said he; “she is a good, good girl,” and his +mind instantly veered to something else. +</p> + +<p> +“Your sister is pious, I suppose?” I asked in the next pause. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh!” he cried, joining his hands with extreme fervour, “a +saint; it is she that keeps me up.” +</p> + +<p> +“You are very fortunate,” said I, “for the most of us, I am +afraid, and myself among the number, are better at going down.” +</p> + +<p> +“Senor,” said Felipe earnestly, “I would not say that. You +should not tempt your angel. If one goes down, where is he to stop?” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, Felipe,” said I, “I had no guess you were a preacher, +and I may say a good one; but I suppose that is your sister’s +doing?” +</p> + +<p> +He nodded at me with round eyes. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, then,” I continued, “she has doubtless reproved you +for your sin of cruelty?” +</p> + +<p> +“Twelve times!” he cried; for this was the phrase 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then, Felipe,” said I, “what were those cries that I heard +last night? for surely they were cries of some creature in suffering.” +</p> + +<p> +“The wind,” returned Felipe, looking in the fire. +</p> + +<p> +I took his hand in mine, at which, thinking it to be a caress, he smiled with a +brightness of pleasure that came near disarming my resolve. But I trod the +weakness 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, but 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 shall 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 suddenly thrown open, and the key tossed ringing on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +A day or two after I came in from a walk a little before the point of noon. The +Senora was lying lapped in slumber on the threshold of the recess; the pigeons +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 stillness 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 me; 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 face, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, Olalla! and the dumb, unfathomable azure answered, Olalla! The +pale saint of my dreams had vanished 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 thrill 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. She passed through my veins: she was +one with me. +</p> + +<p> +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 brother that half-witted lad, nor by +the name of mother that immovable and lovely thing of flesh, whose silly eyes +and perpetual simper now recurred to my mind like something hateful. And if I +could 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 heart 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. +</p> + +<p> +As I turned from the window, my eyes alighted on the portrait. It had fallen +dead, like a candle after sunrise; it followed me with eyes of paint. I knew it +to be like, and marvelled at the tenacity of type in that declining race; but +the likeness was swallowed up in difference. I remembered how it had seemed to +me a thing unapproachable in the life, a creature rather of the painter’s +craft than of the modesty of nature, and I marvelled at the thought, 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. +</p> + +<p> +I did not see her the next day, and my heart ached 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 more met and +embraced. I would have spoken, 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 could only bow and pass by; and she, leaving my salutation +unanswered, only followed me with her noble eyes. +</p> + +<p> +I had now her image by rote, and as I conned the 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 have +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 proofs, had any been needed, of +her inborn delight in life and her own loveliness. On the other hand, in her +eyes that 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 flower 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 immured; should I not burst +its prison? All side considerations fell off from me; were she the child of +Herod I swore I should make her mine; and that very evening I set myself, with +a mingled sense of treachery and disgrace, to captivate the brother. 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. +</p> + +<p> +A third day passed in vain—an empty desert of hours. I would not lose a +chance, and loitered all afternoon in the court where (to give myself a +countenance) I spoke more than usual with the Senora. 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 +members, where it luxuriously dwelt. Lastly, I could not grow accustomed to her +eyes. Each time she turned on me these great beautiful and meaningless orbs, +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 +jarred along my nerves. I tried her on a variety of subjects, equally in vain; +and at last led the talk to her daughter. But even there she proved +indifferent; 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 that +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, leaving her to her repose, went up into my own chamber to +sit by the open window, looking 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. +</p> + +<p> +I awoke on the fifth morning with a brightness of anticipation that seemed to +challenge fate. I was sure of myself, light of heart and foot, and resolved to +put my love incontinently to the touch of knowledge. 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 with wild hopes, like a voyager to El +Dorado; into that unknown and lovely country of her soul, I no longer trembled +to adventure. Yet when I did indeed encounter her, the same force of passion +descended on me and at once submerged my mind; speech seemed to drop away from +me like 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. Words were denied me; if I advanced I +could but clasp her to my heart in silence; and all that was sane in me, all +that was still unconquered, revolted against the thought of such an accost. So +we stood for a second, all our life in our eyes, exchanging salvos of +attraction and yet each resisting; and then, with a great effort of the will, +and conscious at the same time of a sudden bitterness of disappointment, I +turned and went away in the same silence. +</p> + +<p> +What power lay upon me that I could not speak? And she, why was she also +silent? Why did she draw away before me dumbly, 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 seen 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 bodily 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 thought 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 fall +into a great pity for the girl herself. 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. And at the coming of pity, all other +thoughts were swallowed up; and I longed only to find and console and reassure +her; to tell her how wholly her love was returned on my side, and how her +choice, even if blindly made, was not unworthy. +</p> + +<p> +The next day it was glorious weather; depth upon 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 with delicate and haunting +music. Yet I was prostrated with sadness. My heart wept for the sight of +Olalla, as a child weeps for its mother. I sat down on a boulder on the verge +of the low cliffs that bound the plateau to the north. Thence I looked down +into the wooded valley of a stream, where no foot came. 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 life 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 such a fiery joy that I seemed to +grow in strength and stature, like a Samson. +</p> + +<p> +And then suddenly I was aware of Olalla drawing near. She appeared out of a +grove of cork-trees, and came straight towards me; and I stood up and waited. +She seemed in her walking a creature 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 she 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 had been waiting; this was +the last test of my love. And lo, her enunciation was precise 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 +immediately plunged me back upon despair. +</p> + +<p> +“You will go away,” she said, “to-day.” +</p> + +<p> +Her example broke the bonds of my speech; I felt as lightened of a weight, or +as if a spell had been dissolved. I know not in what words I answered; 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. And then, strongly commanding myself, I changed +the note; I reassured, I comforted her; I told her I had divined in her a pious +and heroic spirit, with which I was worthy to sympathise, and which I longed to +share and lighten. “Nature,” I told her, “was the voice 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 cried, “to-morrow!” +</p> + +<p> +But at this sign of relenting, power came in upon 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 earth quailed; a shock as of a blow went through me +and left me blind and dizzy. And the next moment she had thrust me back, broken +rudely from my arms, and fled with the speed of a deer among the cork-trees. +</p> + +<p> +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 but 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 mountains 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 wear a face of awful +joy. The sunshine 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 woods smouldered in the blaze. I felt the thrill 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 stones that rattled under my feet appeared alive and +friendly. Olalla! Her touch had quickened, and renewed, 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; +tenderness 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 other: a thing brutal and divine, +and akin at once to the innocence and to the unbridled forces of the earth. +</p> + +<p> +My head thus reeling, I came into the courtyard of the residencia, and the +sight of the mother struck me like a revelation. She sat there, all sloth and +contentment, 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 unfathomable kindness; her +voice in reply sounded vaguely out of the realm of peace in which 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. +</p> + +<p> +On my table there lay a piece of the same yellow paper I had seen in the north +room; it was written on with pencil in the same 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 sake 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 man in terror. The +vacancy thus suddenly 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. And 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. 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 assistance. 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. +</p> + +<p> +There was no sign of either Olalla or Felipe, and I addressed myself to the +recess, whither the Senora had now drawn quite back and sat dozing close before +the fire, for no degree of heat appeared too much for her. +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me,” said I, “if I disturb you, but I must apply to +you for help.” +</p> + +<p> +She looked up sleepily and asked me what it was, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I have cut myself,” I said, “and rather badly. See!” +And I held out my two hands from which the blood was oozing and dripping. +</p> + +<p> +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, and 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. 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 madness; 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 bound, pinned down his mother +on the floor. +</p> + +<p> +A trance-like weakness fell upon me; I saw, heard, and felt, but I was +incapable of movement. I heard the struggle roll to and fro upon the floor, the +yells of that 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 drag, 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 shook the +residencia. And then, swift 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 her, 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 wounded me like a sword, a +thought, like a worm in a flower, profaned the holiness of my love. Yes, they +were beautiful sounds, and they were inspired by human tenderness; but was +their beauty human? +</p> + +<p> +All day I lay there. For a long time the cries of that nameless female thing, +as she struggled with her half-witted whelp, resounded 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 +sweetness, and my heart melted at her looks and touch. This horror that had +sprung out, this 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, was yet not of power to break the knot of my infatuation. +</p> + +<p> +When the cries had ceased, there came a scraping at the door, by which I knew +Felipe was without; and Olalla went and spoke to him—I know not what. +With that 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 drank 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. 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 lingered in mine and +talked with me. To lie thus in deadly weakness and drink in the traits of the +beloved, is to reawake to love from whatever shock of disillusion. I reasoned +with myself; and I shut my eyes on horrors, and again I was very bold to accept +the worst. What mattered it, if that imperious sentiment survived; if her eyes +still beckoned 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:— +</p> + +<p> +“Olalla,” I said, “nothing matters; I ask nothing; I am +content; I love you.” +</p> + +<p> +She knelt down awhile and prayed, and I devoutly respected her devotions. The +moon had begun to shine in upon one side of each of the three windows, and make +a misty clearness in the room, by which I saw her indistinctly. When she +rearose she made the sign of the cross. +</p> + +<p> +“It is for me to speak,” she said, “and for you to listen. I +know; you can but guess. I prayed, how I prayed for you to leave this place. I +begged it of you, and I know you would have granted me even this; or if not, O +let me think so!” +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” I said. +</p> + +<p> +“And yet you have lived in the world,” she said; after a pause, +“you are a man and wise; and I am but a child. Forgive me, if I seem to +teach, who am as ignorant as the trees of the mountain; but those who learn +much do but skim 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 lead in this body.” +</p> + +<p> +“I love you,” I said once more; and reaching out my weak hand, took +hers, and carried it to my lips, and kissed it. Nor did she resist, but winced +a little; and I could see her look upon me with a frown that was not unkindly, +only sad and baffled. And then it seemed 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 tree, and give it you. +And yet not mine! I dwell, or I think I dwell (if I exist at all), somewhere +apart, an impotent prisoner, and carried about 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! But my soul, does my soul? I think +not; I know not, fearing to ask. Yet when you spoke to me your words were of +the soul; it is of the soul that you ask—it is only from the soul that +you would take me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Olalla,” I said, “the soul and the body are one, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Have you,” she said, “seen the portraits in the 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? 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 +attributes 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 does not know +and cannot answer for the least portion of herself? or the stream of which 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 upon the sea, individual succeeds to individual, +mocked with a semblance of self-control, but they are nothing. We speak of the +soul, but the soul is in the race.” +</p> + +<p> +“You fret against the common law,” I said. “You rebel against +the voice of God, 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 awake +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 about +in space, or as the tides ebb and flow, by things older and greater than we +ourselves.” +</p> + +<p> +“Alas!” she said, “what can I say to you? My fathers, eight +hundred years ago, ruled all this province: they were wise, great, cunning, and +cruel; they were 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 from the brutes, he can descend +again to the same level. The breath of weariness blew on their 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 flesh, the flesh covered the +bones, but they were the bones and the flesh of brutes, and their mind was as +the mind of flies. I speak to you as I dare; but you have seen for yourself how +the wheel has gone backward with my doomed race. 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, reluctant +as my own, into this bewitched and tempest-broken tenement that I now suffer +in? Shall I hand down this cursed 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; and you will go +with him and pass out of my sight for ever. Think of me sometimes as one to +whom 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 ever; who had no dearer hope than to forget you, and no greater fear than +to be forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +She had drawn towards the door as she spoke, her 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 lain 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 out 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 dipped 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 touch, and such a simplicity, as of the brutes, that tears broke from me +like the bursting of an artery. +</p> + +<p> +“Felipe,” I said, “take me where they will ask no +questions.” +</p> + +<p> +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 mind 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 upon me like sleep. +</p> + +<p> +The next day and the days following the old priest 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, without 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?” +</p> + +<p> +He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed a declining race, and that +they were very poor and had been much neglected. +</p> + +<p> +“But she has not,” I said. “Thanks, doubtless, to yourself, +she is instructed and wise beyond the use of women.” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” he said; “the Senorita is well-informed. But the +family has been neglected.” +</p> + +<p> +“The mother?” I queried. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, the mother too,” said the Padre, taking snuff. “But +Felipe is a well-intentioned lad.” +</p> + +<p> +“The mother is odd?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Very odd,” replied the priest. +</p> + +<p> +“I think, sir, we beat about the bush,” said I. “You must +know more of my affairs than you allow. You must know my curiosity to be +justified on many grounds. Will you not be frank with me?” +</p> + +<p> +“My son,” said the old gentleman, “I will be very 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is she mad?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“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 notable; it had been so +before her in her father, ay, and before him, and this inclined me, perhaps, to +think too lightly of it. But these things go on growing, not only in the +individual but in the race.” +</p> + +<p> +“When she was young,” I began, and my voice failed me for a moment, +and it was only with a great effort that I was able to add, “was she like +Olalla?” +</p> + +<p> +“Now God forbid!” exclaimed the Padre. “God forbid that any +man should think 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.” +</p> + +<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 judgment. +</p> + +<p> +He heard me very patiently and without surprise; and when I had done, he sat +for some time silent. Then he began: “The church,” and instantly +broke off again to apologise. “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 this kind, the best judge; I would +accept her judgment.” +</p> + +<p> +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; they were +unwilling to be my guides upon the mountain. I thought they looked at me +askance, and I made sure that the more superstitious crossed themselves on my +approach. At first I set this down to my heretical opinions; but it began at +length to dawn upon me that if I was thus redoubted 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 fall and dwell upon my +love. It did not conquer, but I may not deny that it restrained my ardour. +</p> + +<p> +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 size of life and more than +usually painful in design. This was my perch; thence, day after 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 +slumbered 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. +</p> + +<p> +One day, as I was sitting on my rock, there came 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 had been a muleteer, and in former years had much frequented these +mountains; later on, he had followed the army with his mules, had realised a +competence, and was now living retired with his family. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +He looked at me darkly and crossed himself. +</p> + +<p> +“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 burning in the reddest place in Hell!” +</p> + +<p> +A fear came upon me; I could answer nothing; and presently the man resumed, as +if to himself: “Yes,” he said, “O yes, I know it. I have +passed its doors. 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 standing with a lamp in her hand and smiling on him +to come back. I cried out aloud to God, and threw 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And your friend,” I asked, “what became of him?” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Do you mean that he was killed?” I asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Sure enough, he was killed,” returned the man. “But how? Ay, +how? But these are things that it is sin to speak of.” +</p> + +<p> +“The people of that house . . . ” I began. +</p> + +<p> +But he interrupted me with a savage outburst. “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 mouth to my ear and whispered, as if even the fowls of the +mountain might have over-heard and been stricken with horror. +</p> + +<p> +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 application that +appalled me. In the old days, he said, the church would have burned out that +nest of basilisks; but the arm of the church was now shortened; his friend +Miguel had been unpunished by the hands of men, and left to the more awful +judgment of an offended God. This was wrong; but it should be so no more. The +Padre was sunk in age; he was even bewitched himself; but the eyes of his flock +were now awake to their own danger; and some day—ay, and before +long—the smoke of that house should go up to heaven. +</p> + +<p> +He left me filled with horror and fear. Which way to turn I knew not; whether +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 penetration; by every line and every +movement I recognised Olalla; and keeping hidden behind 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. +</p> + +<p> +“I thought you had gone,” she said at length. “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 heaps up the peril of death, not only on +your head, but on ours? A report has gone about the mountain; it is thought you +love me, and the people will not suffer it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 hour, +but not alone.” +</p> + +<p> +She stepped aside and knelt down before the crucifix to pray, and I stood by +and looked now at her and now at the object 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 broken 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 such 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 little while, until morning returns bringing peace. Suffer me to +pass on upon my way alone; 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, having taken my farewell of earthly happiness, and +willingly accepted sorrow for my portion.” +</p> + +<p> +I looked at the face of the crucifix, and, though 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 carried 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 emblem 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 down the mountain in silence; and when I looked back for the last time +before the wood closed about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the +crucifix. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="tale06"></a>THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD.</h2> + +<h3><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /> +BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK.</h3> + +<p> +They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six. About eight some +villagers came round for the performance, and were told how matters stood. It +seemed a liberty for a mountebank to fall ill like real people, and they made +off again in dudgeon. By ten Madame Tentaillon was gravely alarmed, and had +sent down the street for Doctor Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +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 forget 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 sorry 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, Doctor Desprez, a man past forty, who +had made what is called a failure in life, and was moreover married, found +himself at a new point of departure when he opened the door of the loft above +Tentaillon’s stable. +</p> + +<p> +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 close by sat a little +fellow of eleven or twelve, with his feet dangling. These three were the only +occupants, except the shadows. But the shadows 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 upwards 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 shadow was no +more than a gross hump of shoulders, with now and again a hemisphere of head. +The chair legs were spindled out as long as stilts, and the boy set perched +atop of them, like a cloud, in the corner of the roof. +</p> + +<p> +It was the boy who took the Doctor’s fancy. He had a great arched skull, +the forehead and the hands of a musician, and a pair of haunting eyes. It was +not merely that these eyes were large, or steady, or the softest ruddy brown. +There was a look in them, besides, which thrilled the Doctor, and made him half +uneasy. He was sure he had seen such a look before, and yet he could not +remember how or where. It was as if this boy, who was quite a stranger to him, +had the eyes of an old friend or an old enemy. And the boy would give him no +peace; he seemed profoundly indifferent to what was going on, or rather +abstracted from it in a superior contemplation, beating gently with his feet +against the bars of the chair, and holding his hands folded on his lap. But, +for all that, his eyes kept following the Doctor about the room with a +thoughtful fixity of gaze. Desprez could not tell whether he was fascinating +the boy, or the boy was fascinating him. He busied himself over the sick man: +he put questions, he felt the pulse, he jested, he grew a little hot and swore: +and still, whenever he looked round, there were the brown eyes waiting for his +with the same inquiring, melancholy gaze. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +For all that, he despatched the invalid with unusual haste, and, still kneeling +with one knee on the floor, turned a little round and looked the boy over at +his leisure. The boy was not in the least put out, but looked placidly back at +the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Is this your father?” asked Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no,” returned the boy; “my master.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are you fond of him?” continued the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive glances. +</p> + +<p> +“That is bad, my man,” resumed the latter, with 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 from the wall, I who never saw +him, this lady who knew him only as a guest, are touched with some +affection.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be reflecting. +</p> + +<p> +“You did not know him,” he replied at last, “he was a bad +man.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +But the Doctor was still scrutinising the little pagan, his eyebrows knotted +and uplifted. +</p> + +<p> +“What is your name?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-Marie,” said the lad. +</p> + +<p> +Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes of excitement, and felt +his head all over from an ethnological point of view. +</p> + +<p> +“Celtic, Celtic!” he said. +</p> + +<p> +“Celtic!” cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps confounded the +word with hydrocephalous. “Poor lad! is it dangerous?” +</p> + +<p> +“That depends,” returned the Doctor grimly. And then once more +addressing the boy: “And what do you do for your living, +Jean-Marie?” he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +“I tumble,” was the answer. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Before I learned that, I used to steal,” answered Jean-Marie +gravely. +</p> + +<p> +“Upon my word!” cried the doctor. “You are a nice little man +for your age. Madame, when my <i>confrère</i> 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 rally, +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.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /> +MORNING TALK</h3> + +<p> +Doctor Desprez always rose early. Before 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 grapes; 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 moored 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. +“It is a fair consequence that I know more and wish to do less with my +knowledge.” +</p> + +<p> +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. Indeed, 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 +behaviour of both birds and fishes, the look of the plants in his garden, the +disposition 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Doctor,” he would say—“doctor is a foul word. It +should not be used to 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 worshipper 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 she dwells and lavishes her gifts; here I walk with her in the +early morning, and 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. And of course the place stands a little low; and +the meadows are marshy, there’s no doubt. But, my dear sir, look at +Bourron! Bourron stands high. Bourron is close to the forest; plenty of ozone +there, you would say. Well, compared with Gretz, Bourron is a perfect +shambles.” +</p> + +<p> +The morning after he had been summoned to the dying mountebank, the Doctor +visited the wharf at the tail of his garden, and 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 oracles, 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 surface with a gleam of silver, and +sufficiently admired the long shadows of the trees 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 house into the street, feeling +cool and renovated. +</p> + +<p> +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 morning. +</p> + +<p> +On one of the posts before Tentaillon’s carriage entry he espied a little +dark figure perched in a meditative attitude, and immediately recognised +Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation. +</p> + +<p> +“And how is our patient?” asked Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +It appeared the patient was about the same. +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you rise early in the morning?” he pursued. +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that he hardly knew. +</p> + +<p> +“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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the boy slowly; “yes, I like it.” +</p> + +<p> +“And why do you like it?” continued the Doctor. “(We are now +pursuing the Socratic method.) Why do you like it?” +</p> + +<p> +“It is quiet,” answered Jean-Marie; “and I have nothing to +do; and then I feel as if I were good.” +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Desprez took a seat on the post at the opposite side. He was beginning +to take an interest in the talk, for the boy plainly thought before he spoke, +and tried to answer truly. “It appears you have a taste for feeling +good,” said the Doctor. “Now, there you puzzle me extremely; for I +thought you said you were a thief; and the two are incompatible.” +</p> + +<p> +“Is it very bad to steal?” asked Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“Such is the general opinion, little boy,” replied the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“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, there 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 +wrong; for before that I had been well taught by a priest, who was very kind to +me.” (The Doctor made a horrible 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 +tartlets, I believe; but any one would steal for baker’s bread.” +</p> + +<p> +“And so I suppose,” said the Doctor, with a rising sneer, +“you prayed God to forgive you, and explained the case to Him at +length.” +</p> + +<p> +“Why, sir?” asked Jean-Marie. “I do not see.” +</p> + +<p> +“Your priest would see, however,” retorted Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +“Would he?” asked the boy, troubled for the first time. “I +should have thought God would have known.” +</p> + +<p> +“Eh?” snarled the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“I should have thought God would have understood me,” replied the +other. “You do not, I see; but then it was God that made me think so, was +it not?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 student 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“No, sir,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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, turning your chin back, right to the top of the +dome, where it is already as blue as 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose not,” answered Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“Neither do I like you,” returned the Doctor, roughly. “I +hate all odd people, and you are the most curious little boy in all the +world.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie seemed to ponder for a while, and then he raised his head again and +looked over at the Doctor with an air of candid inquiry. “But are not you +a very curious gentleman?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +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 +cried. “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. “Hullo!” said he, +“why do you look at me like that? Egad, I believe the boy despises me. Do +you despise me, boy?” +</p> + +<p> +“O, no,” replied Jean-Marie, seriously; “only I do not +understand.” +</p> + +<p> +“You must excuse me, sir,” returned the Doctor, with gravity; +“I am still so young. O, hang him!” he added to himself. And he +took his seat again and observed the boy sardonically. “He has spoiled +the quiet of my morning,” thought he. “I shall be nervous all day, +and have a febricule when I digest. Let me compose myself.” And so he +dismissed his pre-occupations by an effort of the will which he had long +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 birds round the church +tower—making long sweeps, hanging poised, or turning airy somersaults in +fancy, and beating the wind with imaginary pinions. And in this 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 abstraction, he began to sing. +The Doctor had but one air—, “Malbrouck s’en va-t-en +guerre;” even with that he was on terms of mere politeness; and his +musical exploits were always reserved for moments when he was alone and +entirely happy. +</p> + +<p> +He was recalled to earth rudely by a pained expression on the boy’s face. +“What do you think of my singing?” he inquired, 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 repeated, +imperiously. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not like it,” faltered Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, come!” cried the Doctor. “Possibly you are a performer +yourself?” +</p> + +<p> +“I sing better than that,” replied the boy. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor eyed him for some seconds in stupefaction. He was aware that he was +angry, and blushed for himself in consequence, which made him angrier. +“If this is how you address your master!” he said at last, with a +shrug and a flourish of his arms. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not speak to him at all,” returned the boy. “I do not +like him.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you like me?” snapped Doctor Desprez, with unusual eagerness. +</p> + +<p> +“I do not know,” answered Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +And with that the Doctor made off along the street in some emotion, and the boy +stood, mentally gaping, where he left him. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /> +THE ADOPTION.</h3> + +<p> +Madame Desprez, who answered to the Christian name of Anastasie, presented an +agreeable type of her sex; exceedingly wholesome to look upon, a stout +<i>brune</i>, 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 moment, 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 have 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. +</p> + +<p> +Madame Desprez was an artist in the kitchen, and 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 polish 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 +house like a fatted calf, warmed and cosseted to his heart’s content. +</p> + +<p> +The midday meal was excellent. There was a ripe melon, a fish from 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 <i>plus</i> +one glass, the wife half a bottle <i>minus</i> the same quantity, which was a +marital privilege, of an excellent Côte-Rôtie, 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 +pair to the pleasures of memory and digestion. +</p> + +<p> +“It is a very fortunate circumstance, my cherished one,” observed +the Doctor—“this coffee is adorable—a very fortunate +circumstance upon the whole—Anastasie, I beseech you, go without that +poison for to-day; only one day, and you will feel the benefit, I pledge my +reputation.” +</p> + +<p> +“What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend?” inquired +Anastasie, not heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence. +</p> + +<p> +“That we have no children, my beautiful,” replied the Doctor. +“I think of it more 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 before their face. They +cry, my dear; they put vexatious questions; they demand to be fed, to be +washed, to be educated, to have their noses blown; and then, when the time +comes, they break our hearts, as I break this piece of sugar. A pair of +professed egoists, like you and me, should avoid offspring, like an +infidelity.” +</p> + +<p> +“Indeed!” said she; and she laughed. “Now, that is like +you—to take credit for the thing you could not help.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” returned the Doctor, solemnly, “we might have +adopted.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried madame. “Never, Doctor, with my consent. If +the child were my own flesh and blood, I would not say no. But to take another +person’s indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much +sense.” +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely,” replied the Doctor. “We both had. And I am all +the better pleased with our wisdom, because—because—” He +looked at her sharply. +</p> + +<p> +“Because what?” she asked, with a faint premonition of danger. +</p> + +<p> +“Because I have found the right person,” said the Doctor firmly, +“and shall adopt him this afternoon.” +</p> + +<p> +Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. “You have lost your reason,” +she said; and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten trouble. +</p> + +<p> +“Not so, my dear,” he replied; “I retain its complete +exercise. To the proof: 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 ecstasy 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 +alarm 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“His mind!” she repeated with a titter between scorn and hysterics. +“His mind, indeed! Henri, is this an idiotic pleasantry, or are you mad? +His mind! And what of my mind?” +</p> + +<p> +“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. Do not,” he broke out in tones of real +solicitude—“do not give way to tears after a meal, Anastasie. You +will certainly give yourself a false digestion.” +</p> + +<p> +Anastasie controlled herself. “You know how willing I am to humour +you,” she said, “in all reasonable matters. But on this +point—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 honesty, Anastasie, have I not a right to a stipulation on +my side? I have, and you know it. I stipulate my son.” +</p> + +<p> +Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colours instantly. “You +will break my heart,” she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Not in the least,” said he. “You will feel a trifling +inconvenience for a month, just as I did when I was first brought to this vile +hamlet; then your admirable sense and temper will prevail, and I see you +already as content as ever, and making your husband the happiest of men.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 you sure, my husband? Last night, you say, you found him! He may be the +worst of humbugs.” +</p> + +<p> +“I think not,” replied the Doctor. “But do not suppose me so +unwary as 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will never do so when the time comes,” said his wife; “I +know your good heart.” +</p> + +<p> +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 point 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 less 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 adopting a stable-boy, rather than +permit the question of return to be discussed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-Marie,” he said very gravely, “this world is +exceedingly vast; and even France, which is only a small corner of it, is a +great place for a little lad like you. 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 fit 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 food 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, but 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, and +take it or leave it as you judge aright. 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 have +always had a fancy to be a fish in summer, Jean-Marie, here in the Loing beside +Gretz. I should lie under a water-lily and listen to the bells, which must +sound most delicately down below. That would be a life—do you not think +so too?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“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 had been an English schoolboy +of the same age. “And now,” he added, “I will take you to my +wife.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +half shut, but she affected to be reading a novel as the they entered. Though +she was a bustling woman, she enjoyed repose between whiles and had a +remarkable appetite for sleep. +</p> + +<p> +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.” +</p> + +<p> +“He is very pretty,” said Anastasie. “Will you kiss me, my +pretty little fellow?” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor was furious, and dragged her into the 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-porgy’d like an +ordinary child.” +</p> + +<p> +“I only did it to please you, I am sure,” replied Anastasie; +“but I will try to do better.” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor apologised for his warmth. “But I do wish him,” he +continued, “to feel at home among us. And really 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 it is possible for a woman to understand young people—but of +course it is not, and I waste my breath. Hold your tongue as much as possible +at least, and observe my conduct narrowly; it will serve you for a +model.” +</p> + +<p> +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. 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. 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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 grow used to him, and +then you will love him, for that nobody can help. As for me, you may be sure, I +shall try to make you happy, and will not bother you at all. I think we should +be excellent friends, you and I. I am not clever, but I am very good-natured. +Will you give me a kiss?” +</p> + +<p> +He held up his face, and she took him in her arms and then began to cry. The +woman had spoken in complaisance; but she had warmed 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. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER.</h3> + +<p> +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 carriage duty in the morning; sometimes helped in +the housework; sometimes walked abroad 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. 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 preferred 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 entertaining, written with +quaintness and colour, exact, erudite, a literary article; but it would hardly +have afforded guidance to a practising physician of to-day. The feminine good +sense of his wife had led her to point this out with uncompromising sincerity; +for the Dictionary was duly read aloud to her, betwixt sleep and waning, as it +proceeded towards an infinitely distant completion; and the Doctor was a little +sore on the subject of mummies, and sometimes resented an allusion with +asperity. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +distempered 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 animal, but +she was a very nice animal to have about. In this way, she had little to do +with Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which had been established between them on +the first night remained unbroken; they held occasional conversations, mostly +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 +month 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 suffered. +</p> + +<p> +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 the +eye; she liked volubility, charm, a little vice—the promise of a second +Doctor 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!” 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 to 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 opinion; 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 communicate her sympathy +with his distress. “Do not mind,” she would say; “I, too, am +not at all clever, and I can assure you that it makes no difference in +life.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +Besides, was he not educating the boy? And education, philosophers are agreed, +is the most philosophical of duties. What can be more heavenly to poor mankind +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 had 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 observer +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 obvious +and lasting advance. Now Jean-Marie was slow in all things, impenetrable in +others; and his power of forgetting was fully on a level with his power to +learn. Therefore the Doctor cherished his peripatetic lectures, to which the +boy attended, which he generally appeared to enjoy, and by which he often +profited. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I lead you,” he would say, “by the green pastures. My +system, my beliefs, my medicines, are resumed in one phrase—to avoid +excess. Blessed nature, healthy, temperate nature, abhors and exterminates +excess. Human law, in this matter, imitates at a great distance her provisions; +and we must strive to supplement the efforts of the law. Yes, boy, we must be a +law to ourselves and for ourselves and for our neighbours—lex +armata—armed, emphatic, tyrannous law. If you see a crapulous human ruin +snuffing, dash from him his box! The judge, though in a way an admission of +disease, is less offensive to me than either the doctor or the priest. Above +all the doctor—the doctor and the purulent trash and garbage of his +pharmacopoeia! Pure air—from the neighbourhood of a pinetum for the sake +of the turpentine—unadulterated wine, and the reflections 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 Bourron (the wind is in the +north, it will be fair). How clear and airy is the sound! The nerves are +harmonised and quieted; 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 cinchona 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 delight to bear my testimony to the world. Look at the +gratuitous remedies and pleasures that surround our path! The river runs by the +garden 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 little wine, most wholesome. The district 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 this home of pleasures, it would be the duty, it would be the privilege, +of our best friend to prevent us with a pistol bullet.” +</p> + +<p> +One beautiful June day they sat upon the hill outside the village. The river, +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 innumerable thousands of tree-tops and +innumerable millions on millions of green leaves was abroad 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 the 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 arch of the blue heavens, the place seemed dwindled to a toy. It +seemed incredible that people dwelt, 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. +</p> + +<p> +“How small it looks!” he sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Ay,” replied the Doctor, “small enough now. Yet it was once +a walled city; thriving, 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 gibbets at the gate as thick as scarecrows. In time of war, the +assault swarmed against it with ladders, the arrows fell like leaves, the +defenders sallied hotly over the drawbridge, each side 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 this +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—you shall hear more of the English, a stupid +people, who sometimes blundered into good—and Gretz was taken, sacked, +and burned. It is the history of many towns; but Gretz never rose again; it was +never rebuilt; its ruins were a quarry to serve the growth of rivals; and the +stones of Gretz are now erect along the streets 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I, too, am glad of that,” said Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“It should be the temple of the humbler virtues,” 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I do not think so,” answered Jean-Marie. “I do not think I +should have forgotten. I am sorry you should have lost your fortune.” +</p> + +<p> +“Sorry?” cried the Doctor. “Why, I find I have scarce begun +your education after all. Listen to me! Would you rather live in the old Gretz +or in the new, free from the alarms of war, with the green country at the door, +without noise, passports, the exactions of the soldiery, or the jangle of the +curfew-bell to send us off to bed by sundown?” +</p> + +<p> +“I suppose I should prefer the new,” replied the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Precisely,” returned the Doctor; “so do I. And, in the same +way, I prefer my present moderate fortune to my former wealth. Golden +mediocrity! cried the adorable ancients; and I subscribe to their enthusiasm. +Have I not good wine, good food, good air, the fields and the forest for my +walk, a house, an admirable wife, a boy whom I protest I cherish like a son? +Now, if I were still rich, I should indubitably make my residence in +Paris—you know Paris—Paris and Paradise are not convertible terms. +This pleasant noise of the wind streaming among leaves changed into the +grinding Babel of the street, the stupid glare of plaster substituted for this +quiet pattern of greens and greys, the nerves shattered, the digestion +falsified—picture the fall! Already you perceive the consequences; the +mind is stimulated, the heart steps to a different measure, and the man is +himself no longer. I have passionately studied myself—the true business +of philosophy. I know my character as the musician knows the ventages of his +flute. Should I return to Paris, I should ruin myself gambling; nay, I go +further—I should break the heart of my Anastasie with +infidelities.” +</p> + +<p> +This was too much for Jean-Marie. That a place should so transform the most +excellent of men transcended his belief. Paris, he protested, was even an +agreeable place of residence. “Nor when I lived in that city did I feel +much difference,” he pleaded. +</p> + +<p> +“What!” cried the Doctor. “Did you not steal when you were +there?” +</p> + +<p> +But the boy could never be brought to see that he had done anything wrong when +he stole. Nor, indeed, did the Doctor think he had; but that gentleman was +never very scrupulous when in want of a retort. +</p> + +<p> +“And now,” he concluded, “do you begin to understand? My only +friends were those who ruined me. Gretz has been my academy, my sanatorium, my +heaven of innocent pleasures. If millions are offered me, I wave them back: +<i>Retro</i>, <i>Sathanas</i>!—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 your watchwords +during life!” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor’s system of hygiene strikingly coincided with his tastes; and +his picture of the perfect life was a faithful 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 vigorously 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 fits of gloom. +</p> + +<p> +“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 mediæval 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. 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 part 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. Any extremity were better than for me +to reach Paris alive.” +</p> + +<p> +Doubtless the Doctor enjoyed these little scenes, 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. +</p> + +<p> +One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. “Could not riches be used +well?” he asked. +</p> + +<p> +“In theory, yes,” replied the Doctor. “But it is found in +experience that no one does so. All the world imagine 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 heart of pleasure.” +</p> + +<p> +“Then you might be better if you had less,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” replied the Doctor; but his voice quavered as he +spoke. +</p> + +<p> +“Why?” demanded pitiless innocence. +</p> + +<p> +Doctor Desprez saw all the colours of the rainbow 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 good for men of my years +to be violently dissevered from their habits.” +</p> + +<p> +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 had 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 +Rhone wine, his favourite weakness. He would then remark on the warmth of his +feeling for Anastasie, and with inflamed 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 is quite true that a man may be a second father to you, and +yet take too much to drink; but the best natures are ever slow to accept such +truths. +</p> + +<p> +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 him 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 pleasures were almost vegetable. He +would slip into the woods towards Acheres, and sit in the mouth of a cave among +grey 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 pure unity, a spirit wholly +abstracted. A single mood filled him, to which all the objects of sense +contributed, as the colours of the spectrum merge and disappear in white light. +</p> + +<p> +So while the Doctor made himself drunk with words, the adopted stable-boy +bemused himself with silence. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /> +TREASURE TROVE.</h3> + +<p> +The Doctor’s carriage was a two-wheeled gig with a hood; a kind of +vehicle in much 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, which well entitles it to the style of a Noddy. 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 may +be useful in liver complaint. Thence, perhaps, its wide popularity among +physicians. +</p> + +<p> +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 girt +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 “Comparative Pharmacopoeia.” +</p> + +<p> +A little rattling on the open roads, and they came to the borders of the forest +and struck into an unfrequented track; the noddy 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 air 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 eye 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Have you been to Franchard, Jean-Marie?” inquired the Doctor. +“I fancy not.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” replied the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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 to 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 must 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 Middle 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 arose, the wise man had +to make his choice between these two.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have been a buffoon, of course,” observed Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your profession,” said +the Doctor, admiring the boy’s gravity. “Do you ever laugh?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, yes,” replied the other. “I laugh often. I am very fond +of jokes.” +</p> + +<p> +“Singular being!” said Desprez. “But I divagate (I perceive +in a thousand ways that I grow old). Franchard was at length destroyed in the +English wars, the same that levelled Gretz. But—here is the +point—the hermits (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. And now, mark me, they have never +been found. In the reign of Louis Quatorze some fellows were digging hard by +the ruins. Suddenly—tock!—the spade hit upon an obstacle. Imagine +the men fooling one to another; imagine how their hearts bounded, how their +colour came and went. It was a coffer, and in Franchard the place of buried +treasure! They tore it open like famished beasts. Alas! it was not the +treasure; only some priestly robes, which, at the touch of the eating air, fell +upon themselves and instantly wasted into dust. The perspiration of these good +fellows turned cold upon them, Jean-Marie. I will pledge my reputation, if +there was anything like a cutting wind, one or other had a pneumonia for his +trouble.” +</p> + +<p> +“I should like to have seen them turning into dust,” said +Jean-Marie. “Otherwise, I should not have cared so greatly.” +</p> + +<p> +“You have no imagination,” cried the Doctor. “Picture to +yourself the scene. Dwell on the idea—a great treasure lying in the earth +for centuries: the material for a giddy, copious, opulent existence not +employed; dresses and exquisite pictures unseen; the swiftest galloping horses +not stirring a hoof, arrested by a spell; women with the beautiful faculty of +smiles, not smiling; cards, dice, opera singing, orchestras, castles, beautiful +parks and gardens, big ships with a tower of sailcloth, all lying unborn in a +coffin—and the stupid trees growing overhead in the sunlight, year after +year. The thought drives one frantic.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is only money,” replied Jean-Marie. “It would do +harm.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“And at any rate, we have nothing to do with it,” returned the boy +submissively. +</p> + +<p> +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. The gorge was dyed deeply with heather; the rocks and birches +standing 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 was a strange sound, thin and brief; it fell dead, and silence +returned as though it had never been interrupted. He 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 right 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. +</p> + +<p> +“A viper!” cried Jean-Marie, running towards him. “A viper! +You are bitten!” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor came down heavily out of the cleft, and, advanced in silence to meet +the boy, whom he took roughly by the shoulder. +</p> + +<p> +“I have found it,” he said, with a gasp. +</p> + +<p> +“A plant?” asked Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +Desprez had a fit of unnatural gaiety, which the rocks took up and mimicked. +“A plant!” he repeated scornfully. “Well—yes—a +plant. And here,” he added suddenly, showing his right hand, which he had +hitherto concealed behind his back—“here is one of the +bulbs.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with earth. +</p> + +<p> +“That?” said he. “It is a plate!” +</p> + +<p> +“It is a coach and horses,” cried the Doctor. “Boy,” he +continued, growing warmer, “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 court 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. +</p> + +<p> +“But what is it?” asked the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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 with tears. Then he +flung himself down among the heather and once more laughed until the valley +rang. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“O what fun!” he cried. +</p> + +<p> +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 the +colour of ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of bestial greed possessed +him. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not without surprise. The noddy was +brought 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But I thought it was so unwholesome,” said Jean-Marie, “and +very dear besides.” +</p> + +<p> +“Fiddle-de-dee!” exclaimed the Doctor gaily. “To the +inn!” +</p> + +<p> +And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his head, with an elastic, youthful air. +The horse was turned, and in a few seconds they drew up beside the palings of +the inn garden. +</p> + +<p> +“Here,” said Desprez—“here, near the table, so that we +may keep an eye upon things.” +</p> + +<p> +They tied the horse, and entered the garden, the Doctor singing, now in +fantastic high notes, now producing deep reverberations from his chest. He took +a seat, rapped loudly on the table, assailed the waiter with witticisms; and +when the bottle of Bass was at length produced, far more charged with gas than +the most delirious champagne, he filled out a long glassful of froth and pushed +it over to Jean-Marie. “Drink,” he said; “drink deep.” +</p> + +<p> +“I would rather not,” faltered the boy, true to his training. +</p> + +<p> +“What?” thundered Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +“I am afraid of it,” said Jean-Marie: “my +stomach—” +</p> + +<p> +“Take it or leave it,” interrupted Desprez fiercely; “but +understand it once for all—there is nothing so contemptible as a +precisian.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“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; +wine, 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 +bottle empty? Well, we will not be proud; we will have pity on your +glass.” +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“To Fontainebleau?” repeated Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“My words are always measured,” said the Doctor. “On!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“I shall telegraph for Casimir,” he said. “Good Casimir! a +fellow of the lower 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 own exertions. He is the very fellow to help us to dispose +of our trinkets, find us a suitable house in Paris, and manage the details of +our installation. Admirable Casimir, one of my oldest comrades! It was on his +advice, I may add, that I invested my little fortune in Turkish bonds; when we +have added these spoils of the mediæval church to our stake in the +Mahometan empire, little boy, we shall positively roll among doubloons, +positively roll! Beautiful forest,” he cried, “farewell! Though +called to other 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 primæval 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, retain the spring unbroken. Fresh opulence 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” said the boy. +</p> + +<p> +“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. A +hint—till we have leisure—must suffice. Now that I am once more in +possession 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 undoubted 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 expression, I should call it sinful. A man must not deny his +manifest abilities, for that is to evade his obligations. I must be up and +doing; I must be no skulker in life’s battle.” +</p> + +<p> +So he rattled on, copiously greasing the joint of his inconsistency with words; +while the boy listened silently, his eyes fixed 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. +</p> + +<p> +In the town Jean-Marie was kept a fixture on the driving-seat, to guard the +treasure; while the Doctor, with a singular, slightly tipsy airiness of manner, +fluttered in and out of cafés, 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 costly 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. +</p> + +<p> +The sun was very low when they set forth again; the shadows of the forest trees +extended across the broad white road that led them home; the penetrating odour +of the evening wood had already arisen, like a cloud of incense, from that +broad field of tree-tops; and even in the streets of the town, where the air +had been baked all day between white walls, it came in whiffs and pulses, like +a distant music. Half-way home, the last gold flicker 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. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor sang, the Doctor whistled, the Doctor 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-morrow’s sun was to inaugurate the new. +“Enough,” he cried, “of this life of maceration!” His +wife (still beautiful, or he was sadly partial) was to be no longer buried; she +should now shine before society. Jean-Marie would find the world at his feet; +the roads open to success, wealth, honour, and post-humous 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“But are they not even ours?” the boy said, almost with a +sob—it was the only time he had spoken. +</p> + +<p> +“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.<a name="citation263"></a><a +href="#footnote263" class="citation">[263]</a> It is a mere instance of what +remains to be done, of the injustices that may yet be righted by an ardent, +active, and philosophical deputy.” +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; and 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, +madame would assert her character, and bring this waking nightmare to an end. +</p> + +<p> +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 painters at +Tentaillon’s door. Jean-Marie 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. +</p> + +<p> +“Close the gates, Jean-Marie!” cried the Doctor, somewhat +unsteadily alighting. “Anastasie, where is Aline?” +</p> + +<p> +“She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,” said madame. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +“Wealthy!” repeated the wife. +</p> + +<p> +“I have found the treasure of Franchard,” replied her husband. +“See, here are the 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! This 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 little +Beaujolais you like, and finish with the Hermitage; there are still three +bottles left. Worthy wine for a worthy occasion.” +</p> + +<p> +“But, my husband; you put me in a whirl,” she cried. “I do +not comprehend.” +</p> + +<p> +“The turtle, my adored, the turtle!” cried the doctor; and he +pushed her towards the kitchen, lantern and all. +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie stood dumfounded. He had pictured to himself a different +scene—a more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the +spot. +</p> + +<p> +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 the 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 and the lady’s drawing-room ovations. +</p> + +<p> +“But you will not be a Red!” cried Anastasie. +</p> + +<p> +“I am Left Centre to the core,” replied the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Madame Gastein will present us—we shall find ourselves +forgotten,” said the lady. +</p> + +<p> +“Never,” protested the Doctor. “Beauty and talent leave a +mark.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have positively forgotten how to dress,” she sighed. +</p> + +<p> +“Darling, you make me blush,” cried he. “Yours has been a +tragic marriage!” +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“And once a week,” said the Doctor, archly scanning the syllables, +“once a week—one good little game of baccarat?” +</p> + +<p> +“Only once a week?” she questioned, threatening him with a finger. +</p> + +<p> +“I swear it by my political honour,” cried he. +</p> + +<p> +“I spoil you,” she said, and gave him her hand. +</p> + +<p> +He covered it with kisses. +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie escaped into the night. The moon swung high over Gretz. He went down +to the garden end and sat on the jetty. The river ran by with eddies of oily +silver, and a low, monotonous song. Faint veils of mist moved among the poplars +on the farther side. The reeds were quietly nodding. A hundred times already +had the boy sat, on such a night, and watched the streaming river with +untroubled fancy. And this perhaps was to be the last. He was to leave this +familiar hamlet, this green, rustling country, this bright and quiet stream; he +was to pass into the great city; his dear lady mistress was to move bedizened +in saloons; his good, garrulous, kind-hearted master to become a brawling +deputy; and both be lost for ever to Jean-Marie and their better selves. He +knew his own defects; he knew he must sink into less and less consideration in +the turmoil of a city life, sink more and more from the child into the servant. +And he began dimly to believe the Doctor’s prophecies of evil. He could +see a change in both. His generous incredulity failed him for this once; a +child must have perceived that the Hermitage had completed what the absinthe +had begun. If this were the first day, what would be the last? “If +necessary, wreck the train,” thought he, remembering the Doctor’s +parable. He looked round on the delightful scene; he drank deep of the charmed +night air, laden with the scent of hay. “If necessary, wreck the +train,” he repeated. And he rose and returned to the house. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS.</h3> + +<p> +The next morning there was a most unusual outcry, in the Doctor’s house. +The last 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 +had disappeared. Madame and Jean-Marie were summoned from their rooms, and +appeared in hasty toilets; they found the Doctor raving, calling the heavens to +witness and avenge his injury, pacing the room bare-footed, with the tails of +his night-shirt flirting as he turned. +</p> + +<p> +“Gone!” he said; “the things are gone, the fortune 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. “Anastasie,” he +said, in quite an altered voice, “compose yourself, command your +feelings. I would not have you 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +she sipped, and shuddered, and protested, and then was bullied and shouted at +until she sipped again. As for Jean-Marie, he took his portion down with +stoicism. +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“I am so cold,” wailed Anastasie. +</p> + +<p> +“Cold!” cried the Doctor. “I give thanks to God that I am +made of fierier material. Why, madam, a blow like this would set a frog into a +transpiration. If you are cold, you can retire; and, by the way, you might +throw me down my trousers. It is chilly for the legs.” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, no!” protested Anastasie; “I will stay with you.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nay, madam, you shall not suffer for your devotion,” said the +Doctor. “I will myself fetch you a shawl.” And 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“Not I,” replied the boy steadily. +</p> + +<p> +“Good,” returned the Doctor. “We shall now turn our attention +to 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 may 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 indicate no preparation on the part of the gang—if gang it +was. Thirdly, I observe that nothing has been removed except the Franchard +dishes and the casket; our own silver has been minutely respected. This is +wily; it shows intelligence, a knowledge of the code, a desire to avoid legal +consequences. I argue from this fact that the gang numbers persons of +respectability—outward, of course, and merely outward, as the robbery +proves. But I argue, second, that we must have been observed at Franchard +itself 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 criminal, would have shown himself capable of this combination. We +have in our neighbourhood, it is far from improbable, a retired bandit of the +highest order of intelligence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Good heaven!” cried the horrified Anastasie. “Henri, how can +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“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 +do not, I beseech you, be so vulgarly illogical as to revolt from my +conclusion. We have now arrived,” he resumed, “at some idea of the +composition of the gang—for I incline to the hypothesis of more than +one—and we now leave this room, which can disclose no more, and turn our +attention to the court and garden. (Jean-Marie, I trust you are observantly +following my various steps; this is an excellent piece of education for you.) +Come with me to the door. No steps on the court; it is unfortunate our court +should be paved. On what small matters hang the destiny of these delicate +investigations! Hey! What have we here? I have led on to the very spot,” +he said, standing grandly backward and indicating the green gate. “An +escalade, as you can now see for yourselves, has taken place.” +</p> + +<p> +Sure enough, the green paint was in several places 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 impossible +to distinguish the pattern of the nails. +</p> + +<p> +“The whole robbery,” concluded the Doctor, “step by step, has +been reconstituted. Inductive science can no further go.” +</p> + +<p> +“It is wonderful,” said his wife. “You should indeed have +been a detective, Henri. I had no idea of your talents.” +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” replied Desprez, condescendingly, “a man of +scientific imagination combines the lesser faculties; he is a detective 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 you the very house where they consort? It +may be a satisfaction, at least it is all we are likely to get, since 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 to be in the forest +idling, I require a man of education, I require a man superior to +considerations of morality. The 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. Lastly, because they are painters, they are +probably immoral. And this I prove in two ways. First, painting is an art which +merely addresses the eye; it does not in any particular exercise the moral +sense. And second, painting, in common with all the other arts, implies the +dangerous quality of imagination. A man of imagination 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!” +</p> + +<p> +“But you always say—at least, so I understood you”—said +madame, “that these lads display no imagination whatever.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 find a thief?—And now you had better get your coffee. +Because we have lost a treasure, there is no reason for starving. For my part, +I shall break my fast with white wine. I feel unaccountably heated and thirsty +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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 retrospect of his detective skill. +</p> + +<p> +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 brother, he did not +waste much sentiment on the lady, gave her an English family kiss, and demanded +a meal without delay. +</p> + +<p> +“You can tell me your story while we eat,” he observed. +“Anything good to-day, Stasie?” +</p> + +<p> +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. Casimir heard it with explosions of +laughter. +</p> + +<p> +“What a streak of luck for you, my good brother,” he observed, when +the tale was over. “If you had gone to Paris, you would have played +dick-duck-drake with the whole consignment in three months. 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 told you +so, Stasie? Hey? No sense?” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor winced and looked furtively at Jean-Marie; but the boy seemed +apathetic. +</p> + +<p> +“And then again,” broke out Casimir, “what children you +are—vicious children, my faith! How could you tell the value of this +trash? It might have been worth nothing, or next door.” +</p> + +<p> +“Pardon me,” said the Doctor. “You have your usual flow of +spirits, I perceive, but even less than your usual deliberation. I am not +entirely ignorant of these matters.” +</p> + +<p> +“Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard of,” interrupted +Casimir, bowing, and raising his glass with a sort of pert politeness. +</p> + +<p> +“At least,” resumed the Doctor, “I gave my mind to the +subject—that you may be willing to believe—and I estimated that our +capital would be doubled.” And he described the nature of the find. +</p> + +<p> +“My word of honour!” said Casimir, “I half believe you! But +much would depend on the quality of the gold.” +</p> + +<p> +“The quality, my dear Casimir, was—” And the Doctor, in +default of language, kissed his finger-tips. +</p> + +<p> +“I would not take your word for it, my good friend,” retorted the +man of business. “You are a man of very rosy views. 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“None but ourselves,” replied the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“And this young gentleman?” asked Casimir, jerking a nod in the +direction of Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“He too’—the Doctor bowed. +</p> + +<p> +“Well; and if it is a fair question, who is he?” pursued the +brother-in-law. +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-Marie,” answered the Doctor, “combines the functions of +a son and stable-boy. He began as the latter, but he rose rapidly to the more +honourable rank in our affections. He is, I may say, the greatest comfort in +our lives.” +</p> + +<p> +“Ha!” said Casimir. “And previous to becoming one of +you?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-Marie has lived a remarkable existence; his experience his been +eminently formative,” replied Desprez. “If I had had to choose an +education 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Thieves?” repeated the brother-in-law, with a meditative air. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor could have bitten his tongue out. He foresaw what was coming, and +prepared his mind for a vigorous defence. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a deep blush. +</p> + +<p> +Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips, and nodded to them meaningly. +“Hey?” said he; “how is that?” +</p> + +<p> +“Jean-Marie is a teller of the truth,” returned the Doctor, +throwing out his bust. +</p> + +<p> +“He has never told a lie,” added madame. “He is the best of +boys.” +</p> + +<p> +“Never told a lie, has he not?” reflected Casimir. “Strange, +very strange. Give me your attention, my young friend,” he continued. +“You knew about this treasure?” +</p> + +<p> +“He helped to bring it home,” interposed the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your tongue,” returned +Casimir. “I mean to question this stable-boy of yours; and if you are so +certain of his innocence, you can afford to let him answer for himself. Now, +sir,” he resumed, 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?” +</p> + +<p> +“I did,” answered Jean-Marie, in a miserable whisper. He sat there +changing colour like a revolving pharos, twisting his fingers hysterically, +swallowing air, the picture of guilt. +</p> + +<p> +“You knew where it was put?” resumed the inquisitor. +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” from Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“You say you have been a thief before,” continued Casimir. +“Now how am I to know that you are not one still? I suppose you could +climb the green gate?” +</p> + +<p> +“Yes,” still lower, from the culprit. +</p> + +<p> +“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!” +</p> + +<p> +But in place of anything of that sort Jean-Marie broke into a dismal howl and +fled from the arbour. Anastasie, as she pursued to capture and reassure the +victim, found time to send one Parthian arrow—“Casimir, you are a +brute!” +</p> + +<p> +“My brother,” said Desprez, with the greatest dignity, “you +take upon yourself a licence—” +</p> + +<p> +“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 ‘There he is!’ You need not like it, but +you have no manner of right to take offence.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” returned the Doctor, “I grant that; I will even thank +you for your mistaken zeal. But your hypothesis was so extravagantly +monstrous—” +</p> + +<p> +“Look here,” interrupted Casimir; “was it you or +Stasie?” +</p> + +<p> +“Certainly not,” answered the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Very well; then it was the boy. Say no more about it,” said the +brother-in-law, and he produced his cigar-case. +</p> + +<p> +“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 for the +best.” +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well,” said Casimir, indulgently. “Have you a light? I +must be going. And by the way, I wish you would let me sell your Turks for you. +I always told you, it meant smash. I tell you so again. Indeed, it was partly +that that brought me down. You never acknowledge my letters—a most +unpardonable habit.” +</p> + +<p> +“My good brother,” replied the Doctor blandly, “I have never +denied your ability in business; but I can perceive your limitations.” +</p> + +<p> +“Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment,” observed the man of +business. “Your limitation is to be downright irrational.” +</p> + +<p> +“Observe the relative position,” returned the Doctor with a smile. +“It is your attitude to believe through thick and thin in one man’s +judgment—your own. I follow the same opinion, but critically and with +open eyes. Which is the more irrational?—I leave it to yourself.” +</p> + +<p> +“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. And +so, ta-ta. I might as well have stayed away for any good I’ve done. Say +good-bye from me to Stasie, and to the sullen hang-dog of a stable-boy, if you +insist on it; I’m off.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>ratiocinate</i>. 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 <i>ergotise</i>, implying, as it +were—the poor, 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.” +</p> + +<p> +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 +paroxysm of tears; and it was only after Anastasie had been closeted for an +hour with him, alone, that she came forth, sought out the Doctor, and, with +tears in her eyes, acquainted that gentleman with what had passed. +</p> + +<p> +“At first, my husband, he would hear of nothing,” she said. +“Imagine! if he had left us! what would the treasure be to that? Horrible +treasure, it has brought all this about! At last, after he has sobbed his very +heart out, he agrees to stay on a condition—we are not to mention this +matter, this infamous suspicion, not even to mention the robbery. On that +agreement only, the poor, cruel boy will consent to remain among his +friends.” +</p> + +<p> +“But this inhibition,” said the Doctor, “this +embargo—it cannot possibly apply to me?” +</p> + +<p> +“To all of us,” Anastasie assured him. +</p> + +<p> +“My cherished one,” Desprez protested, “you must have +misunderstood. It cannot apply to me. He would naturally come to me.” +</p> + +<p> +“Henri,” she said, “it does; I swear to you it does.” +</p> + +<p> +“This is a painful, a very painful circumstance,” the Doctor said, +looking a little black. “I cannot affect, Anastasie, to be anything but +justly wounded. I feel this, I feel it, my wife, acutely.” +</p> + +<p> +“I knew you would,” she said. “But if you had seen his +distress! We must make allowances, we must sacrifice our feelings.” +</p> + +<p> +“I trust, my dear, you have never found me averse to sacrifices,” +returned the Doctor very stiffly. +</p> + +<p> +“And you will let me go and tell him that you have agreed? It will be +like your noble nature,” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +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 make an effort, +I have accustomed my will to these exertions—and it is forgotten.” +</p> + +<p> +A little after, but still with swollen eyes and looking mortally sheepish, +Jean-Marie reappeared and went ostentatiously about 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:— +</p> + +<p> +“This has been, on the whole, a most amusing episode,” he said. +“We are not 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 staff, Anastasie has her new dress, +Jean-Marie is the proud possessor of a fashionable 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 occultation. The third I hereby +dedicate to Jean-Marie’s wedding breakfast.” +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ.</h3> + +<p> +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 actor 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. It was roomy, draughty, and inconvenient. +The large rafters were here and there engraven with rude marks and patterns; +the handrail of the stair was carved in countrified arabesque; a stout timber +pillar, which did duty to support the dining-room roof, bore mysterious +characters on its darker side, runes, according to the Doctor; nor did he fail, +when he ran over the legendary history of the house and its possessors, to +dwell upon the Scandinavian scholar who had left them. Floors, doors, and +rafters made a great variety of angles; every room had a particular +inclination; the gable had tilted towards the garden, after the manner of a +leaning tower, and one of the former proprietors had buttressed the building +from that side with a great strut of wood, like the derrick of a crane. +Altogether, it had many marks of ruin; it was a house for the rats to desert; +and nothing but its excellent brightness—the window-glass polished and +shining, the paint well scoured, the brasses radiant, the very prop all +wreathed about with climbing flowers—nothing but its air of a +well-tended, smiling veteran, sitting, crutch and all, in the sunny corner of a +garden, marked it as a house for comfortable people to inhabit. In poor or idle +management it would soon have hurried into the blackguard stages of decay. As +it was, the whole family loved it, and the Doctor was never better inspired +than when he narrated its imaginary story and drew the character of its +successive masters, from the Hebrew merchant who had re-edified its walls after +the sack of the town, and past the mysterious engraver of the runes, down to +the long-headed, dirty-handed boor from whom he had himself acquired it at a +ruinous expense. As for any alarm about its security, the idea had never +presented itself. What had stood four centuries might well endure a little +longer. +</p> + +<p> +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, when he made unusual exertions to please, spoke more and +faster, and redoubled in attention to his lessons. But these were interrupted +by spells of melancholia and brooding silence, when the boy was little better +than unbearable. +</p> + +<p> +“Silence,” the Doctor moralised—“you see, Anastasie, +what comes of silence. Had the boy properly unbosomed himself, the little +disappointment about the treasure, the little annoyance about Casimir’s +incivility, would long ago 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 regimen, I exhibit the most powerful +tonics; both in vain.” +</p> + +<p> +“Don’t you think you drug him too much?” asked madame, with +an irrepressible shudder. +</p> + +<p> +“Drug?” cried the Doctor; “I drug? Anastasie, you are +mad!” +</p> + +<p> +Time went on, and the boy’s health still slowly declined. The Doctor +blamed the weather, which was cold and boisterous. He called in his +<i>confrère</i> from Bourron, took a fancy for him, magnified his +capacity, and was pretty soon under treatment himself—it scarcely +appeared 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 Doctor was not at all the worse. +</p> + +<p> +Gunpowder Day, the boy was particularly low. It was scowling, squally weather. +Huge broken companies of cloud sailed 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 voice and bellowed. The +trees were all scourging themselves along the meadows, the last leaves flying +like dust. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor, between the boy and the weather, was in his element; he had a +theory to prove. He sat with his watch out and a barometer in front of him, +waiting for the squalls and noting their effect upon the human pulse. +“For the true philosopher,” he remarked 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 into his +pocket, gave the time to Jean-Marie, and the next moment they were both +counting their pulses as if for a wager. +</p> + +<p> +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; +live coals were blown upon the floor. The uproar and terror of the night kept +people long awake, sitting with pallid faces giving ear. +</p> + +<p> +It was twelve before the Desprez family retired. By half-past one, when 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 dreams he was not certain. Another clap of wind +followed. It was accompanied by a sickening movement of the whole house, and in +the subsequent lull Desprez could hear the tiles pouring like a cataract into +the loft above his head. He plucked Anastasie bodily out of bed. +</p> + +<p> +“Run!” he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel into her hands; +“the house is falling! To the garden!” +</p> + +<p> +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 speed 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 him, still not half awake. +</p> + +<p> +The fugitives rendezvous’d in the arbour by some 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 without a considerable need for more. At 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. She suspected +everybody of being the general public, and thought the darkness was alive with +eyes. +</p> + +<p> +Another gleam and another violent gust arrived together; the house was seen to +rock on its foundation, and, just as the light was once more eclipsed, a crash +which triumphed over the shouting of the wind announced its fall, and for a +moment the whole garden was alive with skipping tiles and brickbats. One such +missile grazed the Doctor’s ear; another descended on the bare foot of +Aline, who instantly made night hideous with her shrieks. +</p> + +<p> +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 awakened Anastasie to a more active +stage of terror. +</p> + +<p> +“Henri, people will be coming,” she screamed in her husband’s +ear. +</p> + +<p> +“I trust so,” he replied. +</p> + +<p> +“They cannot. I would rather die,” she wailed. +</p> + +<p> +“My dear,” said the Doctor reprovingly, “you are excited. I +gave you some clothes. What have you done with them?” +</p> + +<p> +“Oh, I don’t know—I must have thrown them away! Where are +they?” she sobbed. +</p> + +<p> +Desprez groped about in the darkness. “Admirable!” he remarked; +“my grey velveteen trousers! This will exactly meet your +necessities.” +</p> + +<p> +“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 for a moment, +and then pressed the garment back upon the Doctor. “Give it to +Aline,” she said—“poor girl.” +</p> + +<p> +“Nonsense!” said the Doctor. “Aline does not know what she is +about. 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 ready. +</p> + +<p> +“It is impossible. You do not understand,” she said with dignity. +</p> + +<p> +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 bearded 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 among 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. +</p> + +<p> +“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. +</p> + +<p> +“Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn,” said the husband. +</p> + +<p> +“I cannot,” she replied. +</p> + +<p> +“Are we all to die of exposure, madame?” thundered Doctor Desprez. +</p> + +<p> +“You can go!” she cried. “Oh, go, go away! I can stay here; I +am quite warm.” +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor took her by the shoulders with an oath. +</p> + +<p> +“Stop!” she screamed. “I will put them on.” +</p> + +<p> +She took the detested lendings in her hand once more; but her repulsion was +stronger than shame. “Never!” she cried, shuddering, and flung them +far away into the night. +</p> + +<p> +Next moment the Doctor had whirled her to the well. The man was there and the +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. +</p> + +<p> +Beds were made ready for the two women, clothes 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 causes 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 old +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 mulled wine. “That reminds me of my poor +vintages. By a manifest providence 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 down 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 +calm—I would say cheerful. Can your priest do more?” +</p> + +<p> +By the first glimpse of day the party sallied forth from the fireside into the +street. 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 +rainy twilight of the morning, beat upon their breasts and blew into their +hands for warmth. The house had entirely fallen, the walls outward, the roof +in; it was a mere heap of rubbish, with here and there a forlorn spear of +broken rafter. 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. +</p> + +<p> +For three days the snow continued to fall, and the ruins, covered with +tarpaulin and watched by sentries, were left undisturbed. The Desprez’ +meanwhile had taken up their abode at Tentaillon’s. 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 blow had been parried by another; +and in her mind she was continually fighting over again the battle of the +trousers. Had she done right? Had she done wrong? And now she would applaud her +determination; and anon, with a horrid flush of unavailing penitence, she would +regret the trousers. No juncture in her life had so much exercised her +judgment. In the meantime the Doctor had become 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 whom +the Doctor could reason by the hour, secure of comprehension. Many were the +glasses they emptied, many the topics they discussed. +</p> + +<p> +“Anastasie,” the Doctor said on the third morning, “take an +example from your husband, from Jean-Marie! The excitement has done more for +the 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 Egyptians; 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 +and sticks in this depressing hamlet? The 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, and philosophy will gather about the hearth. In the +meanwhile, the Tentaillons are obliging; the table, with your additions, will +pass; only the wine is execrable—well, I shall send for some 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Henri!” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well, well, I will say no more,” he replied. “Though, to be +sure, if you had consented to indue—<i>À propos</i>,” he +broke off, “and my trousers! They are lying in the snow—my +favourite trousers!” And he dashed in quest of Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the inn with a spade under one arm and +a curious sop of clothing under the other. +</p> + +<p> +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!” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Bigre</i>!” he cried, with a galvanic start. +</p> + +<p> +And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor’s cap was +on his head in the turn of a hand. +</p> + +<p> +“Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,” he cried. “It is +always late. I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.” +</p> + +<p> +“Henri! what is wrong?” cried his wife. +</p> + +<p> +“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 +twenty francs in his pocket. The fall of the house was but a secondary marvel; +the whole world might have fallen and scarce left his family more petrified. +</p> + +<h3><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY.</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“What is wrong?” she cried. +</p> + +<p> +“Well,” replied Casimir, “what have I told you all along? It +has come. It is a clean 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Are we—are we—ruined?” she gasped. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. “Ruined,” he replied, +“you are ruined by your sinister husband.” +</p> + +<p> +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 speculation is about worked out.” +And he nodded to him meaningly. +</p> + +<p> +“Never!” cried Desprez, springing up. “Jean-Marie, if you +prefer to leave me, now that I am poor, you can go; you shall receive your +hundred francs, if so much remains to me. But if you 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?” +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word. +</p> + +<p> +“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. March!” and he held the door open. +</p> + +<p> +Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief. +</p> + +<p> +By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie. +</p> + +<p> +“Hey?” said Casimir. “Gone, you see. Took the hint at +once.” +</p> + +<p> +“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.” +</p> + +<p> +“Want of manners,” corrected Casimir. “Heart, he never had. +Why, Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are the most gullible mortal in +creation. Your ignorance of human nature and human business is beyond belief. +You are swindled by heathen Turks, swindled by vagabond children, swindled +right and left, upstairs and downstairs. I think it must be your imagination. I +thank my stars I have none.” +</p> + +<p> +“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—” +</p> + +<p> +“Egad,” interrupted Casimir: “our friend the stable-boy +appears to have his share of it.” +</p> + +<p> +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 bosom +of his family; and with every second word he ripped another stitch out of the +air balloon of Desprez’s vanity. By the time coffee was over the poor +Doctor was as limp as a napkin. +</p> + +<p> +“Let us go and see the ruins,” said Casimir. +</p> + +<p> +They strolled forth into the street. The fall of the house, like the loss 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. It was like a room with an open door. The sentinel stood by the +green gate, looking very red and cold, but he had a pleasant word for the +Doctor and his wealthy kinsman. +</p> + +<p> +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. If +it has, my good brother, I will give you a good price for the wines.” +</p> + +<p> +“We shall start digging to-morrow,” said the sentry. “There +is no more fear of snow.” +</p> + +<p> +“My friend,” returned Casimir sententiously, “you had better +wait till you get paid.” +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +“Hullo!” cried Casimir, “there goes the stable-boy with his +luggage; no, egad, he is taking it into the inn.” +</p> + +<p> +And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the snowy street and enter +Tentaillon’s, staggering under a large hamper. +</p> + +<p> +The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope. +</p> + +<p> +“What can he have?” he said. “Let us go and see.” And +he hurried on. +</p> + +<p> +“His luggage, to be sure,” answered Casimir. “He is on the +move—thanks to the commercial imagination.” +</p> + +<p> +“I have not seen that hamper for—for ever so long,” remarked +the Doctor. +</p> + +<p> +“Nor will you see it much longer,” chuckled Casimir; “unless, +indeed, we interfere. And by the way, I insist on an examination.” +</p> + +<p> +“You will not require,” said Desprez, positively with a sob; and, +casting a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, he began to run. +</p> + +<p> +“What the devil is up with him, I wonder?” Casimir reflected; and +then, curiosity taking the upper hand, he followed the Doctor’s example +and took to his heels. +</p> + +<p> +The hamper was so heavy and large, and Jean-Marie himself so little and so +weary, that it had taken him a great while to bundle 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 followed by the man of +business. Boy and 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 under a staggering weight. +</p> + +<p> +“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 down upon the hamper and sobbed +like a little child. +</p> + +<p> +“You will not go to Paris now,” said Jean-Marie sheepishly. +</p> + +<p> +“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 entrusted 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.” +</p> + +<p> +“<i>Tiens</i>,” said Casimir. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">printed by</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">spottiswoode and co. ltd.</span>, <span +class="smcap">new-street square</span><br /> +<span class="smcap">london</span> +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>Footnotes</h2> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5" class="footnote">[5]</a> Boggy. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote15"></a><a href="#citation15" class="footnote">[15]</a> Clock +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote16"></a><a href="#citation16" class="footnote">[16]</a> Enjoy. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote140"></a><a href="#citation140" class="footnote">[140]</a> To +come forrit—to offer oneself as a communicant. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote144"></a><a href="#citation144" class="footnote">[144]</a> It +was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a black man. This +appears in several witch trials and I think in Law’s <i>Memorials</i>, +that delightful store-house of the quaint and grisly. +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +<a name="footnote263"></a><a href="#citation263" class="footnote">[263]</a> Let +it be so, for my tale! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 344-h.htm or 344-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/344/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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