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diff --git a/344-0.txt b/344-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c2493ea --- /dev/null +++ b/344-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8235 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Merry Men, by Robert Louis Stevenson + +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 +www.gutenberg.org. 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. + +Title: The Merry Men + and Other Tales and Fables + +Author: Robert Louis Stevenson + +Release Date: October, 1995 [eBook #344] +[Most recently updated: May 17, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Price + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN *** + + + + +The Merry Men +and +Other Tales and Fables + +by +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + +tenth edition + +LONDON +CHATTO & WINDUS +1904 + +Three of the following Tales have appeared in the _Cornhill Magazine_; +one in _Longman’s_; one in Mr. Henry Norman’s Christmas Annual; and one +in the _Court and Society Review_. The Author desires to make proper +acknowledgements to the Publishers concerned. + +Dedication + + +_My dear Lady Taylor_, + +_To your name_, _if I wrote on brass_, _I could add nothing_; _it has +been already written higher than I could dream to reach_, _by a strong +and dear hand_; _and if I now dedicate to you these tales_, _it is not +as the writer who brings you his work_, _but as the friend who would +remind you of his affection_. + +_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON_ + +Skerryvore, Bournemouth. + + +Contents + + THE MERRY MEN + CHAPTER 1. EILEAN AROS + CHAPTER 2. WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS + CHAPTER 3. LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY + CHAPTER 4. THE GALE + CHAPTER 5. A MAN OUT OF THE SEA + + WILL O’ THE MILL + CHAPTER 1. THE PLAIN AND THE STARS + CHAPTER 2. THE PARSON’S MARJORY + CHAPTER 3. DEATH + + MARKHEIM + + THRAWN JANET + + OLALLA + + THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD + CHAPTER 1. BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK + CHAPTER 2. MORNING TALK + CHAPTER 3. THE ADOPTION + CHAPTER 4. THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER + CHAPTER 5. TREASURE TROVE + CHAPTER 6. A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS + CHAPTER 7. THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ + CHAPTER 8. THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY + + + + +THE MERRY MEN + + + + +CHAPTER I. +EILEAN AROS. + + +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. + +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. + +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. _The Mountain of the Mist_, 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[5] 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. + +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. + +Aros itself—Aros Jay, I have heard the natives call it, and they say it +means _the House of God_—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. + +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. + +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 _Roost_ 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 _Roost_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Espirito Santo_ 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. + +And now I must tell you, as I walked from Grisapol that day, the +_Espirito Santo_ was very much in my reflections. I had been favourably +remarked by our then Principal in Edinburgh College, that famous +writer, Dr. Robertson, and by him had been set to work on some papers +of an ancient date to rearrange and sift of what was worthless; and in +one of these, to my great wonder, I found a note of this very ship, the +_Espirito Santo_, with her captain’s name, and how she carried a great +part of the Spaniard’s treasure, and had been lost upon the Ross of +Grisapol; but in what particular spot, the wild tribes of that place +and period would give no information to the king’s inquiries. Putting +one thing with another, and taking our island tradition together with +this note of old King Jamie’s perquisitions after wealth, it had come +strongly on my mind that the spot 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. + +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! + + + + +CHAPTER II. +WHAT THE WRECK HAD BROUGHT TO AROS. + + +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. + +“Why, Rorie,” said I, as we began the return voyage, “this is fine +wood. How came you by that?” + +“It will be hard to cheesel,” Rorie opined reluctantly; and just then, +dropping the oars, he made another of those 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. + +“What is wrong?” I asked, a good deal startled. + +“It will be a great feesh,” said the old man, returning to his oars; +and nothing more could I get out of him, but strange glances and an +ominous nodding of the head. In spite of myself, I was infected with a +measure of uneasiness; I turned also, and studied the wake. The water +was still and 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. + +“He will be waiting for the right man,” said Rorie. + +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. + +“Mary, girl,” said I, “this is the place I had learned to call my home, +and I do not know it.” + +“It is my home by nature, not by the learning,” she replied; “the place +I was born and the place I’m like to die in; and I neither like these +changes, nor the way they came, nor that which came with them. I would +have liked better, under God’s pleasure, they had gone down into the +sea, and the Merry Men were dancing on them now.” + +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. + +“Ay,” said I, “I feared it came by wreck, and that’s by death; yet when +my father died, I took his goods without remorse.” + +“Your father died a clean strae death, as the folk say,” said Mary. + +“True,” I returned; “and a wreck is like a judgment. What was she +called?” + +“They ca’d her the _Christ-Anna_,” said a voice behind me; and, turning +round, I saw my uncle standing in the doorway. + +He was a sour, small, bilious man, with a long face and very dark eyes; +fifty-six years old, sound and active in body, and with an air somewhat +between that of a shepherd and that of a man following the sea. He +never laughed, that I heard; read long at the Bible; prayed much, like +the Cameronians he had been brought up among; and indeed, in many ways, +used to remind me of one of the hill-preachers in the killing times +before the Revolution. But he never got much comfort, nor even, as I +used to think, much guidance, by his piety. He had his black fits when +he was afraid of hell; but he had led a rough life, to which he would +look back with envy, and was still a rough, cold, gloomy man. + +As he came in at the door out of the sunlight, with his bonnet on his +head and a pipe hanging in his button-hole, he 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. + +“Ay” he repeated, dwelling upon the first part of the word, “the +_Christ-Anna_. It’s an awfu’ name.” + +I made him my salutations, and complimented him upon his look of +health; for I feared he had perhaps been ill. + +“I’m in the body,” he replied, ungraciously enough; “aye in the body +and the sins of the body, like yoursel’. Denner,” he said abruptly to +Mary, and then ran on to me: “They’re grand braws, thir that we hae +gotten, are they no? Yon’s a bonny knock[15], but it’ll no gang; and +the napery’s by ordnar. Bonny, bairnly braws; it’s for the like o’ them +folk sells the peace of God that passeth understanding; it’s for the +like o’ them, an’ maybe no even sae muckle worth, folk daunton God to +His face and burn in muckle hell; and it’s for that reason the +Scripture ca’s them, as I read the passage, the accursed thing. Mary, +ye girzie,” he interrupted himself to cry with some asperity, “what for +hae ye no put out the twa candlesticks?” + +“Why should we need them at high noon?” she asked. + +But my uncle was not to be turned from his idea. “We’ll bruik[16] them +while we may,” he said; and so two massive candlesticks of wrought +silver were added to the table equipage, already so unsuited to that +rough sea-side farm. + +“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 +_Christ-Anna_; 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.” + +“And were all lost?” I cried. “God held them!” + +“Wheesht!” he said sternly. “Nane shall pray for the deid on my +hearth-stane.” + +I disclaimed a Popish sense for my ejaculation; and he seemed to accept +my disclaimer with unusual facility, and ran on once more upon what had +evidently become a favourite subject. + +“We fand her in Sandag Bay, Rorie an’ me, and a’ thae braws in the +inside of her. There’s a kittle bit, ye see, about Sandag; whiles the +sook rins 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 _Christ-Anna_. 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— + +And now they shout and sing to Thee, +For Thou hast made them glad, + + +as the Psalms say in the metrical version. No that I would preen my +faith to that clink neither; but it’s bonny, and easier to mind. ‘Who +go to sea in ships,’ they hae’t again— + +And in +Great waters trading be, +Within the deep these men God’s works +And His great wonders see. + + +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 _Christ-Anna_—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!” + +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. + +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.” + +Soon there came an interchange of speeches between him and Rorie. + +“Was it there?” asked my uncle. + +“Ou, ay!” said Rorie. + +I observed that they both spoke in a manner of aside, and with some +show of embarrassment, and that Mary herself appeared to colour, and +looked down on her plate. Partly to show my knowledge, and so relieve +the party from an awkward strain, partly because I was curious, I +pursued the subject. + +“You mean the fish?” I asked. + +“Whatten fish?” cried my uncle. “Fish, quo’ he! Fish! Your een are fu’ +o’ fatness, man; your heid dozened wi’ carnal leir. Fish! it’s a +bogle!” + +He spoke with great vehemence, as though angry; and perhaps I was not +very willing to be put down so shortly, for young men are disputatious. +At least I remember I retorted hotly, crying out upon childish +superstitions. + +“And ye come frae the College!” sneered Uncle Gordon. “Gude kens what +they learn folk there; it’s no muckle service onyway. Do ye think, man, +that there’s naething in a’ yon saut wilderness o’ a world oot wast +there, wi’ the sea grasses growin’, an’ the sea beasts 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 _Christ-Anna_, 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!” + +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. + +“You will not ever have seen a teevil of the sea?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“It will have been a merman,” Rorie said. + +“A merman!” screamed my uncle with immeasurable scorn. “Auld wives’ +clavers! There’s nae sic things as mermen.” + +“But what was the creature like?” I asked. + +“What like was it? Gude forbid that we suld ken what like it was! It +had a kind of a heid upon it—man could say nae mair.” + +Then Rorie, smarting under the affront, told several tales of mermen, +mermaids, and sea-horses that had come ashore upon the islands and +attacked the crews of boats upon the sea; and my uncle, in spite of his +incredulity, listened with uneasy interest. + +“Aweel, aweel,” he said, “it may be sae; I may be wrang; but I find nae +word o’ mermen in the Scriptures.” + +“And you will find nae word of Aros Roost, maybe,” objected Rorie, and +his argument appeared to carry weight. + +When dinner was over, my uncle carried me forth with him to a bank +behind the house. It was a very hot and quiet afternoon; scarce a +ripple anywhere upon the sea, nor any voice but the familiar voice of +sheep and gulls; and perhaps in consequence of this repose in nature, +my kinsman showed himself more 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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Certainly it is,” I replied. “I have often remarked it. It is like a +C.” + +He heaved a sigh as if heavily disappointed with my answer, and then +added below his breath: “Ay, for the _Christ-Anna_.” + +“I used to suppose, sir, it was for myself,” said I; “for my name is +Charles.” + +“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. + +“Yes,” said I. “I see another very plainly, near the Ross side, where +the road comes down—an M.” + +“An M,” he repeated very low; and then, again after another pause: “An’ +what wad ye make o’ that?” he inquired. + +“I had always thought it to mean Mary, sir,” I answered, growing +somewhat red, convinced as I was in my own mind that I was on the +threshold of a decisive explanation. + +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. + +“I would say naething o’ thae clavers to Mary,” he observed, and began +to walk forward. + +There is a belt of turf along the side of Aros Bay, where walking is +easy; and it was along this that I silently followed my silent kinsman. +I was perhaps a little disappointed at having lost so good an +opportunity to declare my 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. + +“Ye think there’s naething there?” he said, pointing with his pipe; and +then cried out aloud, with a kind of exultation: “I’ll tell ye, man! +The deid are down there—thick like rattons!” + +He turned at once, and, without another word, we retraced our steps to +the house of Aros. + +I was eager to be alone with Mary; yet it was not till after supper, +and then but for a short while, that I could have a word with her. I +lost no time beating about the bush, but spoke out plainly what was on +my mind. + +“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?” + +“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!” + +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?” + +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!” + +This was scarcely any great encouragement for me to tell her of the +_Espirito Santo_; yet I did so, and at the very first word she cried +out in surprise. “There was a man at Grisapol,” she said, “in the month +of May—a little, yellow, black-avised body, they tell me, with gold +rings upon his fingers, and a beard; and he was speiring high and low +for that same ship.” + +It was towards the end of April that I had been given these papers to +sort out by Dr. Robertson: and it came suddenly back upon my mind that +they were thus prepared for a Spanish historian, or a man 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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +LAND AND SEA IN SANDAG BAY. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Christiania_, after the +Norwegian city, or _Christiana_, 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. + +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 +_Espirito Santo_, 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. + +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 _Espirito Santo_; 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 _Espirito Santo_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _Espirito Santo_ was +not there. I remember I had almost a sense of relief in my +disappointment, and I was about ready to leave go, when 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE GALE. + + +I found my uncle at the gable end, watching the signs of the weather, +with a pipe in his fingers. + +“Uncle,” said I, “there were men ashore at Sandag Bay—” + +I had no time to go further; indeed, I not only forgot my words, but +even my weariness, so strange was the effect on Uncle Gordon. He +dropped his pipe 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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +My kinsman looked upon me, blinking, while I spoke; then he fixed his +eyes for a little on the ground, and pulled his fingers foolishly; but +it was plain that he was past the power of speech. + +“Come,” said I. “You must think for others. You must come up the hill +with me, and see this ship.” + +He obeyed without a word or a look, following slowly after my impatient +strides. The spring seemed to have gone out of his body, and he +scrambled 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. + +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. + +“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. + +“That’s what they mean,” said my uncle, with something like joy; and +just then the schooner went about and stood upon another tack, which +put the question beyond the reach of doubt. These strangers, seeing a +gale on hand, had thought first of sea-room. With the wind that +threatened, in these reef-sown waters and contending against so violent +a stream of tide, their course was certain death. + +“Good God!” said I, “they are all lost.” + +“Ay,” returned my uncle, “a’—a’ lost. They hadnae a chance but to rin +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!” + +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. + +“If it were not too late,” I cried with indignation, “I would take the +coble and go out to warn them.” + +“Na, na,” he protested, “ye maunnae interfere; ye maunnae meddle wi’ +the like o’ that. It’s His”—doffing his bonnet—“His wull. And, eh, man! +but it’s a braw nicht for’t!” + +Something like fear began to creep into my soul and, reminding him that +I had not yet dined, I proposed we should return to the house. But no; +nothing would tear him from his place of outlook. + +“I maun see the hail thing, man, Cherlie,” he explained—and then as the +schooner went about a second time, “Eh, but they han’le her bonny!” he +cried. “The _Christ-Anna_ was naething to this.” + +Already the men on board the schooner must have begun to realise some +part, but not yet the twentieth, of the dangers that environed their +doomed ship. At every lull of the capricious wind they must have seen +how fast the current swept them back. Each tack 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. + +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. + +“Are ye wearied, lad?” she asked after a while. + +“I am not so much wearied, Mary,” I replied, getting on my feet, “as I +am weary of delay, and perhaps of Aros too. You know me well enough to +judge me fairly, say what I like. Well, Mary, you may be sure of this: +you had better be anywhere but here.” + +“I’ll be sure of one thing,” she returned: “I’ll be where my duty is.” + +“You forget, you have a duty to yourself,” I said. + +“Ay, man?” she replied, pounding at the dough; “will you have found +that in the Bible, now?” + +“Mary,” I said solemnly, “you must not laugh 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.” + +She had stopped her work by this time. + +“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.” + +I was a while silent, not knowing what to say; and when I roused my +head at last to speak, she got before me. + +“Charlie,” she said, “what’s right for me, 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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“God pity all poor folks at sea!” she said. “We’ll see no more of my +father till the morrow’s morning.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Has he been drinking?” shouted I to Rorie. + +“He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws,” returned Rorie in the same +high key, and it was all that I could do to hear him. + +“Then—was he so—in February?” I inquired. + +Rorie’s “Ay” was a cause of joy to me. The murder, then, had not sprung +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. + +“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?” + +He pronounced the word with gusto, and I thought it suited with the +scene. + +“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 _Christ-Anna_, 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.” + +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. + +“Ha’e, bairns!” he cried, “there’s your han’sel. Ye’ll get bonnier nor +that, or morning.” + +Suddenly, out in the black night before us, and not two hundred yards +away, we heard, at a moment when the wind was silent, the clear note of +a human voice. Instantly the wind swept howling down upon the Head, and +the Roost bellowed, and churned, and danced with a new fury. But we had +heard the sound, and we knew, with agony, that this was the doomed ship +now close on ruin, and that what we had heard was the voice of her +master issuing his last command. Crouching together on the edge, we +waited, straining every sense, for the inevitable end. It was long, +however, and to us it seemed like ages, ere the schooner suddenly +appeared for one brief instant, relieved against a tower of glimmering +foam. I still see her reefed mainsail 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. + +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 +_Christ-Anna_—would come and go in his divagations, pronounced with +shuddering awe. The storm all this time was rapidly abating. In half an +hour the wind had fallen to a breeze, and the change was accompanied or +caused by a heavy, cold, and plumping rain. I 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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +A MAN OUT OF THE SEA. + + +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. + +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. + +“Aros,” he said, “is no a place for wrecks ava’—no ava’. A’ the years +I’ve dwalt here, this ane maks the second; and the best o’ the gear +clean tint!” + +“Uncle,” said I, for we were now on a stretch of open sand, where there +was nothing to divert his mind, “I saw you last night, as I never +thought to see you—you were drunk.” + +“Na, na,” he said, “no as bad as that. I had been drinking, though. And +to tell ye the God’s truth, it’s a thing I cannae mend. There’s nae +soberer man than me in my ordnar; but when I hear the wind blaw in my +lug, it’s my belief that I gang gyte.” + +“You are a religious man,” I replied, “and this is sin’. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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:— + +But yet the Lord that is on high, +Is more of might by far, +Than noise of many waters is, +As great sea billows are. + + +“Ay,” said my kinsinan, “at the hinder end, the Lord will triumph; I +dinnae misdoobt that. But here on earth, even silly men-folk daur Him +to His face. It is nae wise; I am nae sayin’ 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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +He started visibly at the last words; but there came no answer, and his +face expressed no feeling but a vague alarm. + +“You were my father’s brother,” I continued; “You, have taught me to +count your house as if it were my father’s house; and we are both +sinful men walking before the Lord among the sins and dangers of this +life. It is by our evil that God leads 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?” + +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 _Christ-Anna_!” + +I turned; and if I was not appalled to the same degree, as I return +thanks to Heaven that I had not the cause, I was still startled by the +sight that met my eyes. 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. + +He turned about, and I thought he started to behold us. At this my +courage instantly revived, and I called and signed to him to draw near, +and he, on his part, dropped immediately to the sands, and began slowly +to approach, with many stops and hesitations. At each repeated mark of +the man’s uneasiness I grew the more confident myself; and I advanced +another step, encouraging him as I did so with my head and hand. It was +plain the castaway had heard indifferent accounts of our island +hospitality; and indeed, about this time, the people farther north had +a sorry reputation. + +“Why,” I said, “the man is black!” + +And just at that moment, in a voice that I 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. + +“Silence, man,” said I, “respect your God in words, if not in action. +Here, on the very scene of your transgressions, He sends you an +occasion of atonement. Forward and embrace it; welcome like a father +yon creature who comes trembling to your mercy.” + +With that, I tried to force him towards the 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. + +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. + +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. + +To Mary I told all that had passed without suppression, though I own my +heart failed me; but I did wrong to doubt her sense of justice. + +“You did the right,” she said. “God’s will be done.” And she set out +meat for us at once. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +WILL O’ THE MILL. + + + + +CHAPTER I. +THE PLAIN AND THE STARS. + + +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. + +One evening he asked the miller where the river went. + +“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!” + +“And what is the sea?” asked Will. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Thousands of people,” said the young man, “live and die like you, and +are none the less happy.” + +“Ah!” said Will, “if there are thousands who would like, why should not +one of them have my place?” + +It was quite dark; there was a hanging lamp in the arbour which lit up +the table and the faces of the speakers; and along the arch, the leaves +upon the trellis stood out illuminated against the night 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. + +“Did you ever look at the stars?” he asked, pointing upwards. + +“Often and often,” answered Will. + +“And do you know what they are?” + +“I have fancied many things.” + +“They are worlds like ours,” said the young man. “Some of them less; +many of them a million times greater; and some of the least sparkles +that you see 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.” + +Will hung his head a little, and then raised it once more to heaven. +The stars seemed to expand and emit a sharper brilliancy; and as he +kept turning his eyes higher and higher, they seemed to increase in +multitude under his gaze. + +“I see,” he said, turning to the young man. “We are in a rat-trap.” + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. +THE PARSON’S MARJORY. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table, +while the parson was filling his pipe. + +“Miss Marjory,” he said, “I never knew any one I liked so well as you. +I am 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. + +Marjory made no answer. + +“Speak up, girl,” said the parson. + +“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.” + +Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard. + +“How is that, parson?” asked Will. + +“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?” + +“I think I do,” said Marjory, faintly. + +“Well then, that’s all that could be wished!” cried Will, heartily. And +he took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of his +with great satisfaction. + +“You must marry,” observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth. + +“Is that the right thing to do, think you?” demanded Will. + +“It is indispensable,” said the parson. + +“Very well,” replied the wooer. + +Two or three days passed away with great 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. + +One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will found Marjory in the +garden picking flowers, and as he came up with her, slackened his pace +and continued walking by her side. + +“You like flowers?” he said. + +“Indeed I love them dearly,” she replied. “Do you?” + +“Why, no,” said he, “not so much. They are a very small affair, when +all is done. I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not doing +as you are just now.” + +“How?” she asked, pausing and looking up at him. + +“Plucking them,” said he. “They are a deal better off where they are, +and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.” + +“I wish to have them for my own,” she answered, “to carry them near my +heart, and keep them in my room. They tempt me when they grow here; +they seem to say, ‘Come and do something with us;’ but once I have cut +them and put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with +quite an easy heart.” + +“You wish to possess them,” replied Will, “in order to think no more +about them. It’s a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs. +It’s a bit like what I wished to 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. + +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!” + +The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, and +sought her out. + +“I have been thinking about getting married,” he began abruptly; “and +after having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it’s not +worthwhile.” + +She turned upon him for a single moment; but 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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Do you know that you are insulting me?” she broke out. + +“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.” + +There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy, +began to grow angry in consequence. + +“It seems you are too proud to say your mind,” he said. “Believe me +that’s a pity. A clean shrift makes 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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You will perhaps have the good grace,” she said, “to let me explain +these matters for myself.” + +Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the ring +of her voice. He held his peace, concluding that there were some things +about this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly +right. + +The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this was +no more than a true lovers’ tiff, which would pass off before night; +and when he was dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that +where there was no quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for +the good man liked both his entertainment and his host. It was curious +to see how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, 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. + +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. + +Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without +affectation or delay. + +“I have been thinking about this marriage,” he began. + +“So have I,” she answered. “And I respect you more and more 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.” + +“At the same time—,” ventured Will. + +“You must be tired,” she interrupted. “Take a seat and let me fetch you +a glass of wine. The afternoon is so warm; and I wish you not to be +displeased with your visit. You must come quite often; once a week, if +you can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends.” + +“O, very well,” thought Will to himself. “It appears I was right after +all.” And he paid a very agreeable visit, walked home again in capital +spirits, and gave himself no further concern about the matter. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +DEATH + + +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 _cafés_ 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I must be going crazy,” he thought. “Poor Marjory and her +heliotropes!” + +And with that he raised his eyes towards the window that had once been +hers. If he had been bewildered before, he was now almost terrified; +for there was a light in the room; the window was an orange oblong as +of yore; and the 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. + +“Master Will?” asked the new-comer, in brief military fashion. + +“That same, sir,” answered Will. “Can I do anything to serve you?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Here’s to you,” said the stranger, roughly. + +“Here is my service, sir,” replied Will, sipping his wine, which +somehow tasted oddly. + +“I understand you are a very positive fellow,” pursued the stranger. + +Will made answer with a smile of some satisfaction and a little nod. + +“So am I,” continued the other; “and it is the delight of my heart to +tramp on people’s corns. I will have nobody positive but 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?” + +Will had it on his tongue to make a sharp rejoinder; but the politeness +of an old innkeeper prevailed; and he held his peace and made answer +with a civil gesture of the hand. + +“I have,” said the stranger. “And if I did not hold you in a particular +esteem, I should make no words about the matter. It appears you pride +yourself on 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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“I beg your pardon,” he said, with some discomposure. “What do you +mean?” + +“Look at me, and you will find your eyesight swim. Raise your hand; it +is dead-heavy. This is your last bottle of wine, Master Will, and your +last night upon the earth.” + +“You are a doctor?” quavered Will. + +“The best that ever was,” replied the other; “for I cure both mind and +body with the same prescription. I take away all 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.” + +“I have no need of you,” said Will. + +“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.” + +“You are a strange physician,” said Will, looking steadfastly upon his +guest. + +“I am a natural law,” he replied, “and people call me Death.” + +“Why did you not tell me so at first?” cried Will. “I have been waiting +for you these many years. Give me your hand, and welcome.” + +“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.” + +“Since Marjory was taken,” returned Will, “I declare before God you +were the only friend I had to look for.” So the pair went arm-in-arm +across the courtyard. + +One of the servants awoke about this time and heard the noise of horses +pawing before he dropped asleep again; all down 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. + + + + +MARKHEIM + + +“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.” + +Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes +had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the +shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the +flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside. + +The dealer chuckled. “You come to me on Christmas Day,” he resumed, +“when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and +make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; +you will have to pay for my 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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“A glass,” he said hoarsely, and then paused, and repeated it more +clearly. “A glass? For Christmas? Surely not?” + +“And why not?” cried the dealer. “Why not a glass?” + +Markheim was looking upon him with an 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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + +“What are you driving at?” the dealer asked. + +“Not charitable?” returned the other, gloomily. “Not charitable; not +pious; not scrupulous; unloving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe +to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is that all?” + +“I will tell you what it is,” began the dealer, with some sharpness, +and then broke off again into a chuckle. “But I see this is a love +match of yours, and you have been drinking the lady’s health.” + +“Ah!” cried Markheim, with a strange curiosity. “Ah, have you been in +love? Tell me about that.” + +“I,” cried the dealer. “I in love! I never had the time, nor have I the +time to-day for all this nonsense. Will you take the glass?” + +“Where is the hurry?” returned Markheim. “It is very pleasant to stand +here talking; and life is so short and insecure that I would not hurry +away from any pleasure—no, not even from so mild a one as this. We +should rather cling, cling to 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?” + +“I have just one word to say to you,” said the dealer. “Either make +your purchase, or walk out of my shop!” + +“True true,” said Markheim. “Enough, fooling. To business. Show me +something else.” + +The dealer stooped once more, this time to 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. + +“This, perhaps, may suit,” observed the dealer: and then, as he began +to re-arise, Markheim bounded from behind upon his victim. The long, +skewerlike dagger flashed and fell. The dealer struggled like a hen, +striking his temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the floor in a +heap. + +Time had some score of small voices in that 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And as he sat thus, at once busy and absent, he was startled to his +feet. A flash of ice, a flash of fire, a bursting gush of blood, went +over him, and then he stood transfixed and thrilling. A step mounted +the stair slowly and steadily, and presently a hand was laid upon the +knob, and the lock clicked, and the door opened. + +Fear held Markheim in a vice. What to expect he knew not, 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. + +“Did you call me?” he asked, pleasantly, and with that he entered the +room and closed the door behind him. + +Markheim stood and gazed at him with all his eyes. Perhaps there was a +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. + +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. + +Markheim made no answer. + +“I should warn you,” resumed the other, “that the maid has left her +sweetheart earlier than usual and will soon be here. If Mr. Markheim be +found in this house, I need not describe to him the consequences.” + +“You know me?” cried the murderer. + +The visitor smiled. “You have long been a favourite of mine,” he said; +“and I have long observed and often sought to help you.” + +“What are you?” cried Markheim: “the devil?” + +“What I may be,” returned the other, “cannot affect the service I +propose to render you.” + +“It can,” cried Markheim; “it does! Be helped by you? No, never; not by +you! You do not know me yet; thank God, you do not know me!” + +“I know you,” replied the visitant, with a sort of kind severity or +rather firmness. “I know you to the soul.” + +“Know me!” cried Markheim. “Who can do so? My life is but a travesty +and 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.” + +“To me?” inquired the visitant. + +“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?” + +“All this is very feelingly expressed,” was the reply, “but it regards +me not. These points of consistency are beyond my province, and I care +not in the least by what compulsion you may have been dragged away, so +as you are but carried in the right direction. But time flies; the +servant delays, looking in the faces of the crowd and at the pictures +on the hoardings, but still she keeps moving nearer; and remember, it +is as if the gallows itself was striding towards you through the +Christmas streets! Shall I help you; I, who know all? Shall I tell you +where to find the money?” + +“For what price?” asked Markheim. + +“I offer you the service for a Christmas gift,” returned the other. + +Markheim could not refrain from smiling with a kind of bitter triumph. +“No,” said he, “I will take nothing at your hands; if I were dying of +thirst, and it was your hand that put the pitcher to my lips, I should +find the courage to refuse. It may be credulous, but I will do nothing +to commit myself to evil.” + +“I have no objection to a death-bed repentance,” observed the visitant. + +“Because you disbelieve their efficacy!” Markheim cried. + +“I do not say so,” returned the other; “but I look on these things from +a different side, and when the life is done my interest falls. The man +has lived to 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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Ah,” said Markheim, “but this time I have a sure thing.” + +“This time, again, you will lose,” replied the visitor quietly. + +“Ah, but I keep back the half!” cried Markheim. + +“That also you will lose,” said the other. + +The sweat started upon Markheim’s brow. “Well, then, what matter?” he +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“In any one?” repeated Markheim, with an anguish of consideration. +“No,” he added, with despair, “in none! I have gone down in all.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“And grace?” cried Markheim. + +“Have you not tried it?” returned the other. “Two or three years ago, +did I not see you on the platform of revival meetings, and was not your +voice the loudest in the hymn?” + +“It is true,” said Markheim; “and I see clearly what remains for me by +way of duty. I thank you for these lessons from my soul; my eyes are +opened, and I behold myself at last for what I am.” + +At this moment, the sharp note of the door-bell rang through the house; +and the visitant, as though this were some concerted signal for which +he had been waiting, changed at once in his demeanour. + +“The maid!” he cried. “She has returned, as I forewarned you, and there +is now before you one more difficult passage. Her master, you must say, +is ill; you must let her in, with an assured but rather serious +countenance—no smiles, no overacting, and I promise you success! 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!” + +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.” + +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. + +He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. + +“You had better go for the police,” said he: “I have killed your +master.” + + + + +THRAWN JANET + + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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[140] 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. + +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. + +“Women,” said he (and he had a grand voice), “I charge you in the +Lord’s name to let her go.” + +Janet ran to him—she was fair wud wi’ terror—an’ clang to him, an’ +prayed him, for Christ’s sake, save her frae the cummers; an’ they, for +their pairt, tauld him a’ that was ken’t, and maybe mair. + +“Woman,” says he to Janet, “is this true?” + +“As the Lord sees me,” says she, “as the Lord made me, no a word o’t. +Forbye the bairn,” says she, “I’ve been a decent woman a’ my days.” + +“Will you,” says Mr. Soulis, “in the name of God, and before me, His +unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?” + +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’. + +“And now,” says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, “home with ye, one and +all, and pray to God for His forgiveness.” + +And he gied Janet his arm, though she had 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.[144] 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. + +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. + +“Janet,” says he, “have you seen a black man?” + +“A black man?” quo’ she. “Save us a’! Ye’re no wise, minister. There’s +nae black man in a Ba’weary.” + +But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like +a powney wi’ the bit in its moo. + +“Weel,” says he, “Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with +the Accuser of the Brethren.” + +And he sat down like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chittered in his +heid. + +“Hoots,” says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minister;” an’ gied him a +drap brandy that she keept aye by her. + +Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a’ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“God forgive us all!” thocht Mr. Soulis; “poor Janet’s dead.” + +He cam’ a step nearer to the corp; an’ then his heart fair whammled in +his inside. For by what cantrip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she +was hingin’ frae a single nail an’ by a single wursted thread for +darnin’ hose. + +It’s an awfu’ thing to be your lane at nicht 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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +An’ at that moment the Lord’s ain hand out o’ the Heevens struck the +Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o’ the +witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by deils, +lowed up like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the +thunder followed, peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back +o’ that; and Mr. Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi’ +skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan. + +That same mornin’, John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle +Cairn as it was chappin’ six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house +at Knockdow; an’ no lang after, Sandy M’Lellan saw him gaun 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. + +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. + + + + +OLALLA + + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“And yet you say they are high-born,” I objected. + +“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.” + +“I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,” said I. + +“I would not romance, if I were you,” replied the doctor; “you will +find, I fear, a very grovelling and commonplace reality. 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.” + +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. + +“A crow?” I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of the remark, and +thinking I had heard imperfectly. + +But by this time he was already filled with a new idea; hearkening with +a rapt intentness, his head on one side, his face puckered; and he +struck me rudely, to make me hold my peace. Then he smiled and shook +his head. + +“What did you hear?” I asked. + +“O, it is all right,” he said; and began encouraging his mule with +cries that echoed unhumanly up the mountain walls. + +I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well-built, 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. + +“What is the matter?” I asked. + +“O, I am afraid,” he replied. + +“Of what are you afraid?” I returned. “This seems one of the safest +places on this very dangerous road.” + +“It makes a noise,” he said, with a simplicity of awe that set my +doubts at rest. + +The lad was but a child in intellect; his mind was like his body, +active and swift, but stunted in development; and I began 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. + +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. + +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. + +“Oh, no,” he said, “not that; that is for you. I hate it.” + +“Very well, Senor,” said I; “then I will drink to your good health, and +to the prosperity of your house and family. Speaking of which,” I +added, after I had drunk, “shall I not have the pleasure of laying my +salutations in person at the feet of the Senora, your mother?” + +But at these words all the childishness passed out of his face, and was +succeeded by a look of indescribable cunning and secrecy. He backed +away from me at the same time, as though I were an animal about to leap +or some dangerous fellow with a weapon, and when he had got near the +door, glowered at me sullenly with contracted pupils. “No,” he said at +last, and the next moment was gone noiselessly out of the room; and I +heard his footing die away downstairs as light as rainfall, and silence +closed over the house. + +After I had supped I drew up the table nearer to the bed and began to +prepare for rest; but in the new position of the light, I was struck by +a picture on the wall. It represented a woman, still young. To judge by +her costume and the 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I think we are all mad to-day,” said I, affecting to laugh. + +“It is the black wind,” he replied dolefully. “You feel as if you must +do something, and you don’t know what it is.” + +I noted the aptness of the description; but, indeed, Felipe had +sometimes a strange felicity in rendering into words the sensations of +the body. “And your mother, too,” said I; “she seems to feel this +weather much. Do you not fear she may be unwell?” + +He stared at me a little, and then said, “No,” almost defiantly; and +the next moment, carrying his hand to his brow, cried out lamentably on +the wind and the noise that made his head go round like a millwheel. +“Who can be well?” he cried; and, indeed, I could only echo his +question, for I was disturbed enough myself. + +I went to bed early, wearied with day-long restlessness, but the +poisonous nature of the wind, and its ungodly and unintermittent +uproar, would not suffer me to sleep. I lay there and tossed, my nerves +and senses on the stretch. At times I 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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— + +Pleasure approached with pain and shame, +Grief with a wreath of lilies came. +Pleasure showed the lovely sun; +Jesu dear, how sweet it shone! +Grief with her worn hand pointed on, + Jesu dear, to thee! + + +Shame and confusion at once fell on me; and, laying down the paper, I +beat an immediate retreat from the apartment. Neither Felipe nor his +mother 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. + +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. + +“Do you take tobacco powder?” said he, offering his snuff-box; and +then, when I had refused, “I am an old man,” he added, “and I may be +allowed to remind you that you are a guest.” + +“I have, then, your authority,” I returned, firmly enough, although I +flushed at the implied reproof, “to let things take their course, and +not to interfere?” + +He said “yes,” and with a somewhat uneasy 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. + +“I never see your sister,” said I casually. + +“Oh, no,” said he; “she is a good, good girl,” and his mind instantly +veered to something else. + +“Your sister is pious, I suppose?” I asked in the next pause. + +“Oh!” he cried, joining his hands with extreme fervour, “a saint; it is +she that keeps me up.” + +“You are very fortunate,” said I, “for the most of us, I am afraid, and +myself among the number, are better at going down.” + +“Senor,” said Felipe earnestly, “I would not say that. You should not +tempt your angel. If one goes down, where is he to stop?” + +“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?” + +He nodded at me with round eyes. + +“Well, then,” I continued, “she has doubtless reproved you for your sin +of cruelty?” + +“Twelve times!” he cried; for this was the 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.” + +“Then, Felipe,” said I, “what were those cries that I heard last night? +for surely they were cries of some creature in suffering.” + +“The wind,” returned Felipe, looking in the fire. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You will go away,” she said, “to-day.” + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Pardon me,” said I, “if I disturb you, but I must apply to you for +help.” + +She looked up sleepily and asked me what it 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. + +“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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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:— + +“Olalla,” I said, “nothing matters; I ask nothing; I am content; I love +you.” + +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. + +“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!” + +“I love you,” I said. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Felipe,” I said, “take me where they will ask no questions.” + +He said never a word, but he turned his mule about, end for end, +retraced some part of the way we had gone, and, striking into another +path, led me to the mountain village, which was, as we say in Scotland, +the kirkton of that thinly peopled district. Some broken memories dwell +in my 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. + +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?” + +He said they were very unfortunate; that it seemed a declining race, +and that they were very poor and had been much neglected. + +“But she has not,” I said. “Thanks, doubtless, to yourself, she is +instructed and wise beyond the use of women.” + +“Yes,” he said; “the Senorita is well-informed. But the family has been +neglected.” + +“The mother?” I queried. + +“Yes, the mother too,” said the Padre, taking snuff. “But Felipe is a +well-intentioned lad.” + +“The mother is odd?” I asked. + +“Very odd,” replied the priest. + +“I think, sir, we beat about the bush,” said I. “You must know more of +my affairs than you allow. You must know my curiosity to be justified +on many grounds. Will you not be frank with me?” + +“My son,” said the old gentleman, “I will be 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.” + +“Is she mad?” I asked. + +“I will answer you according to my belief. She is not,” returned the +Padre, “or she was not. When she was young—God help me, I fear I +neglected that wild lamb—she was surely sane; and yet, although it did +not run to such heights, the same strain was already 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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Do you know that house?” I inquired, at last, pointing to the +residencia, for I readily wearied of any talk that kept me from the +thought of Olalla. + +He looked at me darkly and crossed himself. + +“Too well,” he said, “it was there that one of my comrades sold himself +to Satan; the Virgin shield us from temptations! He has paid the price; +he is now burning in the reddest place in Hell!” + +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.” + +“And your friend,” I asked, “what became of him?” + +“Nay, God knows,” said the muleteer. “If all be true that we hear, his +end was like his sin, a thing to raise the hair.” + +“Do you mean that he was killed?” I asked. + +“Sure enough, he was killed,” returned the man. “But how? Ay, how? But +these are things that it is sin to speak of.” + +“The people of that house . . . ” I began. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +THE TREASURE OF FRANCHARD. + + + + +CHAPTER I. +BY THE DYING MOUNTEBANK. + + +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. + +The Doctor was at work over his manuscripts in one corner of the little +dining-room, and his wife was asleep over the fire in another, when the +messenger arrived. + +“Sapristi!” said the Doctor, “you should have sent for me before. It +was a case for hurry.” And he followed the messenger as he was, in his +slippers and skull-cap. + +The inn was not thirty yards away, but the messenger did not stop +there; he went in at one door and out by another into the court, and +then led the way by a flight of steps beside the stable, to the loft +where the mountebank lay sick. If Doctor Desprez were to live a +thousand years, he would never 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. + +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. + +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. + +At last the Doctor hit on the solution at a leap. He remembered the +look now. The little fellow, although he was as straight as a dart, had +the eyes that go usually with a crooked back; he was not at all +deformed, and yet a deformed person seemed to be looking at you from +below his brows. The Doctor drew a long breath, he was so much relieved +to find a theory (for he loved theories) and to explain away his +interest. + +For all that, he despatched the invalid with unusual haste, and, still +kneeling with one knee on the floor, turned a 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. + +“Is this your father?” asked Desprez. + +“Oh, no,” returned the boy; “my master.” + +“Are you fond of him?” continued the Doctor. + +“No, sir,” said the boy. + +Madame Tentaillon and Desprez exchanged expressive glances. + +“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.” + +The boy was silent for a little, and appeared to be reflecting. + +“You did not know him,” he replied at last, “he was a bad man.” + +“He is a little pagan,” said the landlady. “For that matter, they are +all the same, these mountebanks, tumblers, artists, and what not. They +have no interior.” + +But the Doctor was still scrutinising the little pagan, his eyebrows +knotted and uplifted. + +“What is your name?” he asked. + +“Jean-Marie,” said the lad. + +Desprez leaped upon him with one of his sudden flashes of excitement, +and felt his head all over from an ethnological point of view. + +“Celtic, Celtic!” he said. + +“Celtic!” cried Madame Tentaillon, who had perhaps confounded the word +with hydrocephalous. “Poor lad! is it dangerous?” + +“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. + +“I tumble,” was the answer. + +“So! Tumble?” repeated Desprez. “Probably healthful. I hazard the +guess, Madame Tentaillon, that tumbling is a healthful way of life. And +have you never done anything else but tumble?” + +“Before I learned that, I used to steal,” answered Jean-Marie gravely. + +“Upon my word!” cried the doctor. “You are a nice little man for your +age. Madame, when my _confrère_ 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.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. +MORNING TALK + + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Aha!” he said, stopping before him humorously, with a hand on either +knee. “So we rise early in the morning, do we? It appears to me that we +have all the vices of a philosopher.” + +The boy got to his feet and made a grave salutation. + +“And how is our patient?” asked Desprez. + +It appeared the patient was about the same. + +“And why do you rise early in the morning?” he pursued. + +Jean-Marie, after a long silence, professed that he hardly knew. + +“You hardly know?” repeated Desprez. “We hardly know anything, my man, +until we try to learn. Interrogate your consciousness. Come, push me +this inquiry home. Do you like it?” + +“Yes,” said the boy slowly; “yes, I like it.” + +“And why do you like it?” continued the Doctor. “(We are now pursuing +the Socratic method.) Why do you like it?” + +“It is quiet,” answered Jean-Marie; “and I have nothing to do; and then +I feel as if I were good.” + +Doctor Desprez took a seat on the post at the opposite side. He was +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.” + +“Is it very bad to steal?” asked Jean-Marie. + +“Such is the general opinion, little boy,” replied the Doctor. + +“No; but I mean as I stole,” explained the other. “For I had no choice. +I think it is surely right to have bread; it must be right to have +bread, 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.” + +“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.” + +“Why, sir?” asked Jean-Marie. “I do not see.” + +“Your priest would see, however,” retorted Desprez. + +“Would he?” asked the boy, troubled for the first time. “I should have +thought God would have known.” + +“Eh?” snarled the Doctor. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“No, sir,” said the boy. + +“I will make my meaning clear to you,” replied the doctor. “Look there +at the sky—behind the belfry first, where it is so light, and then up +and up, 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?” + +“I suppose not,” answered Jean-Marie. + +“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.” + +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. + +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?” + +“O, no,” replied Jean-Marie, seriously; “only I do not understand.” + +“You must excuse me, sir,” returned the Doctor, with gravity; “I am +still so young. O, hang him!” he added to himself. 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. + +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. + +“I do not like it,” faltered Jean-Marie. + +“Oh, come!” cried the Doctor. “Possibly you are a performer yourself?” + +“I sing better than that,” replied the boy. + +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. + +“I do not speak to him at all,” returned the boy. “I do not like him.” + +“Then you like me?” snapped Doctor Desprez, with unusual eagerness. + +“I do not know,” answered Jean-Marie. + +The Doctor rose. “I shall wish you a good morning,” he said. “You are +too much for me. Perhaps you have blood in your veins, perhaps +celestial ichor, or perhaps you circulate nothing more gross than +respirable air; but of one thing I am inexpugnably assured:—that you +are no human being. No, boy”—shaking his stick at him—“you are not a +human being. Write, write it in your memory—‘I am not a human being—I +have no pretension to be a human being—I am a dive, a dream, an angel, +an acrostic, an illusion—what you please, but not a human being.’ And +so accept my humble salutations and farewell!” + +And with that the Doctor made off along the street in some emotion, and +the boy stood, mentally gaping, where he left him. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +THE ADOPTION. + + +Madame Desprez, who answered to the Christian name of Anastasie, +presented an agreeable type of her sex; exceedingly wholesome to look +upon, a stout _brune_, 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. + +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. + +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 _plus_ one glass, the wife half a bottle _minus_ 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. + +“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.” + +“What is this fortunate circumstance, my friend?” inquired Anastasie, +not heeding his protest, which was of daily recurrence. + +“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.” + +“Indeed!” said she; and she laughed. “Now, that is like you—to take +credit for the thing you could not help.” + +“My dear,” returned the Doctor, solemnly, “we might have adopted.” + +“Never!” cried madame. “Never, Doctor, with my consent. If the child +were my own flesh and blood, I would not say no. But to take another +person’s indiscretion on my shoulders, my dear friend, I have too much +sense.” + +“Precisely,” replied the Doctor. “We both had. And I am all the better +pleased with our wisdom, because—because—” He looked at her sharply. + +“Because what?” she asked, with a faint premonition of danger. + +“Because I have found the right person,” said the Doctor firmly, “and +shall adopt him this afternoon.” + +Anastasie looked at him out of a mist. “You have lost your reason,” she +said; and there was a clang in her voice that seemed to threaten +trouble. + +“Not so, my dear,” he replied; “I retain its complete exercise. To the +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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +Anastasie controlled herself. “You know how willing I am to humour +you,” she said, “in all reasonable matters. But on this point—” + +“My dear love,” interrupted the Doctor, eager to prevent a refusal, +“who wished to leave Paris? Who made me give up cards, and the opera, +and the boulevard, and my social relations, and all that was my life +before I knew you? Have I been faithful? Have I been obedient? Have I +not borne my doom with cheerfulness? In all honesty, Anastasie, have I +not a right to a stipulation on my side? I have, and you know it. I +stipulate my son.” + +Anastasie was aware of defeat; she struck her colours instantly. “You +will break my heart,” she sighed. + +“Not in the least,” said he. “You will feel a trifling 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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You will never do so when the time comes,” said his wife; “I know your +good heart.” + +She reached out her hand to him, with a sigh; the Doctor smiled as he +took it and carried it to his lips; he had gained his 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. + +About four of the afternoon, the mountebank rendered up his ghost; he +had never been conscious since his seizure. Doctor Desprez was present +at his last passage, and declared the farce over. Then he took +Jean-Marie by the shoulder and led him out into the inn garden where +there was a convenient bench beside the river. Here he sat him down and +made the boy place himself on his left. + +“Jean-Marie,” he said very gravely, “this 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.” + +“I shall be very glad. I do not see what else I can do. I thank you, +sir, most kindly, and I will try to be useful,” said the boy. + +“Thank you,” said the Doctor warmly, rising at the same time and wiping +his brow, for he had suffered agonies while the thing hung in the wind. +A refusal, after the scene at noon, would have placed him in a +ridiculous light before Anastasie. “How hot and heavy is the evening, +to be sure! I 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?” + +“Yes,” said Jean-Marie. + +“Thank God you have imagination!” cried the Doctor, embracing the boy +with his usual effusive warmth, though it was a proceeding that seemed +to disconcert the sufferer almost as much as if he had been an English +schoolboy of the same age. “And now,” he added, “I will take you to my +wife.” + +Madame Desprez sat in the dining-room in a cool wrapper. All the blinds +were down, and the tile floor had been recently sprinkled with water; +her eyes were 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. + +The Doctor went through a solemn form of introduction, adding, for the +benefit of both parties, “You must try to like each other for my sake.” + +“He is very pretty,” said Anastasie. “Will you kiss me, my pretty +little fellow?” + +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.” + +“I only did it to please you, I am sure,” replied Anastasie; “but I +will try to do better.” + +The Doctor apologised for his warmth. “But I do wish him,” he +continued, “to feel at home among us. And 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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +THE EDUCATION OF A PHILOSOPHER. + + +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. + +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. + +After the midday meal and a proper period of digestion, he walked, +sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by Jean-Marie; for madame would +have preferred any hardship rather than walk. + +She was, as I have said, a very busy person, continually occupied about +material comforts, and ready to drop asleep over a novel the instant +she was disengaged. This was the less objectionable, as she never +snored or grew 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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +Many and many were the talks they had together; and health and +moderation proved the subject of the Doctor’s divagations. To these he +lovingly returned. + +“I lead you,” he would say, “by the green 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.” + +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. + +“How small it looks!” he sighed. + +“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.” + +“I, too, am glad of that,” said Jean-Marie. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I suppose I should prefer the new,” replied the boy. + +“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.” + +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. + +“What!” cried the Doctor. “Did you not steal when you were there?” + +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. + +“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: _Retro_, _Sathanas_!—Evil one, begone! Fix your mind on my +example; despise riches, avoid the debasing influence of cities. +Hygiene—hygiene and mediocrity of fortune—these be your watchwords +during life!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +One day a great light shone for Jean-Marie. “Could not riches be used +well?” he asked. + +“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.” + +“Then you might be better if you had less,” said the boy. + +“Certainly not,” replied the Doctor; but his voice quavered as he +spoke. + +“Why?” demanded pitiless innocence. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +So while the Doctor made himself drunk with words, the adopted +stable-boy bemused himself with silence. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +TREASURE TROVE. + + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Have you been to Franchard, Jean-Marie?” inquired the Doctor. “I fancy +not.” + +“Never,” replied the boy. + +“It is ruin in a gorge,” continued Desprez, adopting his expository +voice; “the ruin of a hermitage and chapel. History tells us much of +Franchard; how the recluse was often slain by robbers; how he lived on +a most insufficient diet; how he was expected to pass his days in +prayer. A letter is preserved, addressed 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.” + +“I have been a buffoon, of course,” observed Jean-Marie. + +“I cannot imagine you to have excelled in your profession,” said the +Doctor, admiring the boy’s gravity. “Do you ever laugh?” + +“Oh, yes,” replied the other. “I laugh often. I am very fond of jokes.” + +“Singular being!” said Desprez. “But I divagate (I perceive in a +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.” + +“I should like to have seen them turning into dust,” said Jean-Marie. +“Otherwise, I should not have cared so greatly.” + +“You have no imagination,” cried the Doctor. “Picture to yourself the +scene. 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.” + +“It is only money,” replied Jean-Marie. “It would do harm.” + +“O, come!” cried Desprez, “that is philosophy; it is all very fine, but +not to the point just now. And besides, it is not ‘only money,’ as you +call it; there are works of art in the question; the vessels were +carved. You speak like a child. You weary me exceedingly, quoting my +words out of all logical connection, like a parroquet.” + +“And at any rate, we have nothing to do with it,” returned the boy +submissively. + +They struck the Route Ronde at that moment; and the sudden change to +the rattling causeway combined, with the Doctor’s irritation, to keep +him silent. The noddy jigged along; the trees went by, looking on +silently, as if they had something on their minds. The Quadrilateral +was passed; then came Franchard. They put up the horse at the little +solitary inn, and went forth strolling. 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. + +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. + +“A viper!” cried Jean-Marie, running towards him. “A viper! You are +bitten!” + +The Doctor came down heavily out of the cleft, and, advanced in silence +to meet the boy, whom he took roughly by the shoulder. + +“I have found it,” he said, with a gasp. + +“A plant?” asked Jean-Marie. + +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.” + +Jean-Marie saw a dirty platter, coated with earth. + +“That?” said he. “It is a plate!” + +“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. + +“But what is it?” asked the boy. + +“The Treasure of Franchard,” cried the Doctor; and, throwing his brown +straw hat upon the ground, he whooped like an Indian and sprang upon +Jean-Marie, whom he suffocated with embraces and bedewed with tears. +Then he flung himself down among the heather and once more laughed +until the valley rang. + +But the boy had now an interest of his own, a boy’s interest. No sooner +was he released from the Doctor’s accolade than he ran to the boulders, +sprang into the niche, and, thrusting his hand into the crevice, drew +forth one after another, encrusted with the earth of ages, the flagons, +candlesticks, and patens of the hermitage of Franchard. A casket came +last, tightly shut and very heavy. + +“O what fun!” he cried. + +But when he looked back at the Doctor, who had followed close behind +and was silently observing, the words died from his lips. Desprez was +once more the colour of ashes; his lip worked and trembled; a sort of +bestial greed possessed him. + +“This is childish,” he said. “We lose precious time. Back to the inn, +harness the trap, and bring it to yon bank. Run for your life, and +remember—not one whisper. I stay here to watch.” + +Jean-Marie did as he was bid, though not 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. + +“I pay my grateful duties to the genius of this dell,” he said. “O, for +a live coal, a heifer, and a jar of country wine! I am in the vein for +sacrifice, for a superb libation. Well, and why not? We are at +Franchard. English pale ale is to be had—not classical, indeed, but +excellent. Boy, we shall drink ale.” + +“But I thought it was so unwholesome,” said Jean-Marie, “and very dear +besides.” + +“Fiddle-de-dee!” exclaimed the Doctor gaily. “To the inn!” + +And he stepped into the noddy, tossing his 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. + +“Here,” said Desprez—“here, near the table, so that we may keep an eye +upon things.” + +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.” + +“I would rather not,” faltered the boy, true to his training. + +“What?” thundered Desprez. + +“I am afraid of it,” said Jean-Marie: “my stomach—” + +“Take it or leave it,” interrupted Desprez fiercely; “but understand it +once for all—there is nothing so contemptible as a precisian.” + +Here was a new lesson! The boy sat bemused, looking at the glass but +not tasting it, while the Doctor emptied and refilled his own, at first +with clouded brow, but gradually yielding to the sun, the heady, +prickling beverage, and his own predisposition to be happy. + +“Once in a way,” he said at last, by way of a concession to the boy’s +more rigorous attitude, “once in a way, and at so critical a moment, +this ale is a nectar for the gods. The habit, indeed, is debasing; +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.” + +The beer being done, the Doctor chafed bitterly while Jean-Marie +finished his cakes. “I burn to be gone,” he said, looking at his watch. +“Good God, how slow you eat!” And yet to eat slowly was his own +particular prescription, the main secret of longevity! + +His martyrdom, however, reached an end at last; the pair resumed their +places in the buggy, and Desprez, leaning luxuriously back, announced +his intention of proceeding to Fontainebleau. + +“To Fontainebleau?” repeated Jean-Marie. + +“My words are always measured,” said the Doctor. “On!” + +The Doctor was driven through the glades of paradise; the air, the +light, the shining leaves, the very movements of the vehicle, seemed to +fall in tune with his golden meditations; with his head thrown back, he +dreamed a series of sunny visions, ale and pleasure dancing in his +veins. At last he spoke. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” said the boy. + +“You see,” returned the Doctor, with sublime fatuity, “I read your +thoughts! Nor am I surprised—your education is not yet complete; the +higher duties of men have not been yet presented to you fully. 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“But are they not even ours?” the boy said, almost with a sob—it was +the only time he had spoken. + +“Ours in this sense, that they are nobody else’s,” replied the Doctor. +“But the State would have some claim. If they were stolen, for +instance, we should be unable to demand their restitution; we should +have no title; we should be unable even to communicate with the police. +Such is the monstrous condition of the law.[263] It is a mere instance +of what remains to be done, of the injustices that may yet be righted +by an ardent, active, and philosophical deputy.” + +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. + +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. + +“Close the gates, Jean-Marie!” cried the Doctor, somewhat unsteadily +alighting. “Anastasie, where is Aline?” + +“She has gone to Montereau to see her parents,” said madame. + +“All is for the best!” exclaimed the Doctor fervently. “Here, quick, +come near to me; I do not wish to speak too loud,” he continued. +“Darling, we are wealthy!” + +“Wealthy!” repeated the wife. + +“I have found the treasure of Franchard,” 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.” + +“But, my husband; you put me in a whirl,” she cried. “I do not +comprehend.” + +“The turtle, my adored, the turtle!” cried the doctor; and he pushed +her towards the kitchen, lantern and all. + +Jean-Marie stood dumfounded. He had pictured to himself a different +scene—a more immediate protest, and his hope began to dwindle on the +spot. + +The Doctor was everywhere, a little doubtful on his legs, perhaps, and +now and then taking the wall with his shoulder; for it was long since +he had tasted absinthe, and he was even then reflecting that the +absinthe had been a misconception. Not that he regretted excess on such +a glorious day, but he made a mental memorandum to beware; he must not, +a second time, become the victim of a deleterious habit. He had his +wine out of the cellar in a twinkling; he arranged the sacrificial +vessels, some on the white table-cloth, some on the sideboard, still +crusted with historic earth. He was in and out of 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. + +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. + +“But you will not be a Red!” cried Anastasie. + +“I am Left Centre to the core,” replied the Doctor. + +“Madame Gastein will present us—we shall find ourselves forgotten,” +said the lady. + +“Never,” protested the Doctor. “Beauty and talent leave a mark.” + +“I have positively forgotten how to dress,” she sighed. + +“Darling, you make me blush,” cried he. “Yours has been a tragic +marriage!” + +“But your success—to see you appreciated, honoured, your name in all +the papers, that will be more than pleasure—it will be heaven!” she +cried. + +“And once a week,” said the Doctor, archly scanning the syllables, +“once a week—one good little game of baccarat?” + +“Only once a week?” she questioned, threatening him with a finger. + +“I swear it by my political honour,” cried he. + +“I spoil you,” she said, and gave him her hand. + +He covered it with kisses. + +Jean-Marie escaped into the night. The moon swung high over Gretz. 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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +A CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION, IN TWO PARTS. + + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“I have given him a less amount,” observed the Doctor, “his youth +protecting him against emotion. And now that we have thus parried any +morbid consequences, let us reason.” + +“I am so cold,” wailed Anastasie. + +“Cold!” cried the Doctor. “I give thanks to God that I am 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.” + +“Oh, no!” protested Anastasie; “I will stay with you.” + +“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?” + +“Not I,” replied the boy steadily. + +“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.” + +“Good heaven!” cried the horrified Anastasie. “Henri, how can you?” + +“My cherished one, this is a process of induction,” said the Doctor. +“If any of my steps are unsound, correct me. You are silent? Then 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.” + +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. + +“The whole robbery,” concluded the Doctor, “step by step, has been +reconstituted. Inductive science can no further go.” + +“It is wonderful,” said his wife. “You should indeed have been a +detective, Henri. I had no idea of your talents.” + +“My dear,” replied Desprez, condescendingly, “a man of scientific +imagination combines the lesser faculties; he is a 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!” + +“But you always say—at least, so I understood you”—said madame, “that +these lads display no imagination whatever.” + +“My dear, they displayed imagination, and of a very fantastic order, +too,” returned the Doctor, “when they embraced their beggarly +profession. Besides—and this is an argument exactly suited to your +intellectual level—many of them are English and American. Where else +should we expect to 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.” + +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. + +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. + +“You can tell me your story while we eat,” he observed. “Anything good +to-day, Stasie?” + +He was promised something good. The trio sat down to table in the +arbour, Jean-Marie waiting as well as eating, and the Doctor recounted +what had happened in his richest narrative manner. Casimir heard it +with explosions of laughter. + +“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?” + +The Doctor winced and looked furtively at Jean-Marie; but the boy +seemed apathetic. + +“And then again,” broke out Casimir, “what children you are—vicious +children, my faith! How could you tell the value of this trash? It +might have been worth nothing, or next door.” + +“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.” + +“Not entirely ignorant of anything ever I heard of,” interrupted +Casimir, bowing, and raising his glass with a sort of pert politeness. + +“At least,” resumed the Doctor, “I gave my 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. + +“My word of honour!” said Casimir, “I half believe you! But much would +depend on the quality of the gold.” + +“The quality, my dear Casimir, was—” And the Doctor, in default of +language, kissed his finger-tips. + +“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?” + +“None but ourselves,” replied the Doctor. + +“And this young gentleman?” asked Casimir, jerking a nod in the +direction of Jean-Marie. + +“He too’—the Doctor bowed. + +“Well; and if it is a fair question, who is he?” pursued the +brother-in-law. + +“Jean-Marie,” answered the Doctor, “combines 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.” + +“Ha!” said Casimir. “And previous to becoming one of you?” + +“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.” + +“Thieves?” repeated the brother-in-law, with a meditative air. + +The Doctor could have bitten his tongue out. He foresaw what was +coming, and prepared his mind for a vigorous defence. + +“Did you ever steal yourself?” asked Casimir, turning suddenly on +Jean-Marie, and for the first time employing a single eyeglass which +hung round his neck. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, with a deep blush. + +Casimir turned to the others with pursed lips, and nodded to them +meaningly. “Hey?” said he; “how is that?” + +“Jean-Marie is a teller of the truth,” returned the Doctor, throwing +out his bust. + +“He has never told a lie,” added madame. “He is the best of boys.” + +“Never told a lie, has he not?” reflected Casimir. “Strange, very +strange. Give me your attention, my young friend,” he continued. “You +knew about this treasure?” + +“He helped to bring it home,” interposed the Doctor. + +“Desprez, I ask you nothing but to hold your tongue,” returned Casimir. +“I mean to question this stable-boy of yours; 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?” + +“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. + +“You knew where it was put?” resumed the inquisitor. + +“Yes,” from Jean-Marie. + +“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?” + +“Yes,” still lower, from the culprit. + +“Well, then, it was you who stole these things. You know it, and you +dare not deny it. Look me in the face! Raise your sneak’s eyes, and +answer!” + +But in place of anything of that sort Jean-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!” + +“My brother,” said Desprez, with the greatest dignity, “you take upon +yourself a licence—” + +“Desprez,” interrupted Casimir, “for Heaven’s sake be a man of the +world. You telegraph me to leave my business and come down here on +yours. I come, I ask the business, you say ‘Find me this thief!’ Well, +I find him; I say ‘There he is!’ You need not like it, but you have no +manner of right to take offence.” + +“Well,” returned the Doctor, “I grant that; I will even thank you for +your mistaken zeal. But your hypothesis was so extravagantly +monstrous—” + +“Look here,” interrupted Casimir; “was it you or Stasie?” + +“Certainly not,” answered the Doctor. + +“Very well; then it was the boy. Say no more about it,” said the +brother-in-law, and he produced his cigar-case. + +“I will say this much more,” returned Desprez: “if that boy came and +told me so himself, I should not believe him; and if I did believe him, +so implicit is my trust, I should conclude that he had acted for the +best.” + +“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.” + +“My good brother,” replied the Doctor blandly, “I have never denied +your ability in business; but I can perceive your limitations.” + +“Egad, my friend, I can return the compliment,” observed the man of +business. “Your limitation is to be downright irrational.” + +“Observe the relative position,” returned the Doctor with a smile. “It +is 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.” + +“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.” + +And Casimir departed. The Doctor, that night, dissected his character +before Anastasie. “One thing, my beautiful,” he said, “he has learned +one thing from his lifelong acquaintance with your husband: the word +_ratiocinate_. It shines in his vocabulary, like a jewel in a +muck-heap. And, even so, he continually misapplies it. For you must +have observed he uses it as a sort of taunt, in the sense of to +_ergotise_, implying, as it were—the 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“But this inhibition,” said the Doctor, “this embargo—it cannot +possibly apply to me?” + +“To all of us,” Anastasie assured him. + +“My cherished one,” Desprez protested, “you must have misunderstood. It +cannot apply to me. He would naturally come to me.” + +“Henri,” she said, “it does; I swear to you it does.” + +“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.” + +“I knew you would,” she said. “But if you had seen his distress! We +must make allowances, we must sacrifice our feelings.” + +“I trust, my dear, you have never found me averse to sacrifices,” +returned the Doctor very stiffly. + +“And you will let me go and tell him that you have agreed? It will be +like your noble nature,” she cried. + +So it would, he perceived—it would be like his noble nature! Up jumped +his spirits, triumphant at the thought. “Go, darling,” he said nobly, +“reassure him. The subject is buried; more—I make an effort, I have +accustomed my will to these exertions—and it is forgotten.” + +A little after, but still with swollen eyes and looking mortally +sheepish, Jean-Marie reappeared and went ostentatiously 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:— + +“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.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF DESPREZ. + + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Don’t you think you drug him too much?” asked madame, with an +irrepressible shudder. + +“Drug?” cried the Doctor; “I drug? Anastasie, you are mad!” + +Time went on, and the boy’s health still slowly declined. The Doctor +blamed the weather, which was cold and boisterous. He called in his +_confrère_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Run!” he cried, thrusting some wearing apparel into her hands; “the +house is falling! To the garden!” + +She did not pause to be twice bidden; she was down the stair in an +instant. She had never before suspected herself of such activity. The +Doctor meanwhile, with the 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Henri, people will be coming,” she screamed in her husband’s ear. + +“I trust so,” he replied. + +“They cannot. I would rather die,” she wailed. + +“My dear,” said the Doctor reprovingly, “you are excited. I gave you +some clothes. What have you done with them?” + +“Oh, I don’t know—I must have thrown them away! Where are they?” she +sobbed. + +Desprez groped about in the darkness. “Admirable!” he remarked; “my +grey velveteen trousers! This will exactly meet your necessities.” + +“Give them to me!” she cried fiercely; but as soon as she had them in +her hands her mood appeared to alter—she stood silent for a moment, and +then pressed the garment back upon the Doctor. “Give it to Aline,” she +said—“poor girl.” + +“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. + +“It is impossible. You do not understand,” she said with dignity. + +By this time rescue was at hand. It had been found impracticable to +enter by the street, for the gate was blocked with masonry, and the +nodding ruin still threatened further avalanches. But between the +Doctor’s garden and the one on the right hand there was that very +picturesque contrivance—a common well; the door on the Desprez’ side +had chanced to be unbolted, and now, through the arched aperture a +man’s 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. + +“This way!” shouted the man. “Are you all safe?” Aline, still +screaming, ran to the new comer, and was presently hauled head-foremost +through the wall. + +“Now, Anastasie, come on; it is your turn,” said the husband. + +“I cannot,” she replied. + +“Are we all to die of exposure, madame?” thundered Doctor Desprez. + +“You can go!” she cried. “Oh, go, go away! I can stay here; I am quite +warm.” + +The Doctor took her by the shoulders with an oath. + +“Stop!” she screamed. “I will put them on.” + +She took the detested lendings in her hand once more; but her repulsion +was stronger than shame. “Never!” she cried, shuddering, and flung them +far away into the night. + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Henri,” she said, shaking her head, “you are a man; you cannot +understand my feelings; no woman could shake off the memory of so +public a humiliation.” The Doctor could not restrain a titter. “Pardon +me, darling,” he said; “but really, to the philosophical intelligence, +the incident appears so small a trifle. You looked extremely well—” + +“Henri!” she cried. + +“Well, well, I will say no more,” he replied. “Though, to be sure, if +you had consented to indue—_À propos_,” he broke off, “and my trousers! +They are lying in the snow—my favourite trousers!” And he dashed in +quest of Jean-Marie. + +Two hours afterwards the boy returned to the inn with a spade under one +arm and a curious sop of clothing under the other. + +The Doctor ruefully took it in his hands. “They have been!” he said. +“Their tense is past. Excellent pantaloons, you are no more! Stay, +something in the pocket,” and he produced a piece of paper. “A letter! +ay, now I mind me; it was received on the morning of the gale, when I +was absorbed in delicate investigations. It is still legible. From +poor, dear Casimir! It is as well,” he chuckled, “that I have educated +him to patience. Poor Casimir and his correspondence—his infinitesimal, +timorous, idiotic correspondence!” + +He had by this time cautiously unfolded the wet letter; but, as he bent +himself to decipher the writing, a cloud descended on his brow. + +“_Bigre_!” he cried, with a galvanic start. + +And then the letter was whipped into the fire, and the Doctor’s cap was +on his head in the turn of a hand. + +“Ten minutes! I can catch it, if I run,” he cried. “It is always late. +I go to Paris. I shall telegraph.” + +“Henri! what is wrong?” cried his wife. + +“Ottoman Bonds!” came from the disappearing Doctor; and Anastasie and +Jean-Marie were left face to face with the wet trousers. Desprez had +gone to Paris, for the second time in seven years; he had gone to Paris +with a pair of wooden shoes, a knitted spencer, a black blouse, a +country nightcap, and 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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +THE WAGES OF PHILOSOPHY. + + +On the morning of the next day, the Doctor, a mere spectre of himself, +was brought back in the custody of Casimir. They found Anastasie and +the boy sitting together by the fire; and Desprez, who had exchanged +his toilette for a ready-made rig-out of poor materials, waved his hand +as he entered, and sank speechless on the nearest chair. Madame turned +direct to Casimir. + +“What is wrong?” she cried. + +“Well,” replied Casimir, “what have I told you all along? It has come. +It is a 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.” + +“Are we—are we—ruined?” she gasped. + +The Doctor stretched out his arms to her. “Ruined,” he replied, “you +are ruined by your sinister husband.” + +Casimir observed the consequent embrace through his eyeglass; then he +turned to Jean-Marie. “You hear?” he said. “They are ruined; no more +pickings, no more house, no more fat cutlets. It strikes me, my friend, +that you had best be packing; the present speculation is about worked +out.” And he nodded to him meaningly. + +“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?” + +Jean-Marie sobbed bitterly, but without a word. + +“I don’t like boys who cry,” observed Casimir. “This one is always +crying. Here! you clear out of this for a little; I have business with +your master and mistress, and these domestic feelings may be settled +after I am gone. March!” and he held the door open. + +Jean-Marie slunk out, like a detected thief. + +By twelve they were all at table but Jean-Marie. + +“Hey?” said Casimir. “Gone, you see. Took the hint at once.” + +“I do not, I confess,” said Desprez, “I do not seek to excuse his +absence. It speaks a want of heart that disappoints me sorely.” + +“Want of manners,” corrected Casimir. “Heart, he never had. Why, +Desprez, for a clever fellow, you are the most gullible mortal in +creation. 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.” + +“Pardon me,” replied Desprez, still humbly, but with a return of spirit +at sight of a distinction to be drawn; “pardon me, Casimir. You +possess, even to an eminent degree, the commercial imagination. It was +the lack of that in me—it appears it is my weak point—that has led to +these repeated shocks. By the commercial imagination the financier +forecasts the destiny of his investments, marks the falling house—” + +“Egad,” interrupted Casimir: “our friend the stable-boy appears to have +his share of it.” + +The Doctor was silenced; and the meal was continued and finished +principally to the tune of the brother-in-law’s not very consolatory +conversation. He entirely ignored the two young English painters, +turning a blind eyeglass to their salutations, and continuing his +remarks as if he were alone in the 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. + +“Let us go and see the ruins,” said Casimir. + +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. + +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.” + +“We shall start digging to-morrow,” said the sentry. “There is no more +fear of snow.” + +“My friend,” returned Casimir sententiously, “you had better wait till +you get paid.” + +The Doctor winced, and began dragging his offensive brother-in-law +towards Tentaillon’s. In the house there would be fewer auditors, and +these already in the secret of his fall. + +“Hullo!” cried Casimir, “there goes the stable-boy with his luggage; +no, egad, he is taking it into the inn.” + +And sure enough, Jean-Marie was seen to cross the snowy street and +enter Tentaillon’s, staggering under a large hamper. + +The Doctor stopped with a sudden, wild hope. + +“What can he have?” he said. “Let us go and see.” And he hurried on. + +“His luggage, to be sure,” answered Casimir. “He is on the move—thanks +to the commercial imagination.” + +“I have not seen that hamper for—for ever so long,” remarked the +Doctor. + +“Nor will you see it much longer,” chuckled Casimir; “unless, indeed, +we interfere. And by the way, I insist on an examination.” + +“You will not require,” said Desprez, positively with a sob; and, +casting a moist, triumphant glance at Casimir, he began to run. + +“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. + +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. + +“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. + +“You will not go to Paris now,” said Jean-Marie sheepishly. + +“Casimir,” said Desprez, raising his wet face, “do you see that boy, +that angel boy? He is the thief; he took the treasure from a man unfit +to be 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.” + +“_Tiens_,” said Casimir. + +printed by +spottiswoode and co. ltd., new-street square +london + + + + +Footnotes + + +[5] Boggy. + +[15] Clock + +[16] Enjoy. + +[140] To come forrit—to offer oneself as a communicant. + +[144] It was a common belief in Scotland that the devil appeared as a +black man. This appears in several witch trials and I think in Law’s +_Memorials_, that delightful store-house of the quaint and grisly. + +[263] Let it be so, for my tale! + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MERRY MEN *** + +***** This file should be named 344-0.txt or 344-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/344/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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