!
i
J





Noughts and Crosses.





Noughts and Crosses
Stories, Studies and Sketches
0
"Ipsae te, Tityre, pin us,
Ifisi tefonles, ipsa haec arbusta vocabanl"
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited:
LONDOX, PARIS &° MELBOURNE.
i8ci.
[ALL RICiHTS RtSEKVKI). J


IBS)
Two of the following stories were tirst
published in Longman's Magazine; the rest
are selected from a number contributed to
The Speaker. For permission to reprint them
I must sincerely thank the two Editors.
Q.


TO MY WIFE.





CONTENTS.
—- —
The Omnibus ........ 1
Fortunio 7
The Outlandish Ladies 17
Statement of Gabriel Four, Highwayman . . 27
The Return of Joanna 53
Psyche G3
The Countess of Bellarmink .... 73
A Cottage in Troy—
I. A Happt Voyage 8.5
II. These-An'-That's Wife .... 95
III. "Doubles" and Uuits 105
IV. The Boy by the Beach . . . .113
Old .Ebon 123
Stories of Bi.eakirk—
I. The Affair of Bi.eakiiik-onSanhs . . 135
II. The Constant Post-Boy .... 159


CONTENTS.
PAGE
A Dark Mibroh 169
The Small People 175
The Mayor of Gantick ...... 185
The Doctor's Foindi.ing 195
The Gifts or Feoiioh Himkoff ..... 205
Yorkshire Dick 215
The Carol 225
The Paradise of Choice 235
Beside the Bee-Hives 247
The Maoic Shadow . 255


2
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
empty; and when those who remain in town
feel there is not room for a soul more.
We were eleven inside the omnibus when it
pulled up at Charing Cross, so that legally there
was room for just one more. I had travelled
enough in omnibuses to know my fellow-
passengers by heart—a governess with some
sheets of music in her satchel; a minor actress
going to rehearsal; a woman carrying her incur-
able complaint for the hundredth time to the
hospital; three middle-aged city clerks; a
couple of reporters with weak eyes and low
collars; an old loose-cheeked woman exhaling
patchouli; a bald-headed man with hairy hands,
a violent breast-pin, and the indescribable air of
a matrimonial agent. Not a word passed. We
were all failures in life, and could not trouble to
dissemble it, in that heat. Moreover, we were
used to each other, as types if not as persons, and
had lost curiosity. So we sat listless, dispirited,
drawing difficult breath and staring vacuously.
The hope we shared in common—that nobody
would claim the vacant seat—was too obvious to
be discussed.


THE OMNIBUS.
3
But at Charing Cross the twelfth passenger
got in—a boy with a stick, and a bundle in
a blue handkerchief. He was about thir-
teen; bound for the docks, we could tell at
a glance, to sail on his first voyage; and, by the
way he looked about, we could tell as easily that
in stepping outside Charing Cross Station he
had set foot on London stones for the first time.
When we pulled up, he was standing on the
opposite pavement with dazed eyes like a hare's,
wondering at the new world—the hansoms, the
yelling news-boys, the flower-women, the crowd
pushing him this way and that, the ugly shop-
fronts, the hurry and stink and din of it all.
Then, hailing our 'bus, he started to run across
—faltered—almost dropped his bundle—was
snatched by our conductor out of the path of a
running hansom, and hauled on board. His
eyelids were pink and swollen; but he was not
crying, though he wanted to. Instead, he took
a great gulp, as he pushed between our knees to
his seat, and tried to look brave as a lion.
The passengers turned an incurious, half-
resentful stare upon him, and then repented. I
B 2


4 NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
-
think that more than one of us wanted to speak,
but dared not.
It was not so much the little chap's look. But
to the knot of his sea-kit there was tied a bunch
of cottage-flowers—sweet williams, boy's love,
love-lies-bleeding, a few common striped carna-
tions, and a rose or two—and the sight and
smell of them in that frowsy 'bus were like tears
on thirsty eyelids. We had ceased to pity what
we were, but the heart is far withered that
cannot pity what it has been; and it made us
shudder to look on the young face set towards
the road along which we had travelled so far.
Only the minor actress dropped a tear; but she
was used to expressing emotion, and half-way
down the Strand the 'bus stopped and she left
us.
The woman with an incurable complaint
touched me on the knee.
"Speak to him," she whispered.
But the whisper did not reach, for I was two
hundred miles away, and occupied in starting off
to school for the first time. I had two shillings
in my pocket; and at the first town where the


THE OMNIBUS,
5
coach baited I was to exchange these for a
coco-nut and a clasp-knife. Also, I was to
break the knife in opening the nut, and the nut,
when opened, would be sour. A sense of
coming evil, therefore, possessed me.
"Why don't you speak to him?"
The boy glanced up, not catching her words,
but suspicious: then frowned and looked
defiant.
"Ah," she went on in the same whisper, "it's
only the young that I pity. Sometimes, sir—
for my illness keeps me much awake—I lie at
night in my lodgings and listen, and the whole
of London seems filled with the sound of
children's feet running. Even by day I can
hear them, at the back of the uproar"
The matrimonial agent grunted and rose, as
we halted at the top of Essex Street. I saw
him slip a couple of half-crowns into the con-
ductor's hand: and he whispered something,
jerking his head back towards the interior of the
'bus. The boy was brushing his eyes, under
pretence of putting his cap forward; and by the
time he stole a look around to see if anyone had


6
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
observed, we had started again. I pretended to
stare out of the window, but marked the wet
smear on his hand as he laid it on his lap.
In less than a minute it was my turn to
alight. Unlike the matrimonial agent, I had
not two half-crowns to spare; but, catching the
sick woman's eye, forced up courage to nod and
say—
"Good luck, my boy."
"Good day, sir."
A moment after I was in the hot crowd,
whose roar rolled east and west for miles. And at
the back of it, as the woman had said, in street
and side-lane and blind-alley, I heard the foot-
fall of a multitude more terrible than an army
with banners, the ceaseless pelting feet of
children—of Whittingtons turning and turning
again.


FORTUNIO.
At Tregarrick Fair they cook a goose in twenty-
two different ways; and as no one who comes to
the fair would dream of eating any other food,
you may fancy what a reek of cooking fills the
narrow grey street soon after mid-day.
As a boy, I was always given a holiday to go
to the goose-fair; and it was on my way thither
across the moors, that I first made Fortunio's
acquaintance. I wore a new pair of corduroys,
that smelt outrageously—and squeaked, too, as
I trotted briskly along the bleak high road; for
I had a bright shilling to spend, and it burnt a
hole in my pocket. I was planning my pur-
chases, when I noticed, on a windy eminence
of the road ahead, a man's figure sharply defined
against the sky.
He was driving a flock of geese, so slowly
that I soon caught him up; and such a man or
such geese I had never seen. To begin with,
his rags were worse than a scarecrow's. In one


8
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
hand he carried a long staff; the other held a
small book close under his nose, and his lean
shoulders bent over as he read in it. It was
clear, from the man's undecided gait, that all his
eyes were for this book. Only he would look up
when one of his birds strayed too far on the turf
that lined the highway, and would guide it back
to the stones again with his staff. As for the
geese, they were utterly draggle-tailed and
stained with travel, and waddled, every one,
with so woe-begone a limp that I had to laugh
as I passed.
The man glanced up, set his forefinger
between the pages of his book, and turned on
me a long sallow face and a pair of the most
beautiful brown eyes in the world.
"Little boy," he said, in a quick foreign way
—"rosy little boy. You laugh at my geese,
eh?"
No doubt I stared at him like a ninny, for
he went on—
"Little wide-mouthed Cupidon, how you
gaze! Also, by the way, how you smell!"
"It's my corduroys," said I.


FORTUNIO.
9
"Then I discommend your corduroys. But
I approve your laugh. Laugh again—only at
the right matter: laugh at this"
And, opening his book again, he read a long
passage as I walked beside him; but I could
make neither head nor tail of it.
"That is from the ' Sentimental Journey,' by
Laurence Sterne, the most beautiful of your
English wits. Ah, he is more than French!
Laugh at it."
It was rather hard to laugh thus to order;
but suddenly he set me the example, showing
two rows of very white teeth, and fetching from
his hollow chest a sound of mirth so incongruous
with the whole aspect of the man, that I began
to grin too.
"That's right; but be louder. Make the
sounds that you made just now"
He broke off sharply, being seized with an
ugly fit of coughing, that forced him to halt and
lean on his staff for a while. When he recovered
we walked on together after the geese, he talking
all the way in high-flown sentences that were
Greek to me, and I stealing a look every now


10
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
and then at his olive face, and half inclined to
take to my heels and run.
We came at length to the ridge where the
road dives suddenly into Tregarrick. The town
lies along a narrow vale, and looking down, we
saw flags waving along the street and much
smoke curling from the chimneys, and heard
the church-bells, the big drum, and the confused
mutterings and hubbub of the fair. The sun—
for the morning was still fresh—did not yet
pierce to the bottom of the valley, but fell on
the hillside opposite, where cottage-gardens in
parallel strips climbed up from the town to the
moorland beyond.
"What is that?" asked the goose-driver,
touching my arm and pointing to a dazzling
spot on the slope opposite.
"That's the sun on the windows of Gardener
Tonken's glass-house."
"Eh ?—does he live there?"
"He's dead, and the garden's 'to let;' you
can just see the board from here. But he didn't
live there, of course. People don't live in glass-
houses; only plants."


FORTUNIO.
11
"That's a pity, little boy, for their souls'
sakes. It reminds me of a story—by the way,
do you know Latin? No? Well, listen to
this:—if I can sell my geese to-day, perhaps I
will hire that glass-house, and you shall come
there on half holidays, and learn Latin. Now
run ahead and spend your money."
I was glad to escape, and in the bustle of the
fair quickly forgot my friend. But late in the
afternoon, as I had my eyes glued to a peep-
show, I heard a voice behind me cry "Little
boy!" and turning, saw him again. He was
without his geese.
"I have sold them," he said, "for £5; and I
have taken the glass-house. The rent is only
£3 a year, and I shan't live longer, so that leaves
me money to buy books. I shall feed on the
snails in the garden, making soup of them, for
there is a beautiful stove in the glass-house.
When is your next half-holiday?"
"On Saturday."
"Very welL I am going away to buy books;
but I shall be back by Saturday, and then you
are to come and learn Latin."


12
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
It may have been fear or curiosity, certainly
it was no desire for learning, that took me to
Gardener Tonken's glass-house next Saturday
afternoon. The goose-driver was there to wel-
come me.
"Ah, wide-mouth," he cried; "I knew you
would be here. Come and see my library."
He showed me a pile of dusty, tattered
volumes, arranged on an old flower-stand.
"See," said he, "no sorrowful books, only
Aristophanes and Lucian, Horace, Rabelais,
Moliere, Voltaire's novels, 'Gil Bias,' 'Don
Quixote,' Fielding, a play or two of Shakespeare,
a volume or so of Swift, Prior's Poems, and
Sterne—that divine Sterne! And a Latin
Grammar and Virgil for you, little boy. First,
eat some snails."
But this I would not. So he pulled out two
three-legged stools, and very soon I was trying
to fix my wandering wits and decline mensa.
After this I came on every half-holiday for
nearly a year. Of course the tenant of the
glass-house was a nine days' wonder in the town.


FORTUNIO.
13
A crowd of boys and even many grown men
and women would assemble and stare into the
glass-house while we worked; but Fortunio (he
gave no other name) seemed rather to like it
than not. Only when some wiseacres approached
my parents with hints that my studies with a
ragged man who lived on snails and garden-stuff
were uncommonly like traffic with the devil,
Fortunio, hearing the matter, walked over one
morning to our home and had an interview with
my mother. I don't know what was said; but I
know that afterwards no resistance was made to
my visits to the glass-house.
They came to an end in the saddest and
most natural way. One September afternoon I
sat construing to Fortunio out of the first book
of Virgil's "jEneid "—so far was I advanced;
and coming to the passage—
'' Turn breviter Dido, vultum demissa, profatur"
I had just rendered vultum demissa "with
downcast eyes," when the book was snatched
from me and hurled to the far end of the glass-
house. Looking up, I saw Fortunio in a trans-
port of passion.


14
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"Fool—little fool! Will you be like all the
commentators? Will you forget what Virgil
has said and put your own nonsense into his
golden mouth?"
He stepped across, picked up the book,
found the passage, and then turning back a page
or so, read out—
"Saspta armis solioque alte subnixa resedit."
Alte! Alte!" he screamed: "Dido sat on
high^Eneas stood at the foot of her throne.
Listen to this:—' Then Dido, bending down her
gaze . . ."'
He went on translating. A rapture took
him, and the sun beat in through the glass roof,
and lit up his eyes. He was transfigured; his
voice swelled and sank with passion, swelled
again, and then, at the words—
"Quae te tam laeta tulerunt
Saecula? Qui tanti talem genuere parentes?"
it broke, the Virgil dropped from his hand, and
sinking down on his stool he broke into a wild
fit of sobbing.
"Oh, why did I read it? Why did I read
this sorrowful book?" And then checking his


FORTUNIO.
15
sobs, he put a handkerchief to his mouth, took it
away, and looked up at me with dry eyes.
"Go away, little one, Don't come again: I
am going to die very soon now."
I stole out, awed and silent, and went home.
But the picture of him kept me awake that
night, and early in the morning I dressed and
ran off to the glass-house.
He was still sitting as I had left him.
"Why have you come?" he asked, harshly.
"I have been coughing. I am going to die."
"Then I'll fetch a doctor."
"No."
"A clergyman?"
"No."
But I ran for the doctor.
Fortunio lived on for a week after this, and
at length consented to see a clergyman. I
brought the vicar, and was told to leave them
alone together and come back in an hour's time.
When I returned, Fortunio was stretched
quietly on the rough bed we had found for him
and the Vicar, who knelt beside it, was speaking
softly in his ear.


10
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
As I entered on tiptoe, I heard—
"... in that kingdom shall be no
weeping"
"Oh, Parson," interrupted Fortunio, "that's
bad. I'm so bored with laughing that the good
God might surely allow a few tears."
The parish buried him, and his books went
to pay for the funeral. But I kept the Virgil;
and this, with the few memories that I impart
to you, is all that remains to'me of Fortunio.


THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
A mile beyond the fishing village, as you follow
the road that climbs inland towards Tregarrick,
the two tall hills to right and left of the coombe
diverge to make room for a third, set like a
wedge in the throat of the vale. Here the road
branches into two, with a sign-post at the angle;
and between the sign-post and the grey scarp of
the hill there lies an acre of waste ground that
the streams have turned into a marsh. This is
Loose-heels. Long before I learnt the name's
meaning, in the days when I trod the lower road
with slate and satchel, this spot was 9 favourite
of mine—but chiefly in July, when the monkey-
flower was out, and the marsh aflame with it.
There was a spell in that yellow blossom
with the wicked blood-red spots, that held me
its mere slave. Also the finest grew in desper-
ate places. So that, day after day, when July
came round, my mother would cry shame on.
my small-clothes, and my father take exercise
c


18
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
upon them; and all the month I went tingling.
They were pledged to "break me of it"; but
they never did. Now they are dead, and the
flowers—the flowers last always, as Victor Hugo
says. When, after many years, I revisited the
valley, the stream had carried the seeds half a
mile below Loose-heels, and painted its banks
with monkey-blossoms all the way. But the
finest, I was glad to see, still inhabited the
marsh.
Now, it is rare to find this plant growing
wild; for, in fact, it is a garden flower. And its
history here is connected with a bit of mud wall,
ruined and covered with mosses and ragwort,
that still pushed up from the swampy ground
when I knew it, and had once been part of a
cottage. How a cottage came here, and how
its inhabitants entered and went out, are ques-
tions past guessing; for the marsh hemmed it
in on three sides, and the fourth is a slope of
hill fit to break your neck. But there was the
wall, and here is the story.
One morning, near the close of the last


THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
ID
century, a small child came running down to
the village with news that the cottage, which
for ten years had stood empty, was let; there
was smoke coming out at the chimney, and an
outlandish lady walking in the garden. Being
catechised, he added that the lady wore bassomy
bows in her cap, and had accosted him in a
heathen tongue that caused him to flee, fearing
worse things. This being told, two women,
rulers of their homes, sent their husbands up
the valley to spy, who found the boy had spoken
truth.
Smoke was curling from the chimney, and
in the garden the lady was still moving about—
a small yellow creature, with a wrinkled but
pleasant face, white curls, and piercing black
eyes. She wore a black gown, cut low in the
neck, a white kerchief, and bassomy (or purplish)
bows in her cap as the child had stated. Just
at present she was busy with a spade, and
showed an ankle passing neat for her age, as
she turned up the neglected mould. When the
men plucked up gallantry enough to offer their
services, she smiled and thanked them in
c 2


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
broken English, but said that her small forces
would serve.
So they went back to their wives; and their
wives, recollecting that the cottage formed part
of the glebe, went off to inquire of Parson Morth,
"than whom," as the tablet to his memory re-
lates, "none was better to castigate the manners
of the age." He was a burly, hard-riding ruffian,
and the tale of his great fight with Gipsy Ben in
Launceston streets is yet told on the country-
side.
Parson Morth wanted to know if he couldn't
let his cottage to an invalid lady and her sister
without consulting every wash-mouth in the
parish.
"Aw, so there's two!" said one of them,
nodding her head. "But tell us, Parson dear,
ef 'tes fitty for two unmated women to come
trapesing down in a po'shay at dead o' night,
when all modest flesh be in their bed-gowns?"
Upon this the Parson's language became
grossly indelicate, after the fashion of those
days. He closed his peroration by slamming
the front door on his visitors; and they went


THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
21
down the hill "blushing" (as they said) "all over,
at his intimate words."
So nothing more was known of the strangers.
But it was noticed that Parson Morth, when he
passed the cottage on his way to meet or
market, would pull up his mare, and, if the out-
landish lady were working in the garden, would
doff his hat respectfully.
"Bon jour, Mamzelle Henriette "—this was
all the French the Parson knew. And the lady
would smile back and answer in English.
"Good-morning, Parson Morth."
"And Mamzelle Lucille?"
"Ah, just the same, my God' All the day
stare—stare. If you had known her before !—
so be-eautiful, so gifted, si Men tievie! It is an
affliction: but I think she loves the flowers."
And the Parson rode on with a lump in his
throat.
So two years passed, during which Made-
moiselle Henriette tilled her garden and turned
it into a paradise. There were white roses on
the south wall, and in the beds mignonette and


22
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
boy's-love, pansies, carnations, gillyflowers, sweet-
williams, and flaming great hollyhocks; above
all, the yellow monkey-blossoms that throve so
well in the marshy soil. And all that while no
one had caught so much as a glimpse of her
sister, Lucille. Also how they lived was a
marvel . The outlandish lady bought neither
fish, nor butcher's meat, nor bread. To be sure,
the Parson sent down a pint of milk every
morning from his dairy; the can was left at the
garden-gate and fetched at noon, when it was
always found neatly scrubbed, with the price of
the milk inside. Besides, there was a plenty of
vegetables in the garden.
But this was not enough to avert the whisper
of witchcraft. And one day, when Parson Morth
had ridden off to the wrestling matches at
Exeter, the blow fell.
Farmer Anthony of Carne — great-grand-
father of the present farmer—had been losing
sheep. Now, not a man in the neighbour-
hood would own to having stolen them; so
what so easy to suspect as witchcraft? Who
so fatally open to suspicion as the two out-


THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
23
landish sisters? Men, wives, and children
formed a procession.
The month was July; and Mademoiselle
Henriette was out in the garden, a bunch of
monkey-flowers in her hand, when they arrived.
She turned all white, and began to tremble like
a leaf. But when the spokesman stated the
charge, there was another tale.
"It was an infamy. Steal! She would have
them know that she and her sister were of good
West Indian family—Ms bien dlevies." Then
followed a torrent of epithets. They were Idehes
—poltrons. Why were they not fighting Bona-
parte, instead of sending their wives up to the
cliffs, dressed in red cloaks, to scare him away,
while they bullied weak women?
They pushed past her. The cottage held
two rooms on the ground floor. In the kitchen,
which they searched first, they found only some
garden-stuff and a few snails salted in a pan.
There was a door leading to the inner room, and
the foremost had his hand on it, when Made-
moiselle Henriette rushed before him, and
flung herself at his feet. The yellow monkey-


THE OUTLANDISH LADIES.
25
"to-morrow I march every man Jack of you up
to the valley, if it's by the scruff of your necks,
and in the presence of both of those ladies—of
both, mark you—you shall kneel down and ask
them to come to church. I don't care if I
empty the building. Your fathers (who were
men, not curs) built the south transept for those
same poor souls, and cut a slice in the chancel
arch through which they might see the Host
lifted. That's where you sit, Jim Trestrail,
churchwarden; and by the Lord Harry, they
shall have your pew."
He marched them up the very next morn-
ing. He knocked, but no one answered. After
waiting a while, he put his shoulder against the
door, and forced it in.
There was no one in the kitchen. In the
inner room one sister sat in the arm-chair. It
was Mademoiselle Henriette, cold and stiff. Her
dead hands were stained with earth.
At the back of the cottage they came on a
freshly-formed mound, and stuck on the top of
it a piece of slate, such as children erect over a
thrush's grave.


26
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
On it was scratched—
Çi-Oît
Lucille,
Jadis si Belle;
Dont dix-neuf Jeunes Hommes, Planteurs de
Saint Doming ue.
ont demandé la Main.
Mais La Petite ne Voulait Pas.
s. I. P.
This is the story of Loose-heels, otherwise
Lucille's.


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT,
HIGHWAYMAN.
The jury re-entered the court after half an
hour's consultation.
It all comes back to me as vividly as though
I stood in the dock at this very moment. The
dense fog that hung over the well of the court;
the barristers' wigs that bobbed up through it,
and were drowned again in that seething caul-
dron; the rays of the guttering candles (for the
murder-trial had lasted far into the evening)
that loomed through it and wore a sickly halo;
the red robes and red face of my lord judge
opposite that stared through it and outshone the
candles; the black crowd around, seen mistily;
the voice of the usher calling "Silence!";
the shuffling of the jurymen's feet; the pallor
on their faces as I leant forward and tried to
read the verdict on them; the very smell of
the place, compounded of fog, gaol-fever, the
close air, and the dinners eaten earlier in the


28
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
day by the crowd—all this strikes home upon
me as sharply as it then did, after the numb
apathy of waiting.
As the jury huddled into their places I stole
a look at my counsel. He paused for a moment
from his task of trimming a quill, shot a quick
glance at the foreman's face, and then went on
cutting as coolly as ever.
"Gentlemen of the jury"—it was the judge's
voice—" are you agreed upon your verdict?"
"We are."
"Do you find the prisoner guilty or not
guilty?"
"Not guilty."
It must have been full a minute, as I leant
back clutching the rail in front of me, before
I saw anything but the bleared eyes of the
candles, or heard anything but a hoarse murmur
from the crowd. But as soon as the court
ceased to heave, and I could stare about me,
I looked towards my counsel again.
. He was still shaping his pen. He made no
motion to come forward and shake hands over
my acquittal, for which he had worked un-


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT.
29
tiringly all day. He did not even offer to
speak. He just looked up, nodded carelessly,
and turned to his junior beside him; but in
that glance I had read something which turned
my heart cold, then sick, within me, and from
that moment my hatred of the man was as deep
as hell.
In the fog outside I got clear of the gaping
crowd, but the chill of the night after that
heated court pierced my very bones. I had
on the clothes I had been taken in. It was
June then, and now it was late in October. I
remember that on the day when they caught
me I wore my coat open for coolness. Four
months and a half had gone out of my life.
Well, I had money enough in my pocket to
get a greatcoat; but I must put something
warm inside me first, to get out the chill that
cursed lawyer had laid on my heart.
I had purposely chosen the by-lanes of the
town, but I remembered a certain tavern—the
"Lamb and Flag "—which lay down a side alley.
Presently the light from its windows struck


30
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
across the street, ahead. I pushed open the
door and entered.
The small bar was full of people newly come
from the court, and discussing the trial in all
its bearings. In the babel I heard a dozen
different opinions given in as many seconds,
and learnt enough, too, to make me content
with the jury I had had. But the warmth of
the place was pleasant, and I elbowed my way
forward to the counter.
There was a woman standing by the door as I
entered, who looked curiously at me for a moment,
then turned to nudge a man at her side, and
whisper. The whisper grew as I pressed for-
ward, and before I could reach the counter a hand
was laid on my shoulder from behind. I turned.
"Well?" said I.
It was a heavy-looking drover that had
touched me.
"Are you the chap that was tried to-day for
murder of Jeweller Todd ?" he asked.
"Well?" said I again, but I could see the
crowd falling back, as if I was a leper, at his
question.


STATEMENT OF QABRtEL FOOT.
31
"Well? 'T aint well then, as I reckon, to
be making so free with respectable folk."
There was a murmur of assent from the
mouths turned towards me. The landlord
came forward from behind the bar.
"I was acquitted," I urged defiantly.
"Ac-quitted!" said he, with big scorn in the
syllables. "Hear im now—' ac-quitted!' Land-
lord, is this a respectable house?"
The landlord gave his verdict.
"H'out yer goes, and damn yer impudence!"
I looked round, but their faces were all dead
against me.
"H'out yer goes!" repeated the landlord.
"And think yerself lucky it aint worse," added
the drover.
With no further defence I slunk out into the
night once more.
A small crowd of children (Heaven knows
whence or how they gathered) followed me up
the court and out into the street. Their num-
bers swelled as I went on, and some began to
hoot and pelt me; but when I gained the top
of the hill, and a lonelier district, I turned


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
and struck among them with my stick. It did
my heart good to hear their screams.
After that I was let alone, and tramped
forward past the scattered houses, towards the
open country and the moors. Up here there
was scarcely any fog, but I could see it, by
the rising moon, hanging like a shroud over
the town below. The next town was near upon
twelve miles off, but L do not remember that
I thought of getting so far. I could not have
thought at all, in fact, or I should hardly have
taken the high-road upon which the jeweller
had been stopped and murdered.
There was a shrewd wind blowing, and I
shivered all over; but the cold at my heart
was worse, and my hate of the man who had
set it there grew with every step. I thought
of the four months and more which parted the
two lives of Gabriel Foot, and what I should
make of the new one. I had my chance again—
a chance gained for me beyond hope by that
counsel but for whom I should be sleeping
to-night in the condemned cell; a chance,
and a good chance, but for that same cursed


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT. 33
lawyer. Ugh! how cold it was, and how I
hated him for it!
There was a little whitewashed cottage on
the edge of the moorland just after the hedge-
rows ceased—the last house before the barren
heath began, standing a full three hundred
yards from any other dwelling. Its front faced
the road, and at the back an outhouse and a
wretched garden jutted out on the waste land.
There was a light in each of its windows to-
night, and as I passed down the road I heard
the dismal music of a flute.
Perhaps it was this that jogged my thoughts
and woke them up to my present pass. At any
rate, I had not gone more than twenty yards
before I turned and made for the door. The
people might give me a night's lodging in the
outhouse; at any rate, they would not refuse a
crust to stay the fast which I had not broken
since the morning. I tapped gently with my
knuckles on the door, and listened.
I waited five minutes, and no one answered.
The flute still continued its melancholy tune;
it was evidently in the hands of a learner, for
D


o4
NOXfGHtS AMD CttOSSES.
the air (a dispiriting one enough at the best)
kept breaking off suddenly and repeating itself.
But the performer had patience, and the sound
never ceased for more than two seconds at a
time. Besides this, nothing could be heard.
The blinds were drawn in all the windows.
The glow of the candles through them was
cheerful enough, but nothing could be seen
of the house inside. I knocked a second time,
and a third, with the same result. Finally,
tired of this, I pushed open the low gate which
led into the garden behind, and stole round to
the back of the cottage.
Here, too, the window on the ground floor
was lit up behind its blinds, but that of the
room above was shuttered. There was a hole
in the shutter, however, where a knot of the
wood had fallen out, and a thin shaft of light
stretched across the blackness and buried itself
in a ragged yew-tree at the end of the garden.
From the loudness of the sounds I judged this
to be the room where the flute-playing was
going on. The crackling of my footsteps on
the thin soil did not disturb the performer, so


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT. 35
I gathered a handful of earth and pitched it
up against the pane. The flute stopped for a
minute or so, but just as I was expecting to
see the shutter open, went on again: this time
the air was "Pretty Polly Oliver."
I crept back again, and began to hammer
more loudly at the door. "Come," said I, "who-
ever this may be inside, I'll see for myself at
any rate," and with that I lifted the latch and
gave the door a heavy kick. It flew open quite
easily (it had not even been locked), and I found
myself in a low kitchen. The room was empty,
but the relics of supper lay on the deal table,
and the remains of what must have been a
noble fire were still smouldering on the hearth-
stone. A crazy, rusty blunderbuss hung over
the fireplace. This, with a couple of rough
chairs, a broken bacon-rack, and a small side-
table, completed the furniture of the place.
No; for as I sat down to make a meal off the
remnants of supper, something lying on the
lime-ash floor beneath this side-table caught
my eye. I stepped forward and picked it up.
It was a barrister's wig.
D 2


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"This is a queer business," thought I; and
I laid it on the table opposite me as I went
on with my supper. It was a "gossan" wig,
as we call it in our parts; a wig grown yellow
and rusty with age and wear. It looked so sly
and wicked as it lay there, and brought back
the events of the day so sharply that a queer
dread took me of being discovered with it. I
pulled out my pistol, loaded it (they had given
me back both the powder and pistol found on
me when I was taken), and laid it beside my
plate. This done, I went on with my supper—
it was an excellent cold capon—and all the
time the flute up-stairs kept toot-tootling with-
out stopping, except to change the tune. It
gave me "Hearts of Oak," "Why, Soldiers,
why?" "Like Hermit Poor," and "Come, Lasses
and Lads," before I had fairly cleared the
dish.
"And now," thought I, " I have had a good
supper; but there are still three things to be
done. In the first place I want drink, in the
second I want a bed, and in the third I want
to thank this kind person, whoever he is, for


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT.
37
his hospitality. I'm not going to begin life
No. 2 with housebreaking."
I rose, slipped the pistol into my tail-pocket,
and followed the sound up the ramshackle stairs.
My footsteps made such a racket on their old
timbers as fairly to frighten me, but it never
disturbed the flute-player. He had harked back
again to " Like Hermit Poor" by this time, and
the dolefulness of it was fit to make the dead
cry out, but he went whining on until I reached
the head of the stairs and struck a rousing
knock on the door.
The playing stopped. "Come in," said a
cheery voice; but it gave me no cheerfulness.
Instead of that, it sent all the comfort of my
supper clean out of me, as I opened the door
and saw him sitting there.
There he was, the man who had saved my
neck that day, and whom most I hated in the
world, sitting before a snug fire, with his flute
on his knee, a glass of port wine at his elbow,
and looking so comfortable, with that knowing
light in his grey eyes, that I could have killed
him where he sat,


38
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he said, just the very
least bit surprised and no more. "Come in."
I stood in the doorway hesitating.
"Don't stay letting in that monstrous draught,
man; but sit down. You'll find the bottle on
the table and a glass on the shelf."
I poured out a glassful and drank it off.
The stuff was rare (I can remember its trick
on the tongue to this day), but somehow it did
not drive the cold out of my heart. I took
another glass, and sat sipping it and staring
from the fire to my companion.
He had taken up the flute again, and was
blowing a few deep notes out of it, thoughtfully
enough. He was a small, squarely-built man,
with a sharp ruddy face like a frozen pippin,
heavy grey eyebrows, and a mouth like a trap
when it was not pursed up for that everlasting
flute. As he sat there with his wig off, the
crown of his bald head was fringed with an
obstinate-looking patch of hair, the colour of a
badger's. My amazement at finding him here
at this hour, and alone, was lost in my hatred of
the man as I saw the depths of complacent


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT. 39
knowledge in his face. I felt that I must
kill him sooner or later, and the sooner the
better.
Presently he laid down his flute again and
spoke:—
"I scarcely expected you."
I grunted something in answer.
"But I might have known something was
up, if I'd only paid attention to my flute. It
and I are not in harmony to-night. It doesn't
like the secrets I've been blowing into it; it has
heard a lot of queer things in its time, but it's
an innocent-minded flute for all that, and I'm
afraid that what I've told it to-night is a point
beyond what it's prepared to go."
"I take it, it knows a damned deal too much,"
growled I.
He looked at me sharply for an instant, rose,
whistled a bar or two of "Like Hermit Poor,"
reached down a couple of clay pipes from the
shelf, filled one for himself, and gravely handed
the other with the tobacco to me.
"Beyond what it is prepared to go," he
echoed quietly, sinking back in his chair and


40
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
puffing at the pipe. "It's a nice point that we
have been discussing together, my flute and I,
and I won't say but that I've got the worst of
it. By the way, what do you mean to do now
that you have a fresh start?"
Now I had not tasted tobacco for over four
months, and its effect upon my wits was surpris-
ing. It seemed to oil my thoughts till they
worked without a hitch, and I saw my plan of
action marked out quite plainly before me.
"Do you want to know the first step of all?"
I asked.
"To be sure; the first step at any rate
determines the direction."
"Well then," said I, very steadily, and staring
into his face, "the first step of all is that I am
going to kill you."
"H'm," said he after a bit, and I declare that
not so much as an eyelash of the man shook, " I
thought as much. I guessed that when you
came into the room. And what next?"
"Time enough then to think of 'what
next,'" I answered; for though I was set upon
blowing his brains out, I longed for him to blaze


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT.
41
out into a passion and warm up my blood for
the job.
"Pardon me," he said, as coolly as might be,
"that would be the very worst time to think of
it. For, just consider: in the first place you will
already be committed to your way of life, and
secondly, if I know anything about you, you
would be far too much flurried for any thought
worth the name."
There was a twinkle of frosty humour in his
eye as he said this, and in the silence which
followed I could hear him chuckling to himself,
and tasting the words over again as though they
were good wine. I sat fingering my pistol and
waiting for him to speak again. When he did
so, it was with another dry chuckle and a long
puff of tobacco smoke.
"As you say, I know a deal too much. Shall
I tell you how much?"
"Yes, you may if you'll be quick about it."
"Very well, then, I will. Do you mind pass-
ing the bottle? Thank you. I probably know
not only too much, but a deal more than you
guess. First let us take the case for the Crown.


42
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
The jeweller is travelling by coach at night over
the moors. He has one postillion only, Roger
Tallis by name, and by character shady. The
jeweller has money (he was a niggardly fool to
take only one postillion), and carries a diamond
of great, or rather of an enormous and notable
value (he was a bigger fool to take this). In the
dark morning two horses come galloping back,
frightened and streaming with sweat. A search
party goes out, finds the coach upset by the
Four Holed Cross, the jeweller lying beside it
with a couple of pistol bullets in him, and the
money, the diamond, and Roger Tallis—no-
where. So much for the murdered man. Two
or three days after, you, Gabriel Foot, by charac-
ter also shady, and known to be a friend of
Roger Tallis, are whispered to have a suspicious
amount of money about you, also blood-stains
on your coat. It further leaks out that you
were travelling on the moors afoot on the night
in question, and that your pistols are soiled with
powder. Case for the Crown closes. Have I
stated it correctly?"
I nodded; he took a sip or two at his wine,


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT.
43
laid down his pipe as if the tobacco spoiled
the taste of it, took another sip, and con-
tinued :—
"Case for the defence. That Roger Tallis
has decamped, that no diamond has been found
on you (or anywhere), and lastly that the
bullets in the jeweller's body do not tit your
pistols, but came from a larger pair. Not very
much of a case, perhaps, but this last is a strong
point."
"Well 1" I asked, as he paused.
"Now then for the facts of the case. Would
you oblige me by casting a look over there in
the corner?"
"I see nothing but a pickaxe and shovel."
"Ha! very good; 'nothing but a pickaxe
and shovel.' Well, to resume: facts of the case
—Roger Tallis murders the jeweller, and you
murder Roger Tallis; after that, as you say,
'nothing but a pickaxe and shovel.'"
And with this, as I am a living sinner, the
rosy-faced old boy took up his flute and blew a
stave or two of " Come, Lasses and Lads."
"Did you dig him up?" I muttered hoarsely;


44
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
and although deathly cold I could feel a drop of
sweat trickling down my forehead and into my
eye.
"What, before the trial? My good sir, you
have a fair, a very fair, aptitude for crime, but
believe me, you have much to learn both ol
legal etiquette and of a lawyer's conscience."
And for the first time since I came in I saw
something like indignation on his ruddy face.
"Now," he continued, "I either know too
much or not enough. Obviously I know enough
for you to wish, and perhaps wisely, to kill me.
The question is, whether I know enough to
make it worth your while to spare me. I think
I do; but that is for you to decide. If I .put
you to-night, and in half an hour's time, in
possession of property worth ten thousand
pounds, will that content you?"
"Come, come," I said, "you need not try to
fool me, nor think I am going to let you out of
my sight."
"You misunderstand. I desire neither; I only
wish a bargain. I am ready to pledge you my
word to make no attempt to escape before you


STATEMENT OP GABRIEL FOOT. 45
are in possession of that property, and to offer
no resistance to your shooting me in case you
fail to obtain it, provided on the other hand you
pledge your word to spare my life should you
succeed within half an hour. And, my dear sir,
considering the relative value of your word and
mine, I think it must be confessed you have the
better of the bargain."
I thought for a moment. "Very well then,"
said I, " so be it; but if you fail"
"I know what happens," replied he.
With that he blew a note or two on his flute,
took it to pieces, and carefully bestowed it in the
tails of his coat. I put away my pistol in mine.
"Do you mind shouldering that spade and
pickaxe, and following me?" he asked. I took
them up in silence. He drained his glass and
put on his hat.
"Now I think we are ready. Stop a
moment."
He reached across for the glass which I had
emptied, took it up gingerly between thumb and
forefinger, and tossed it with a crash on to the
hearthstone. He then did the same to my pipe,


46
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
after first snapping the stem into halves. This
done, he blew out one candle, and with great
gravity led the way down the staircase. I
shouldered the tools and followed, while my
heart hated him with a fiercer spite than
ever.
We passed down the crazy stairs and through
the kitchen. The candles were still burning
there. As my companion glanced at the supper-
table, " H'm," he said, "not a bad beginning of a
new leaf. My friend, I will allow you exactly
twelve months in which to get hanged."
I made no answer, and we stepped out into
the night. The moon was now up, and the
high-road stretched like a white ribbon into the
gloom. The cold wind bore up a few heavy
clouds from the north-west, but for the most
part we could see easily enough. We trudged
side by side along the road in silence, except
that I could hear my companion every now and
then whistling softly to himself.
As we drew near to the Four Holed Cross
and the scene of the murder I confess to an
uneasy feeling and a desire to get past the place


46
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
down to the Lime Kilns and the thinly wooded
stream that washed the valley below. We
followed this track for ten minutes or so, and
presently the masonry of the disused kilns
peered out, white in the moonlight, from
between the trees.
There were three of these kilns standing
close together beside the path; but my com-
panion without hesitation pulled up almost
beneath the very arch of the first, peered about,
examined the ground narrowly, and then
motioned to me.
"Dig here."
"If we both know well enough what is
underneath, what is the use of digging?"
"I very much doubt if we do," said he.
"You had better dig."
I can feel the chill creeping down my back
as I write of it; but at the time, though I well
knew the grisly sight which I was to discover, I
dug away steadily enough. The man who had
surprised my secret set himself down on a dark
bank of ferns at about ten paces' distance, and


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT.
49
began to whistle softly, though I could see his
fingers fumbling with his coat-tails as though
they itched to be at the flute again.
The moon's rays shone fitfully upon the
white face of the kiln, and lit up my work. The
- little stream rushed noisily below. And so, with
this hateful man watching, I laid bare the lime-
burnt remains of the comrade whom, almost five
months before, I had murdered and buried
there. How I had then cursed my luck be-
cause forced to hide his corpse away before
I could return and search for the diamond
I had failed to find upon his body! But
as I tossed the earth and lime aside, and dis-
covered my handiwork, the moon's rays were
suddenly caught and reflected from within
the pit, and I fell forward with a short gasp
of delight.
For there, kindled into quick shafts and
points of colour—violet, green, yellow, and
fieriest red—lay the missing diamond among
Roger's bones. As I clutched the gem a black
shadow fell between the moon and me. I
looked up. My companion was standing over
E


50
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
me, with the twinkle still in his eye and the flute
in his hand.
"You were a fool not to guess that he had
swallowed it. I hope you are satisfied with the
bargain. As we are not, I trust, likely to meet
again in this world, I will here bid you Adieu,
though possibly that is scarcely the word to use.
But there is one thing I wish to tell you. I owe
you a debt to-night for having prevented me
from committing a crime. You saw that I had
the spade and pickaxe ready in the cottage.
Well, I confess I lusted for that gem. I was
arguing out the case with my flute when you
came in."
"If," said I, " you wish a share"
"Another word," he interrupted very gravely,
"and I shall be forced to think that you insult
me. As it is, I am grateful to you for support-
ing my flute's advice at an opportune moment.
I will now leave you. Two hours ago I was in
a fair way of becoming a criminal. I owe it to
you, and to my flute, that I am still merely a
lawyer. Farewell!"
With that he turned on his heel and was


STATEMENT OF GABRIEL FOOT. 51
gone with a swinging stride up the path and
across the moor. His figure stood out upon the
sky-line for a moment, and then vanished. But
I could hear for some time the tootle-tootle of
his flute in the distance, and it struck me that
its note was unusually sprightly and clear.
E 2





THE RETURN OF JOANNA.
High and low, rich and poor, in Troy Town
there are seventy-three maiden ladies. Under
this term, of course, I include only those who
may reasonably be supposed to have forsworn
matrimony. And of the seventy-three, the two
Misses Lefanu stand first, as well from their
age and extraction (their father was an Admiral
of the Blue) as because of their house, which
stands in Fore Street and is faced with polished
Luxulyan granite—the same that was used for
the famous Duke of Wellington's coffin in St.
Paul's Cathedral.
Miss Susan Lefanu is eighty-five; Miss
Charlotte has just passed seventy-six. They
are extremely small, and Miss Bunce looks
after them. That is to say, she dresses them of
a morning, arranges their chestnut "fronts,"
sets their caps straight, and takes them down to
breakfast. After dinner (which happens in the
middle of the day) she dresses them again and


54
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
conducts them for a short walk along the Rope-
walk, which they call "the Esplanade." In the
evening she brings out the Bible and sets it the
right way up for Miss Susan, who begins to medi-
tate on her decease; then sits down to a game
of icarti with Miss Charlotte, who as yet has
not turned her thoughts upon mortality. At
ten she puts them to bed. Afterwards, "the
good Bunce "—who is fifty, looks like a grena-
dier, and wears a large mole on her chin—takes
up a French novel, fastened by a piece of
elastic between the covers of Baxter's "Saint's
Rest," and reads for an hour before retiring.
Her pay is fifty-two pounds a year, and her
attachment to the Misses Lefanu a matter of
inference rather than perception.
One morning in last May, at nine o'clock,
when Miss Bunce had just arranged the pair in
front of their breakfast-plates, and was sitting
down to pour out the tea, two singers came
down the street, and their voices—a man's and
a woman's—though not young, accorded very
prettily:—


THE RETURN OF JOANNA.
55
"Citizens, toss your pens away!
For all the world is mad to-day—
Cuckoo—cuckoo!
The world is mad to-day."
"What unusual words for a pair of street
singers!" Miss Bunce murmured, setting down
the tea-pot. But as Miss Charlotte was busy
cracking an egg, and Miss Susan in a sort of
coma, dwelling perhaps on death and its terrors,
the remark went unheeded.
"Citizens, doff your coats of black,
And dress to suit the almanack—
Cuckoo—"
The voices broke off, and a rat-tat sounded
on the front door.
"Say that we never give to beggars, under
any circumstances," murmured Miss Susan,
waking out of her lethargy.
The servant entered with a scrap of crumpled
paper in her hand. "There was a woman at the
door who wished to see Miss Lefanu."
"Say that we never give "Miss Susan
began again, fumbling with the note. "Bunce,


56
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
I have on my gold-rimmed spectacles, and can-
not read with them, as you know. The black-
rimmed pair must be up-stairs, on the"
"How d'ye do, my dears?" interrupted a
brisk voice. In the doorway stood a plump
middle-aged woman, nodding her head rapidly.
She wore a faded alpaca gown, patched here and
there, a shawl of shepherd's plaid stained with
the weather, and a nondescript bonnet. Her
face was red and roughened, as if she lived much
out of doors.
"How d'ye do?" she repeated "I'm Joanna."
Miss Bunce rose, and going discreetly to the
window, pretended to gaze into the street.
Joanna, as she knew, was the name of the old
ladies' only step-sister, who had eloped from
home twenty years before, and (it was whis-
pered) had disgraced the family. As for the
Misses Lefanu, being unused to rise without
help, they spread out their hands as if stretch-
ing octaves on the edge of the table, and feebly
stared.
"Joanna," began the elder, tremulously, "if
you have come to ask charity"


THE RETURN OF JOANNA.
57
"Bless your heart, no! What put that into
your head?" She advanced and took the chair
which Miss Bunce had left, and resting her
elbows on the table, regarded her sisters steadily.
"What a preposterous age you both must be,
to be sure! My husband's waiting for me out-
side."
"Your husband?" Miss Charlotte quavered.
"Why, of course. Did you suppose, because
I ran away to act, that I wasn't an honest
woman?" She stretched out her left hand;
and there was a thin gold ring on her third
finger. "He isn't much of an actor, poor dear.
In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he has
been hissed off two-and-thirty stages in Great
Britain alone. Indeed, he's the very worst
actor I ever saw, although I don't tell him.
But as a husband he's sublime."
"Are there "Miss Charlotte began, and
broke down. "Are there," she tried again, " are
there—any—children?"
"Ah, my dear, if there were, I might be
tempted to repent."
"Don't you?" jerked out Miss Bunce,


68
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
turning abruptly from the window. There was
a certain sharp emotion in the question, but her
face was in the shadow. Joanna regarded her
for a moment or two and broke into a laugh.
"My dears, I have been an actress and a
mother. I retain the pride of both,—though
my little one died at three months, and no
manager will engage me now, because I refuse
to act unless my husband has a part. Theoreti-
cally, he is the first of artists; in practice
You were asking, however, if I repent. Well,
having touched the two chief prizes within a
woman's grasp, I hardly see how it is likely. I
perceive that the object of my visit has been
misinterpreted. To be frank, I came to gloat
over you."
"Your step-sisters are at least respectable,"
Miss Bunce answered.
"Let us grant that to be a merit," retorted
Joanna: "Do I understand you to claim the
credit of it?"
"They are very clean, though," she went on,
looking from one to the other, " and well pre-
served. Susan, I notice, shows signs of failing;


THE RETURN OF JOANNA.
59
she has dropped her spectacles into the tea-
cup. But to what end, Miss"
"Bunce."
"To what end, Miss Bunce, are you preserv-
ing them?"
"Madam, when you entered the room I was
of your way of thinking. Book after hook that
I read"—Miss Bunce blushed at this point—
"has displayed before me the delights of that
quick artistic life that you glory in following.
I have eaten out my heart in longing. But now
that I see how it coarsens a women—for it is
coarse to sneer at age, in spite of all you may
say about uselessness being no better for being
protracted over much time"
"You are partly right," Joanna interrupted,
"although you mistake the accident for the
essence. I am only coarse when confronted by
respectability. Nevertheless, I am glad if I
reconcile you to your lot."
"But the point is," insisted Miss Bunce,
"that a lady never forgets herself."
"And you would argue that the being liable
to forget myself is only another development of


60
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
that very character by virtue of which I follow
Art. Ah, well"—she nodded towards her step-
sisters—" I ask you why they and I should be
daughters of one father?"
She rose and stepped to the piano in the
corner. It was a tall Collard, shaped, above the
key-board, like a cupboard. After touching the
notes softly, to be sure they were in tune, she
drew over a chair, and fell to playing Schumann's
"Warum?" very tenderly. It was a tinkling
instrument, but perhaps her playing gained
pathos thereby, before such an audience. At
the end she turned round: there were tears in
her eyes.
"You used to play the 'Osborne Quadrilles'
very nicely," observed Miss Susan, suddenly.
"Your playing has become very—very"
"Disreputable," suggested Joanna.
"Well, not exactly. I was going to say 'un-
intelligible.'"
"It's the same thing." She rose, kissed her
step-sisters, and walked out of the room without
a look at Miss Bunce.'
"Poor Joanna!" observed Miss Susan, after


THE RETURN OF JOANNA.
61
a minute's silence. "She has aged very much.
I really must begin to think of my end."
Outside, in the street, Joanna's husband was
waiting for her—a dark, ragged man, with a
five-act expression of face.
"Don't talk to me for a while," she begged.
"I have been among ghosts."
"Ghosts?"
"They were much too dull to be real: and
yet Oh, Jack, I feel glad for the first time
that our child was taken! I might have left
him there."
"What shall we sing?" asked the man,
turning his face away.
"Something pious," Joanna answered with
an ugly little laugh, " since we want our dinner.
The public has still enough honesty left to pity
piety." She stepped out into the middle of the
street, facing her sisters' windows, and began,
the man's voice chiming in at the third bar—
"In the sweet by-and-bye
We shall meet on that be—yeautiful shore." . .





PSYCHE.
"Among these million Suns how shall the
strayed Soul find her way back to earth?"
The man was an engine-driver, thick-set and
heavy, with a short beard grizzled at the edge,
and eyes perpetually screwed up, because his life
had run for the most part in the teeth of the
wind. The lashes, too, had been scorched off.
If you penetrated the mask of oil and coal-dust
that was part of his working suit, you found a
reddish-brown phlegmatic face, and guessed its
age at fifty. He brought the last down train
into Lewminster station every night at 9.45, took
her on five minutes later, and passed through
Lewminster again at noon, on his way back with
the Galloper, as the porters called it.
He had reached that point of skill at which
a man knows every pound of metal in a loco-
motive; seemed to feel just what was in his
engine the moment he took hold of the levers


64
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
and started up; and was expecting promotion.
While waiting for it, he hit on the idea of study-
ing a more delicate machine, and married a
wife. She was the daughter of a woman at
whose house he lodged, and her age was less
than half of his own. It is to be supposed he
loved her.
A year after their marriage she fell into low
health, and her husband took her off to Lew-
minster for fresher air. She was lodging alone
at Lewminster, and the man was passing Lew-
minster station on his engine, twice a day, at the
time when this tale begins.
People—especially those who live in the
West of England—remember the great fire at
the Lewminster Theatre; how, in the second
Act of the Colleen Bavm, a tongue of light shot
from the wings over the actors' heads; how, even
while the actors turned and ran, a sheet of fire
swept out on the auditorium with a roaring
wind, and the house was full of shrieks and
blind death; how men and women were turned
to a white ash as they rose from their seats, so


PSYCHE.
85
fiercely the flames outstripped the smoke. These
things were reported in the papers, with narra-
tives and ghastly details, and for a week all
England talked of Lewminster.
This engine-driver, as the 9.45 train neared
Lewminster, saw the red in the sky. And when
he rushed into the station and drew up, he saw
that the country porters who stood about were
white as corpses.
"What fire is that?" he asked one.
"'Tis the theayter! There's a hundred
burnt a'ready, and the rest treadin' each other's
lives out while we stand talkin', to get 'pon the
roof and pitch theirselves oyer!"
Now the engine-driver's wife was going to
the play that night, and he knew it. She had
met him at the station, and told him so, at mid-
day.
But there was nobody to take the train on,
if he stepped off the engine; for his fireman was
a young hand, and had been learning his trade
for less than three weeks.
So when the five minutes were up—or
F


PSYCHE.
67
s'help me, if I ride a mile 'longside that new
face o' your'n!"
"Maybe you're right," his superior answered
wearily. "You'd best go up to the office, and
get somebody sent down i' my place. And
while you're there, you might get me a third-
class for Lewminster."
t So this man travelled up to Lewminster as
passenger, and found his young wife's body
among the two score stretched in a stable-yard
behind the smoking theatre, waiting to be
claimed. And the day after the funeral he left
the railway company's service. He had saved
a bit, enough to rent a small cottage two miles
from the cemetery where his wife lay. Here he
settled and tilled a small garden beside the high-
road.
Nothing seemed to be wrong with the man
until the late summer, when he stood before the
Lewminster magistrates charged with a violent
and curiously wanton assault.
It appeared that one dim evening, late in
August, a mild gentleman, with Leghorn hat,
F 2


68
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
spectacles, and a green gauze net, came saunter-
ing by the garden where the ex-engine-driver
was pulling a basketful of scarlet runners: that
the prisoner had suddenly dropped his beans,
dashed out into the road, and catching the mild
gentleman by the throat had wrenched the
butterfly net from his hand and belaboured him
with the handle till it broke.
There was no defence, nor any attempt at
explanation. The mild gentleman was a stranger
to the neighbourhood. The magistrates mar-
velled, and gave his assailant two months.
At the end of that time the man came out of
gaol and went quietly back to his cottage.
Early in the following April he conceived a
wish to build a small greenhouse at the foot of
his garden, by the road, and spoke to the local
mason about it. One Saturday afternoon the
mason came over to look at the ground and dis-
cuss plans. It was bright weather, and while
the two men talked a white butterfly floated past
them—the first of the year.
Immediately the mason broke off his sen-


PSYCHE.
tence and began to chase the butterfly round
the garden: for in the West country there is a
superstition that if a body neglect to kill the
first butterfly he may see for the season, he will
have ill luck throughout the year. So he dashed
across the beds, hat in hand.
"I'll hat 'en—I'll hat 'en! No, fay! I'll
miss 'en, I b'lieve. Shan't be able to kill 'n if
her's wunce beyond th' gaate—stiddy, my son!
Wo-op!"
Thus he yelled, waving his soft hat: and the
next minute was lying stunned across a carrot-
bed, with eight fingers gripping the back of his
neck and two thumbs squeezing on his wind-
pipe.
There was another assault case heard by the
Lewminster bench; and this time the ex-engine-
driver received four months. As before, he
offered no defence: and again the magistrates
were possessed with wonder.
Now the explanation is quite simple. This
man's wits were sound, save on one point. He
believed—why, God alone knows, who enabled


NOUGHTS AND CAOSSfiS.
him to drive that horrible journey without a
tremor of the hand—that his wife's soul haunted
him in the form of a white butterfly or moth.
The superstition that spirits take this shape is
not unknown in the West; and I suppose that as
he steered his train out of the station, this fancy,
by some odd freak of memory, leaped into his
brain, and held it, hour after hour, while he and
his engine flew forward and the burning theatre
fell further and further behind. The truth was
known a fortnight after his return from prison,
which happened about the time of barley
harvest.
A harvest-thanksgiving was held in the
parish where he lived; and he went to it,
being always a religious man. There were
sheaves and baskets of vegetables in the
chancel; fruit and flowers on the communion-
table, with twenty-one tall candles burning
above them; a processional hymn; and a long
sermon. During the sermon, as the weather
was hot and close, someone opened the door at
the west end.
And when the preacher was just making up


PSYCHE.
71
his mind to close the discourse, a large white
moth fluttered in at the west door.
There was much light throughout the
church; but the great blaze came, of course,
from the twenty-one candles upon the altar.
And towards this the moth slowly drifted, as
if the candles sucked her nearer and nearer, up
between the pillars of the nave, on a level with
their capitals. Few of the congregation noticed
her, for the sermon was a stirring one; only one
or two children, perhaps, were interested—and
the man I write of. He saw her pass over his
head and float up into the chancel. He half-
rose from his chair.
"My brothers," said the preacher, "if two
sparrows, that are sold for a farthing, are
not too little for the care of this infinite
Providence"
A scream rang out and drowned the sentence.
It was followed by a torrent of vile words,
shouted by a man who had seen, now for the
second time, the form that clothed his wife's
soul shrivelled in unthinking flames. All that
was left of the white moth lay on the altar-clot'i


72
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
among the fruit at the base of the tallest candle-
stick.
And because the man saw nothing but
cruelty in the Providence of which the preacher
spoke, he screamed and cursed, till they over-
powered him and took him forth by the door,
He was wholly mad from that hour.


THE COUNTESS OF BELLARMINE.
Few rivers in England are without their " Lovers'
Leap "; but the tradition of this one is singular,
I believe. It overhangs a dark pool, midway
down a west country valley—a sheer escarp-
ment of granite, its lip lying but a stone's throw
from the high-road, that here finds its descent
broken by a stiff knoll, over which it rises and
topples again like a wave.
I had drawn two shining peel out of the pool,
and sat eating my lunch on the edge of the
Leap, with my back to the road. Forty feet
beneath me the water lay black and glossy,
behind the dotted foliage of a birch-tree. My
rod stuck upright from the turf at my elbow,
and, whenever I turned my head, neatly bi-
sected the countenance and upper half of Seth
Truscott, an indigenous gentleman of miscella-
neous habits and a predatory past, who had
followed me that morning to carry the landing-
net.


74
NOUGHTS A Kb CROSSES.
It was he who, after lunch, imparted the
story of the rock on which we sat; and as it
seemed at the time to gain somewhat by the
telling, I will not risk defacing it by meddling
with his dialect.
"I reckon, sir," he began, with an upward
nod at a belt of larches, the fringe of a great
estate, that closed the view at the head of the
vale, "you'm too young to mind th' ould Earl
o' Bellarmine, that owned Castle Cannick, up
yonder, in my growin' days. 'Ould Wounds'
he was nick-named—a cribbage-faced, what-the-
blazes kind o' varmint, wi' a gossan wig an' a
tongue like oil o' vitriol. He'd a-led the fore-
half o' his life, I b'lieve, in London church-town,
by reason that he an' his father couldn' be left
in a room together wi'out comin' to fisticuffs:
an' by all accounts was fashion's favourite in the
naughty city, doin' his duty in that state o' life
an' playing Hamlet's ghost among the Ten
Commandments.
"The upshot was that he killed a young
gentleman over a game o' whist, an' that was


THE COUNTESS Of BELLARMINE. 75
too much even for the Londoners. So he packed
up and sailed for furrin' parts, an' didn' show his
face in England till th' ould man, his father, was
took wi' a seizure an' went dead, bein' palsied
down half his face, but workin' away to the end
at the most lift-your-hair wickedness wi' the
sound side of his mouth.
"Then the new Earl turned up an' settled at
Castle Cannick. He was a wifeless man, an', by
the look o't, had given up all wish to coax the
female eye: for he dressed no better 'n a jockey,
an' all his diversion was to ride in to Tregarrick
Market o' Saturdays, an' hang round the door-
way o' the Pack-Horse Inn, by A. Walters, and
glower at the men an' women passin' up and
down the Fore Street, an' stand drinkin' brandy
an' water while the horse-jockeys there my-
lord'ed 'en. Two an' twenty glasses, they say,
was his quantum between noon an' nine o'clock;
an' then he'd climb into saddle an' ride home
to his jewelled four-poster, cursin' an' mutterin',
but sittin' his mare like a man of iron.
"But one o' these fine market-days he did a
thing that filled the mouths o' the country-side.


76
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"He was loafin' by the Pack-Horse door, just
as usual, at two o'clock, rappin' the head o'.his
crop on the side o' his ridin' boots, drawin' his
brows down an' lookin' out curses from under
'em across the street to the saddler's opposite,
when two drover-chaps came up the pavement
wi' a woman atween 'em.
"The woman—or maid, to call her by her
proper title—was a dark-browed slut, wi' eyes
like sloes, an' hair dragged over her face till she
looked like an owl in an ivy-bush. As for the
gown o' her, 'twas no better 'n a sack tied round
the middle, wi' a brave piece torn away by the
shoulder, where one o' the men had clawed her.
"There was a pretty dido goin' on atween
the dree, an' all talkin' together—the two men
mobbin' each other, an' the girl i' the middle
callin' em every name but what they was
chris'ened, wi'out distinction o' persons, as the
word goes.
"' What's the uproar?' asks Ould Wounds,
stoppin' the tap-tap o' his crop, as they comes up.
"' The woman b'longs to me,' says the first.
'I've engaged to make her my lawful wife; an'


THE COUNTESS OF BELLARMINE.
71
I won't go from my word under two gallon o'
fourpenny.'
"' You agreed to hand her over for one
gallon, first along,' says t'other,'an' a bargain's
a bargain.'
"Says the woman, 'You're a pair o' hair-
splitting shammicks, the pair of 'ee. An' how
much beer be I to have for my weddin'
portion?' (says she)—'for that's all / care
about, one way or t'other.'
"Now Ould Wounds looked at the woman;
an' 'tis to be thought he found her eyeable, for
he axed up sharp—
"' Would 'ee kick over these two, an' marry
me, for a bottle o' gin?'
"' That would I.'
"'An' to be called My Lady—Countess o'
Bellarmine V
"' Better an' better.'
"' I shall whack 'ee.'
"' I don't care.'
"' I shall kick an' cuff an' flog 'ee like a
span'el dog,'says he: 'by my body ! I shall make
'ee repent.'


THE COUNTESS OF BELLARMINE. 79
knives an' prongs, to scare her. But not
she!
"An' next he tried to burn her in her bod:
an' that wasn' no good.
"An' last of all he fell i' love wi' her: an'
that broke her.
"One day—the tale goes—she made up her
mind an' ordered a shay an' pair from the
Pack-Horse. The postillion was to be waitin'
by the gate o' the deer-park—the only gate that
hadn't a lodge to it—at ten o'clock that night.
'Twas past nine afore dinner was done, an' she
got up from her end o' the table an' walked
across to kiss th' ould fellow. He, 'pon his
side, smiled on her, pleased as Punch; for 'twas
little more'n a fortni't since he'd discovered
she was the yapple of his eye. She said
'Good night' an' went up-stairs to pack a few
things in a bag, he openin' the door and
shuttin' it upon her. Then he outs wi' his
watch, waits a couple o' minutes, an' slips out
o' the house.
"At five minutes to ten comes my ladyship,


80
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
glidin' over the short turf o' the deer-park, an'
glancin' over her shoulder at the light in his
lordship's libery window. 'Twas burnin' in true
watch-an'-fear-nothin' style, an' there, by the
gate, was the shay and horses, and postillion,
wrapped up and flapping his arms for warmth,
who touched his cap and put down the steps
for her.
"'Drive through Tregarrick,' says she, 'an'
don't spare whip-cord.'
"Slam went the door, up climbed the postil-
lion, an' away they went like a house afire.
There was half-a-moon up an' a hoar frost
gatherin', an' my lady, leanin back on the
cushions, could see the head and shoulders of
the postillion bob-bobbing, till it seemed his
head must work loose and tumble out of his
collar.
"The road they took, sir, is the same that
runs down the valley afore our very eyes. An'
'pon the brow o't, just when it comes in sight,
the off horse turned restive. In a minute 'twas
as much as the post-boy could ha' done to hold
'en. But he didn' try. Instead, he fell to


THE COUNTESS OF BELLARMINE. 81
noggin' harder, workin' his arm up an' down
like a steam-engin'.
"'"What the jiminy are 'ee doin?' calls out
her ladyship—or words to that effec'—clutchin'
at the side o' the shay, an' tryin' to stiddy hersel'..
"' I thought I wasn' to spare whip-cord,' calls
back .the post-boy.
"An' with that he turned i' the saddle; an'
'twas the face o' her own wedded husband, as
ghastly white as if 't burned a'ready i' the
underground fires.
"Seein' it, her joints were loosed, an' she sat
back white as he; an' down over the hill they
swung at a breakneck gallop, shay lurchin' and
stones flyin'.
"About thirty yards from where we'm sittin',
sir, Ould Wounds caught the near rein twice
round his wrist an lean't back, slowly pullin' it,
till his face was slewed round over his left
shoulder an' grinnin' in my lady's face.
"An' that was the last look that passed
atween 'em. For now feeling the wheels on
grass and the end near, he loosed the rein and
fetched the horse he rode a cut atween the
a


FROM
A COTTAGE IN TROY





I.—A HAPPY VOYAGE.
The cottage that I have inhabited these six
years looks down on the one quiet creek in a
harbour full of business. The vessels that enter
beneath Battery Point move up past the grey
walls and green quay-doors of the port to the
jetties where their cargoes he. All day long I
can see them faring up and down past the
mouth of my creek; and all the year round I
listen to the sounds of them—the dropping or
lifting of anchors, the wh-h-ing! of a siren-
whistle cutting the air like a twanged bow, the
concertina that plays at night, the rush of the
clay cargo shot from the jetty into the lading
ship. But all this is too far remote to vex me.
Only one vessel lies beneath my terrace; and
she has lain there for a dozen years. After
many voyages she was purchased by the Board
of Guardians in our district, dismasted, and
anchored up here to serve as a hospital-ship in
case the cholera visited us. She has never had


86
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
a sick man on board from that day to the
present. But once upon a time three people
spent a very happy night on her deck, as you
shall hear. She is called The Gleaner.
I think I was never so much annoyed in my
life as on the day when Annie, my only servant,
gave me a month's "warning." That was four
years ago; and she gave up cooking for me to
marry a young watchmaker down at the town—
a youth of no mark save for a curious distortion
of the left eyebrow (due to much gazing through
a circular glass into the bowels of watches), a
frantic assortment of religious convictions, a
habit of playing the fiddle in hours of ease, and
an absurd name—Tubal Cain Bonaday. I
noticed that Annie softened it to " Tubey."
Of course I tried to dissuade her, but my
arguments were those of a wifeless man, and
very weak. She listened to them with much
patience, and went off to buy her wedding-frock.
She was a plain girl, without a scintilla of
humour; and had just that sense of an omelet
that is vouchsafed to one woman in a genera-
tion.


A HAPPY VOYAGE.
87
So she and Tubal Cain were married at the
end of the month, and disappeared on their
honeymoon, no one quite knew whither. They
went on the last day of April
At half-past eight in the evening of May 6 th
I had just finished my seventh miserable dinner.
My windows were open to the evening, and the
scent of the gorse-bushes below the terrace hung
heavily underneath the verandah and stole into
the room where I sat before the white cloth, in
the lamp-light. I had taken a cigarette and was
reaching for the match-box when I chanced to
look up, and paused to marvel at a singular
beauty in the atmosphere outside.
It seemed a final atonement of sky and earth
in one sheet of vivid blue. Of form I could see
nothing; the heavens, the waters of the creek
below, the woods on the opposite shore were
simply indistinguishable—blotted out in this
one colour. If you can recall certain adver-
tisements of Mr. Reckitt, and can imagine
one of these transparent, with a soft light
glowing behind it, you will be as near as I


88
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
can help you to guessing the exact colour. And,
but for a solitary star and the red lamp of a
steamer lying off the creek's mouth, this blue
covered the whole firmament and face of the
earth.
I lit my cigarette and stepped out upon the
verandah. In a minute or so a sound made me
return, fetch a cap from the hall, and descend
the terrace softly.
My feet trod on bluebells and red-robins, and
now and then crushed the fragrance out of a
low-lying spike of gorse. I knew the flowers
were there, though in this curious light I could
only see them by peering closely. At the foot
of the terrace I pulled up and leant over the
oak fence that guarded the abrupt drop into the
creek.
There was a light just underneath. It came
from the deck of the hospital-ship, and showed
me two figures standing there—a woman lean-
ing against the bulwarks, and a man beside her.
The man had a fiddle under his chin, and was
playing "Annie Laurie," rather slowly and with
a deal of sweetness,


A HAPPY VOYAGE.
89
When the melody ceased, I craned still
further over the oak fence and called down,
"Tubal Cain!"
The pair gave a start, and there was some
whispering before the answer came up to me.
"Is that you, sir?"
"To be sure," said I, "What are you two
about on board The Gleaner?"
Some more whispering followed, and then
Tubal Cain spoke again—
"It doesn't matter now, sir. We've lived
aboard here for a week, and to-night's the end of
our honeymooning. If 'tis no liberty sir, Annie's
wishful that you should join us."
Somehow, the invitation, coming through
this mysterious atmosphere, seemed at once
natural and happy. The fiddle began again as I
stepped away from the fence and went down to
get my boat out. In three minutes I was afloat,
and a stroke or two brought me to the ship's
ladder. Annie and Tubal Cain stood at the
top to welcome me.
But if I had felt no incongruity in paying


90
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
this respectful visit to my ex-cook and
her lover, I own that her appearance made
me stare. For, if you please, she was
dressed out like a lady, in a gown of pale blue
satin trimmed with swansdown—a low-necked
gown, too, though she had flung a white shawl
over her shoulders. Imagine this and the flood
of blue light around us, and you will hardly
wonder that, half-way up the ladder, I paused to
take breath. Tubal Cain was dressed as usual,
and tucking his fiddle under his arm, led me up
to shake hands with his bride as if she were a
queen. I cannot say if she blushed. Certainly
she received me with dignity: and then, invert-
ing a bucket that lay on the deck, seated
herself; while Tubal Cain and I sat down on the
deck facing her, with our backs against the
bulwarks.
"It's just this, sir," explained the bridegroom,
laying his fiddle across his lap, and speaking as
if in answer to a question: "it's just this :—by
trade you know me for a watchmaker, and for a
Plymouth Brother by conviction. All the week
I'm bending over a counter, and every Sabbath-


A HAPPY VOYAGE.
81
day I speak in prayer-meeting what I hold, that
life's a dull pilgrimage to a better world. If you
ask me, sir, to-night, I ought to say the same.
But a man may break out for once; and when
so well as on his honeymoon? For a week I've
been a free heathen: for a week I've been hiding
here, living with the woman I love in the open
air; and night after night for a week Annie here
has clothed herself like a woman of fashion. Oh,
my God! it has been a beautiful time—a happy
beautiful time that ends to-night!"
He set down the fiddle, crooked up a knee
and clasped his hands round it, looking at Annie.
"Annie, girl, what is it that we believe till
to-morrow morning? You believe—eh ?—that
'tis a rare world, full of delights, and with no
ugliness in it?"
Annie nodded.
"And you love every soul—the painted
woman in the streets no less than your own
mother?"
Annie nodded again. "I'd nurse 'em both
if they were sick," she said.
"One like the other?"


A HAPPY VOYAGE.
93
It was ridiculous, but as he began to play I
moved up to Annie, put my arm around her,
and we began to glide round and round on the
deck. Her face was turned away from mine,
and looked over my shoulder; if our eyes had
met, I am convinced I must have laughed or
wept. It was half farce, half deadly earnest, and
for me as near to hysterics as a sane man can
go. Tubal Cain, that inspired young Ply-
mouth Brother, was solemn as a judge. As for
Annie, I would give a considerable amount, at
this moment, to know what she thought of it.
But she stepped very lightly and easily, and I
am not sure I ever enjoyed a waltz so much. The
blue light—that bewitching, intoxicating blue
light—paled on us as we danced. The grey
conquered it, and I felt that when we looked at
each other the whole absurdity would strike us,
and I should never be able to face these lovers
again without a furious blush. As the day crept
on, I stole a glance at Tubal Cain. He was
scraping away desperately—with his eyes shut.
For us the dance had become weariness, but we
went on and on. We were afraid to halt.


04
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
Suddenly a string of the violin snapped. We
stopped, and I saw Tubal Cain's hand pointing
eastward. A golden ripple came dancing down
the creek, and, at the head of the combe beyond,
the sun's edge was mounting.
"Morning!" said the bridegroom.
"It's all done," said Annie, holding out a
hand to me, without looking up. "And thank
you, sir."
"We danced through the grey," I answered;
and that was all I could find to say, as I stepped
towards the ladder.
Half an hour later as I looked out of window
before getting into bed I saw in the sunlight a
boat moving down the creek towards the town
Tubal Cain was rowing, and Annie sat in the
stern. She had changed her gown.
They have been just an ordinary couple ever
since, and attend their chapel regularly. Some-
times Annie comes over to make me an omelet;
and, as a matter of fact, she is now in the
kitchen. But not a word has ever been spoken
between us about her honeymoon.


II—THESE-AN'-THAT'S WIFE.
In the matter of These-an'-That himself, public
opinion in Troy is divided. To the great
majority he appears scandalously careless of
his honour; while there are just six or seven
who fight with a suspicion that there dwells
something divine in the man
To reach the town from my cottage I have
to cross the Passage Ferry, either in the smaller
boat which Eli pulls single-handed, or (if a
market-cart or donkey, or drove of cattle be
waiting on the slip) I must hang about till
Eli summons his boy to help him with the
horse-boat. Then the gangway is lowered, the
beasts are driven on board, the passengers follow
at a convenient distance, and the long sweeps
take us slowly across the tide. It was on such
a voyage, a few weeks after I settled in the
neighbourhood, that I first met These-an'-That.
I was leaning back against the chain, with
my cap tilted forward to keep off the dazzle


THESEAN'-TTIA T'S WIFE.
07
"Beat en blue las' night, an' turned en to
doors—the dirty trollop."
"Eli, don't 'ee "put in the poor man,
in a low, deprecating voice.
"Iss, an' no need to tell what for," exclaimed
a red-faced woman who stood by the drover,
with two baskets of poultry at her feet. "She's
a low lot; a low trapesin' baggage. If These-
an'-That, there, wasn' but a poor, ha'f-baked
shammick, he'd ha' killed that wife o' his afore
this."
"Naybours, I'd as lief you didn't mention
it," appealed These-an'-That, huskily.
"I'm afeard you'm o' no account, These-an'-
That: but sam-sodden, if I may say so," the
drover observed.
"Put in wi' the bread, an' took out wi' the
cakes," suggested Eli.
"Wife!—a pretty loitch, she an' the whole
kit, up there!" went on the market-woman. "If
you durstn't lay finger 'pon your wedded wife,
These-an'-That, but let her an' that long-legged
gamekeeper turn'ee to doors, you must be no
better 'n a worm,—that's all I say."
H


OS
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
I saw the man's face twitch as she spoke
of the gamekeeper. But he only answered in
the same dull way.
"I'd as lief you didn' mention it, friends,—
if 'tis all the same."
His real name was Tom Warne, as I learnt
from Eli afterwards; and he lived at St. Kit's,
a small fruit-growing hamlet two miles up the
river, where his misery was the scandal of the
place. The very children knew it, and would
follow him in a crowd sometimes, pelting him
with horrible taunts as he slouched along the
road to the kitchen garden out of which he
made his living. He never struck one; never
even answered; but avoided the school-house
as he would a plague; and if he saw the Parson
coming would turn a mile out of his road.
The Parson had called at the cottage a
score of times at least: for the business was
quite intolerable. Two evenings out of the six,
the long-legged gamekeeper, who was just a big,
drunken bully, would swagger easily into These-
an'-That's kitchen and sit himself down without


THESE-AN'THAT'S WIFE.
so much as "by your leave." "Good evenin',
gamekeeper," the husband would say in his dull,
nerveless voice. Mostly he only got a jeer in
reply. The fellow would sit drinking These-
an'-That's cider and laughing with These-an'-
That's wife, until the pair, very likely, took too
much, and the woman without any cause broke
into a passion, flew at the little man, and drove
him out of doors, with broomstick or talons,
while the gamekeeper hammered on the table
and roared at the sport. His employer was an
absentee who hated the Parson, so the Parson
groaned in vain over the scandal.
Well, one Fair-day I crossed in Eli's boat
with the pair. The woman—a dark gipsy
creature—was tricked out in violet and yellow,
with a sham gold watch-chain and great alu-
minium earrings: and the gamekeeper had
driven her down in his spring-cart. As Eli
pushed off, I saw a small boat coming down
the river across our course. It was These-an'-
That, pulling down with vegetables for the fair.
I cannot say if the two saw him: but he glanced
h2


lOn
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
up for a moment at the sound of their laughter,
then bent his head and rowed past us a trifle
more quickly. The distance was too great to
let me see his face.
I was the last to step ashore. As I waited
for Eli to change my sixpence, he nodded after
the couple, who by this time had reached the
top of the landing-stage, arm in arm.
"A bad day's work for her, I reckon."
It struck me at the moment as a moral
reflection of Eli's, and no more. Late in the
afternoon, however, I was enlightened.
In the midst of the Fair, about four o'clock,
a din of horns, beaten kettles, and hideous yell-
ing, broke out in Troy. I met the crowd in
the main street, and for a moment felt afraid
of it. They had seized the woman in the tap-
room of the "Man-o'-War "—where the game-
keeper was lying in a drunken sleep—and were
hauling her along in a Ram Riding. There is
nothing so cruel as a crowd, and I have seen
nothing in my life like the face of These-an'-
That's wife. It was bleeding; it was framed in


THMSE-AN'-THATS WIPE.
101
tangles of black, dishevelled hair; it was livid;
but, above all, it was possessed with an awful
fear—a horror it turned a man white to look
on. Now and then she bit and fought like a
cat: but the men around held her tight, and
mostly had to drag her, her feet trailing, and
the horns and kettles dinning in her wake.
There lay a rusty old ducking-cage among
the lumber up at the town-hall; and some
fellows had fetched this down, with the poles
and chain, and planted it on the edge of the
Town Quay, between the American Shooting
Gallery and the World-Eenowned Swing Boats.
To this they dragged her, and strapped her fast.
There is no need to describe what followed.
Even the virtuous women who stood and ap-
plauded would like to forget it, perhaps. At
the third souse, the rusty pivot of the ducking-
pole broke, and the cage, with the woman in
it, plunged under water.
They dragged her ashore at the end of the
pole in something less than a minute. They
unstrapped and laid her gently down, and began
to feel over her heart, to learn if it were still


102
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
beating. And then the crowd parted, and
These-an'-That came through it. His face wore
no more expression than usual, but his lips were
working in a queer way.
He went up to his wife, took off his hat, and
producing an old red handkerchief from the
crown, wiped away some froth and green weed
that hung about her mouth. Then he lifted her
limp hand, and patting the back of it gently,
turned on the crowd. His lips were still work-
ing. It was evident he was trying to say some-
thing.
"Naybours," the words came at last, in the
old dull tone; "I'd as lief you hadn' thought o'
this."
He paused for a moment, gulped down some-
thing in his throat, and went on—
"I wudn' say you didn' mean it for the best,
an' thankin' you kindly. But you didn' know
her. Roughness, if I may say, was never no
good wi' her. It must ha' been very hard for
her to die like this, axin your parden, for she
wasn' one to bear pain."
Another long pause.


-I


III.—" DOUBLES" AND QUITS.
Here is a story from Troy, containing two
ghosts and a moral. I found it, only last week,
in front of a hump-backed cottage that the
masons are pulling down to make room for the
new Bank. Simon Hancock, the outgoing
tenant, had fetched an empty cider-cask, and
set it down on the opposite side of the road;
and from this Spartan seat watched the work
of demolition for three days, without exhaustion
and without emotion. In the interval between
two avalanches of dusty masonry, he spoke to
this effect:—
Once upon a time the cottage was inhabited
by a man and his wife. The man was notice-
able for the extreme length of his upper lip and
gloom of his religious opinions. He had been
a mate in the coasting trade, but settled down,
noon after his marriage, and earned his living as
one of the four pilots in the port, The woman


NOUGHTS AND CBOSSISS.
was unlovely, with a hard eye and a temper as
stubborn as one of St. Nicholas's horns. How
she had picked up with a man was a mystery,
until you looked at him.
After six years of wedlock they quarrelled
one day, about nothing at all: at least, Simon
Hancock, though unable to state the exact
cause of strife, felt himself ready to swear it was
nothing more serious than the cooking of the
day's dinner. From that date, however, the
pair lived in the house together and never
spoke. The man happened to be of the home-
keeping sort—possessed no friends and never
put foot inside a public-house. Through the
long evenings he would sit beside his own
fender, with his wife facing him, and never a
word flung across the space between them, only
now and then a look of cold hate. The few that
saw them thus said it was like looking on a pair
of ugly statues. And this lasted for four
years.
Of course the matter came to their minister's
ears—he was a "Brianite"—and the minister
spoke to them after prayer-meeting, one Wed-


"DOUBLES" AND QUITS.
107
nesday night, and called at the cottage early
next morning, to reconcile them. He stayed
fifteen minutes and came away, down the street,
with a look on his face such as Moses might
have worn on his way down from Mount Sinai,
if only Moses had seen the devil there, instead
of God.
At the end of four years, the neighbours re-
marked that for two days no smoke had issued
from the chimney of this cottage, nor had any-
one seen the front door opened. There grew a
surmise that the quarrel had flared out at last,
and the wedded pair were lying within, in their
blood. The anticipated excitement of rinding
the bodies was qualified, however, by a very
present sense of the manner in which the bodies
had resented intrusion during life. It was not
until sunset on the second day that the con-
stable took heart to break in the door.
There were no corpses. The kitchen was
tidy, the hearth swept, and the house empty.
On the table lay a folded note, addressed, in the
man's handwriting, to the minister.


108
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"Bear Friend in Grace," it began, "we have
been married ten years, and neither has broken
the other; until which happens, it must be hell
between ns. We see no way out but to part for
ten years more, going our paths without news of
each other. When that time's up, we promise
to meet here, by our door, on the morning of
the first Monday in October month, and try
again. And to this we set our names."—here
the two names followed.
They must have set out by night; for an ex-
tinguished candle stood by the letter, with ink-
pot and pen. Probably they had parted just
outside the house, the one going inland up the
hill, the other down the street towards the har-
bour. Nothing more was heard of them. Their
furniture went to pay the quarter's rent due to
the Squire, and the cottage, six months later,
passed into the occupation of Simon Hancock,
waterman.
At this point Simon shall take up the narra-
tive :—
"I'd been tenant over there "—with a nod


"DOUBLES" AXD QUITS.
109
towards the ruin—"nine year an' goin' on for
the tenth, when, on a Monday momin', about
this time o' year, I gets out o' bed at five o'clock
an' down to the quay to have a look at my boat;
for 'twas the fag-end of the Equinox, and ther'd
been a 'nation gale blowin' all Sunday and all
Sunday night, an' I thought she might have
broke loose from her moorin's.
"The street was dark as your hat and the
wind comin' up it like gas in a pipe, with a
brave deal o' rain. But down 'pon the quay
day was breakin'—a sort of blind man's holiday,
but enough to see the boat by; and there she
held all right. You know there's two postes
'pon the town-quay, and another slap opposite
the door o' the 'Fifteen Balls'? Well, just
as I turned back home-long, I see a man
leanin' against thicky post like as if he was
thinkin', wi' his back to me and his front to the
'Fifteen Balls' (that was shut, o' course, at that
hour). I must ha' passed within a yard of en,
an' couldn' figure it up how I'd a-missed seein'
en. Hows'ever, 'Good-mornin'!' I calls out, in
my well-known hearty manner. But he didn'
/


no
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
speak nor turn. 'Mornin'!' I says again. 'Can
'ee tell me what time 'tis? for my watch is
stopped'—which was a lie.; but you must lie
now and then, to be properly sociable.
"Well, he didn' answer; so I went on to say
that the 'Fifteen Balls' wudn' be open for
another dree hour; and then I walked slap up
to en, and says what the Wicked Man said to
the black pig. 'You'm a queer Christian,' I
says,' not to speak. What's your name at all?
And let's see your ugly face.'
"With that he turned his face; an' by the
man! I wished mysel' further. 'Twas a great
white face, all parboiled, like a woman's hands
on washin' day. An' there was bits o' sticks
an' chips o' sea-weed stuck in his whiskers, and
a crust o' salt i' the chinks of his mouth; an' his
eyes, too, glarin' abroad from great rims o' salt.
"Off I sheered, not azackly runnin', but
walkin' pretty much like a Torpointer; an'
sure 'nough the fellow stood up straight and
began to follow close behind me. I heard the
water go squish-squash in his shoon, every step
he took. By this, I was fairly leakin' wi' sweat.


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
just a 'natomy of a woman, wi' the lines of her ribs
showin' under the gown, an' a hot red spot 'pon
either cheek-bone, where the skin was stretched
tight as a drum. She looked not to ha' fed for
a year; an', if you please, she'd a needle and
strip o' calico in her hands, sewin' away all the
while her eyes were glarin' down into mine.
"But there was a trick I minded in the way
she worked her mouth, an' says I, 'Missus Pol-
warne, your husband's a-waitin' for 'ee, round by
the front door.'
"' Aw, is he indeed?' she - answers, holdin'
her needle for a moment—an' her voice was all
hollow, like as if she pumped it up from a fathom
or two. 'Then, if he knows what's due to his
wife, I'll trouble en to come round,' she says;
'for this here's the door / mean to go in by.'
But at this point Simon asserts very plaus-
ibly that he swooned off; so it is not known
how they settled it.
[This story is true, as anyone who cares may assure himself by
referring to Kobert Hunt's "Drolls of the West of Kngland,"
P. 357.]


IV. —THE BOY BY THE BEACH.
There are in this small history some gaps that
can never be filled up; but as much as I know
I will tell you.
The cottage where Kit lived until he was
five years old stands at the head of a little
beach of white shingle, just inside the har-
bour's mouth, so that all day long Kit could
see the merchant-ships trailing in from sea, and
passing up to the little town, or dropping down
to the music of the capstan-song, and the calls
and the creaking, as their crews hauled up the
sails. Some came and went under bare poles
in the wake of panting tugs; but those that
carried canvas pleased Kit more. For a narrow
coombe wound up behind the cottage, and down
this cooinbe came not only the brook that
splashed by the garden gate, but a small breeze,
always blowing, so that you might count on
seeing the white sails take it, and curve out
I


NOUGHTS and crosses.
majestically as soon as ever they came opposite
the cottage, and hold it until under the lee of
the Battery Point.
Besides these delights, the cottage had a
plantation of ash and hazel above it, that
climbed straight to the smooth turf and the
four guns of the Battery; and a garden with a
tamarisk hedge, and a bed of white violets, the
earliest for miles around, and a fuchsia tree
three times as tall as Kit, and a pink climbing
rose that looked in at Kit's window and
blossomed till late in November. Here the
child lived alone with his mother. For there
was a vagueness of popular opinion respecting
Kit's father; while about his mother, unhappily,
there was no vagueness at all. She was a hand-
some, low-browed woman, with a loud laugh,
a defiant manner, and a dress of violent hues.
1 decent wives clutched their skirts in passing
her: but, as a set-off, she was on excellent terms
with every sea-captain and mate that put into
the port.
All these captains and mates knew Kit and
made a pet of him: and indeed there was a


'rilE boy by i'Hn beach.
lis
curious charm in the great serious eyes and
reddish curls of this child whom other children
shunned. No one can tell if he felt his isolation;
but of course it drove him to return the men's
friendship, and to wear a man's solemnity and
habit of speech. The woman dressed him care-
fully, in glaring colours, out of her means: and .
as for his manners, they would no doubt have
become false and absurd, as tune went and
knowledge came; but at the age of four they
were those of a prince.
"My father was a ship's captain, too," he
would tell a new acquaintance, "but he was
drowned at sea—oh, a long while ago; years
and years before I was bom."
The beginning of this speech he had learned
from his mother; and the misty antiquity of
the loss his own childish imagination suggested.
The captains, hearing it, would wink at each
other, swallow down their grins, and gravely
inform him of the sights he would see and the
lands he would visit when the time came for
him, too, to be a ship's captain. Often and
often I have seen him perched, with his small
I 2


110
KtHlGHTS and crosses.
legs dangling, on one of the green posts on the
quay, and drinking in their talk of green ice-
bergs, and flaming parrots, and pig-tailed China-
men; of coral reefs of all marvellous colours,
and suns that burnt men black, and monkej s
that hung by their tails to the branches and
pelted the passers-by with coco-nuts; and the
rest of it. And the child would go back to the
cottage in a waking dream, treading bright
clouds of fancy, with perhaps a little carved
box or knick-knack in his hand, the gift of
some bearded, tender-hearted ruffian. It was
pitiful.
Of course he picked up their talk, and very
soon could swear with equal and appalling free-
dom in English, French, Swedish, German, and
Italian. But the words were words to him and
more, as he had no morals. Nice distinctions
between good and evil never entered the little
room where he slept to the sound only of the
waves that curved round Battery Point and
tumbled on the beach below. And I know
that, one summer evening, when the scandalised
townsmen and their wedded wives assembled,


THE BOY BY THE BEACH.
117
and marched down to the cottage with intent
to lead the woman in a " Ramriding," the sight
of Kit playing in the garden, and his look of
innocent delight as he ran in to call his mother
out, took the courage out of them and sent
them home, up the -hill, like sheep.
Of course the truth must have come to him
soon. But it never did: for when ho was just
five, the woman took a chill and died in a week.
She had left a little money; and the Vicar,
rather than let Kit go to the workhouse, spent it
to buy the child admission to an Orphanage in
the Midlands, a hundred miles away.
So Kit hung the rose-tree with little scraps
of crape, and was put, dazed and white, into a
train and whisked a hundred miles oft' And
everybody forgot him.
Kit spent two years at the Orphanage in an
antique, preposterous suit—snuff-coloured coat
with lappels, canary waistcoat, and corduroy
small-clothes. And they gave him his meals
regularly. There were ninety-nine other boys
who all throve on the food: but Kit pined.


lis
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
And the ninety-nine, being full of food, made a
racket at times: but Kit found it quiet—deathly
quiet: and his eyes wore a listening look.
For the truth was, he missed the noise of
the beach, and was listening for it. And deep
down in his small heart the sea was piping and
calling to him. And the world had grown
dumb; and he yearned always: until they had
to get him a new canary waistcoat, for the old
one had grown too big.
At night, from his dormitory window, he
could see a rosy light in the sky. At first he
thought this must be a pillar of fire put there
to guide him home: but it was only the glare
of furnaces in a manufacturing town, not far
away. When he found this out his heart came
near to break; and afterwards he pined still
faster.
One evening a lecture was given in the
dining-room of the Orphanage. The subject
was "The Holy Land," and the lecturer illus-
trated it with views from the magic-lantern.
Kit, who sat in one of the back rows, was


THE BOY BY THE BEACH.
119
moderately excited at first. But the views of
barren hills, and sands, and ruins, and palm-
trees, . and cedars, wearied him after a while.
He had closed his eyes, and the lecturer's voice
became a sing-song in which his heart searched,
as it always searched, for the music of the
beach; when, by way of variety—for it had
little to do with the subject—the lecturer
slipped in a slide that was supposed to depict
an incident on the homeward voyage—a squall
in the Mediterranean.
It was a stirring picture, with an inky sky,
and the squall bursting from it, and driving a
small ship heeling over white crested waves.
Of course the boys drew their breath.
And then something like a strangling sob
broke out on the stillness, frightening the
lecturer; and a shrill cry—
"Don't go—oh, damn it all! don't go!
Take me—take me home!"
And there at the back of the room a small
boy stood up on his form, and stretched out
both hands to the painted ship, and shrieked
and panted.


130
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
There was a blank silence, and then the
matron hurried up, took him firmly in her arms,
and carried him out.
"Don't go—oh, for the Lord A'mighty's sake,
don't go!"
And as he was borne down the passages his
cry sounded among the audience like the wail
of a little lost soul.
The matron carried Kit to the sick-room and
put him to bed. After quieting the child a bit
she left him, taking away the candle. Now the
sick-room was on the ground floor, and Kit lay
still a very short while. Then he got out of
bed, groped for his clothes, managed to dress
himself, and, opening the window, escaped on to
the quiet lawn. Then he turned his face south-
west, towards home and the sea—and ran.
How could he tell where they lay? God
knows. Ask the swallow how she can tell, when
in autumn the warm south is a fire in her brain.
I believe that the sea's breath was in the face
of this child of seven, and its scent in his
nostrils, and its voice in his ears, calling, sum-
moning all the way. I only know that he ran


THE BOY BY THE BEACH.
121
straight towards his home, a hundred miles oft'
and that next morning they found his canary
waistcoat and snuff-coloured coat in a ditch,
two miles from the Orphanage, due south-west.
Of his adventures on the road the story is
equally silent, as I warned you. But the small
figure comes into view again, a week later, on
the hillside of the coombe above his home.
And when he saw the sea and the white beach
glittering beneath him, he did not stop, even for
a moment, but reeled down the hill. The child
was just a living skeleton; he had neither hat,
coat, nor waistcoat; one foot only was shod, the
other had worn through the stocking, and ugly
red blisters showed on the sole as he ran. His
face was far whiter than his shirt, save for a blue
welt or two and some ugly red scratches; and
his gaunt eyes were full of hunger and yearning,
and his lips happily babbling the curses that the
ships' captains had taught him.
He reeled down the hill to the cottage. The
tenant was a newcomer to the town, and had
lately been appointed musketry-instructor to


122 NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
the battery above. He was in the garden prun-
ing the rose-tree, but did not particularly notice
the boy. And the boy passed without turning
his head.
The tide on the beach was far out and just
beginning to flow. There was the same dull
plash on the pebbles, the same twinkle as the
sun struck across the ripples. The sun was
sinking: in ten minutes it would be behind the
hill.
No one knows what the waves said to Kit.
But ho flung himself among them with a chok-
ing cry, and drank the brine and tossed it over
his head, and shoulders and chest, and lay down
and let the small waves play over him, and cried
and laughed aloud till the sun went down.
Then he clambered on to a rock, some way
above them, and lay down to watch the water
rise; and watching it, fell asleep; and sleeping,
had his wish, and went out to the wide seas.


OLD jESOX.
Judge between me and my guest, the stranger
within my gates, the man whom in his ex-
tremity I clothed and fed.
I remember well the time of his coming, for
it happened at the end of five days and nights
during which the year passed from strength
to age; in the interval between the swallow's
departure and the redwing's coming; when the
tortoise in my garden crept into his winter
quarters, and the equinox was on us, with an
east wind that parched the blood in the trees, so
that their leaves for once knew no gradations
of red and yellow, but turned at a stroke to
brown, and crackled like tin-foil.
At five o'clock in the morning of the sixth
day I looked out. The wind still whistled
across the sky, but now without the obstruction
of any cloud. Full in front of my window
Ririus flashed with a whiteness that pierced the


124
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
eye. A little to the right, the whole constella-
tion of Orion was suspended clear over a wedge-
like gap in the coast, wherein the sea could be
guessed rather than seen. And, travelling yet
further, the eye fell on two brilliant lights, the
one set high above the other—the one steady
and a fiery red, the other yellow and blazing
intermittently—the one Aldebaran, the other
revolving on the lighthouse top, fifteen miles
away.
Half-way up the east, the moon, now in her
last quarter and decrepit, climbed with the
dawn close at her heels. And at this hour they
brought in the Stranger, asking if my pleasure
were to give him clothing and hospitality.
Nobody knew whence he came—except that
it was from the wind and the night—seeing that
he spoke in a strange tongue, moaning and
making a sound like the twittering of birds in a
chimney. But his journey must have been long
and painful; for his legs bent under him, and
he could not stand when they lifted him. So,
finding it useless to question him for the time,


12(i
Xouuhts axd ckuasks.
ordered the servants to take him to my wile,
with word that I wished her to set food before
him, and see that it passed his lips.
So much I did for this Stranger. Now learn
how he rewarded me.
He has taken my youth from me, and the
most of my substance, and the love of my
wife.
From the hour when he tasted food in my
house, he sat there without hint of going.
Whether from design, or because age and his
sufferings had really palsied him, he came back
tediously to life and warmth, nor for many days
professed himself able to stand erect. Meaiir
while he lived on the best of our hospitality.
My wife tended him, and my servants ran at his
bidding; for he managed early to make them
understand scraps of his language, though slow
in acquiring ours—I believe out of calculation,
lest someone should inquire his business (which
was a mystery) or hint at his departure. I
myself often visited the room he had appro-
priated, and would sit for an hour watching


OLD .tiSON.
those fathomless eyes while 1 tried to make
head or tail of his discourse. When we were
alone, my wife and I used to speculate at times
on his probable profession. Was he a merchant?
—an aged mariners'—a tinker, tailor, beggarman,
thief? We could never decide, and he never
disclosed.
Then the awakening came. I sat one day in
the chair beside his, wondering as usual. I had
felt heavy of late, with a soreness and languor in
my bones, as if a dead weight hung continually
on my shoulders, and another rested on my
heart. A warmer colour in the Stranger's cheek
caught my attention; and I bent forward, peer-
ing under the pendulous lids. His eyes were
livelier and less profound. The melancholy was
passing from them as breath fades off a pane of
glass. He was growing younger. Starting up,
I ran across the room, to the mirror.
There were two white hairs in my fore-lock;
and, at the corner of either eye, half a dozen
radiating lines. I was an old man.
Turning, I regarded the Stranger. He sat
plilegmatic as an Indian idol; and in my fancy


128
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
I felt the young blood draining from my own
heart, and saw it mantling in his cheeks.
Minute by minute I watched the slow miracle—
the old man beautified. As buds unfold, he put
on a lovely youthfulness; and, drop by drop, left
me winter.
I hurried from the room, and seeking my
wife, laid the case before her. "This is a ghoul,"
I said, " that we harbour: he is sucking my best
blood, and the household is clean bewitched."
She laid aside1 the book in which she read, and
laughed at me. Now my wife was well-looking,
and her eyes were the light of my soul. Con-
sider, then, how I felt as she laughed, taking the
Stranger's part against me. When I left her,
it was with a new suspicion in my heart. "How
shall it be," I thought, "if after stealing my
youth, he go on to take the one thing that is
better?"
In my room, day by day, I brooded upon
this—hating my own alteration, and fearing
worse. With the Stranger there was no longer
any disguise. His head blossomed in curls;
white teeth tilled the hollows of his mouth: the


pits in his cheeks were heaped full with roses,
glowing under a transparent skin. It was Mson
renewed and thankless; and he sat on, devour-
ing my substance.
Now, having probed my weakness, and being
satisfied that I no longer dared to turn him out,
he, who had half-imposed his native tongue upon
us, constraining the household to a hideous
jargon, the bastard growth of two languages,
condescended to jerk us back rudely into our
own speech once more, mastering it with a
readiness that proved his former dissimulation,
and using it henceforward as the sole vehicle of
his wishes. On his past life he remained silent;
but took occasion to confide in me that he pro-
posed embracing a military career, as soon as he
should tire of the shelter of my roof.
And I groaned in my chamber; for that
which I feared had come to pass. He was
making open love to my wife. And the eyes
with which he looked at her, and the lips with
which he coaxed her, had been mine; and I was
an old man. Judge now between me and this
guest.
J


130
NOUGHTS AM) CROSSES.
One morning I went to my wife; for the
burden was past bearing, and I must satisfy
myself I found her tending the plants on her
window-ledge; and when she turned, I saw that
years had not taken from her comeliness one jot.
And I was old.
So I taxed her on the matter of this
Stranger, saying this and that, and how I had
cause to believe he loved her.
"That is beyond doubt," she answered, and
smiled.
"By my head, I believe his fancy is re-
turned!" I blurted out.
And her smile grew radiant, as, looking me
in the face, she answered, "By my soul, hus-
band, it is."
Then I went from her, down into my garden,
where the day grew hot and the flowers were
beginning to droop. I stared upon them and
could find no solution to the problem that
worked in my heart. And then I glanced up,
eastward, to the sun above the privet-hedge, and
saw him coming across the flower beds, treading
them down in wantonness. He came with a


OLD jeson. isi
light step and a smile, and I waited for him,
leaning heavily on my stick.
"Give me your watch!" he called out, as he
drew near.
"Why should I give you my watch?" I
asked, while something worked in my throat.
"Because I wish it; because it is gold;
because you are too old, and won't want it much
longer."
"Take it," I cried, pulling the watch out and
thrusting it into his hand "Take it—you who
have taken all that is better! Strip me, spoil
me"
A soft laugh sounded above, and I turned.
My wife was looking down on us from the
window, and her eyes were both moist and glad.
"Pardon me," she said, "it is you who are
spoiling the child."





STORIES OF BLEAKIRK.





I.—THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-
SANDS.
[The events, which took place on November 23,
186- are narrated by Reuben Cartwright,
Esq., of Bleakirk Hall, Bleakirk-on-Sands,
in the North Riding of Yorkshire.']
A rough, unfrequented bridle-road rising and
dipping towards the coast, with here and there
a glimpse of sea beyond the sad-coloured moors:
straight overhead, a red and wintry sun just
struggling to assert itself: to right and left, a
stretch of barren down still coated white with
hoar-frost.
I had flung the reins upon my horse's neck,
and was ambling homewards. Between me and
Bleakirk lay seven good miles, and we had
come far enough already on the chance of the
sun's breaking through; but as the morning
wore on, so our prospect of hunting that day
faded further from us. It was now high noon,
and I had left the hunt half an hour ago,


130
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
turned my face towards the coast, and lit a
cigar to beguile the way. When a man is
twenty-seven he begins to miss the fun of
shivering beside a frozen cover.
The road took a sudden plunge among the
spurs of two converging hills. As I began to
descend, the first gleam of sunshine burst from
the dull heaven and played over the hoar-frost.
I looked up, and saw, on the slope of the hill
to the right, a horseman also descending.
At first glance I took him for a brother
sportsman who, too, had abandoned hope of
a fox. But the second assured me of my
mistake. The stranger wore a black suit of
antique, clerical cut, a shovel hat, and gaiters;
his nag was the sorriest of ponies, with a
shaggy coat of flaring yellow, and so low in
the legs that the broad flaps of its rider's coat
all but trailed on the ground. A queerer turn-
out I shall never see again, though I live to be
a hundred.
He appeared not to notice me, but pricked
leisurably down the slope, and I soon saw that,
as our paths ran and at the pace we were going,


138
NOUGHTS AND GROSSES.
His voice exactly fitted his eyes. Both
were sharp and charged with expression; yet
both carried also a hint that their owner had
lived long in privacy. Somehow they lacked
touch.
"I am riding homewards," I answered.
"Hey? Where is that?"
The familiarity lay rather in the words than
the manner; and I did not resent it.
"At Bleakirk."
His eyes had wandered for a moment to the
road ahead; but now he turned abruptly, and
looked at me, as I thought, with some suspicion.
He seemed about to speak, but restrained him-
self, fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and pro-
ducing a massive snuff-box, offered me a pinch.
On my declining, he helped himself copiously;
and then, letting the reins hang loose upon his
arm, fell to tapping the box.
"To me this form of the herb nicotiana
commends itself by its cheapness: the sense is
tickled, the purse consenting—like the com-
plaisant husband in Juvenal: you take me?
I am well acquainted with Bleakirk-sitper-


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-SANDS. 139
aabulum. By the way, how is Squire Cart-
wright of the Hall?"
"If," said I, "you mean my father, Angus
Cartwright, he is dead these twelve years."
"Hey ?" cried the old gentleman, and added
after a moment, " Ah, to be sure, time flies—■
quo dives Tvlhis et—Angus, eh? And yet a
hearty man, to all seeming. So you are his
son." He took another pinch. "It is very
sustaining," he said.
"The snuff?"
"You have construed me, sir. Since I set
out, just thirteen hours since, it has been my
sole viaticum." As he spoke he put his hand
nervously to his forehead, and withdrew it.
"Then," thought I, "you must have started
in the middle of the night," for it was now little
past noon. But looking at his face, I saw
clearly that it was drawn and pinched with
fasting. Whereupon I remembered my flask
and sandwich-box, and pulling them out, as-
sured him, with some apology for the offer,
that they were at his service. His joy was
childish. Again he whipped off his hat, and


140
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
olapping it to his heart, swore my conduct did
honour to my dead father; "and with Angus
Cartwright," said he, "kindness was intuitive.
Being a habit, it outran reflection; and his
whisky, sir, was undeniable. Come, I have a
fancy. Let us dismount, and, in heroic fashion,
spread our feast upon the turf; or, if the hoar-
frost deter you, see, here are boulders, and
a running brook to dilute our cups; and, by
my life, a foot-bridge, to the rail of which we
may tether our steeds."
Indeed, we had come to a hollow in the
road, across which a tiny beck, now swollen
with the rains, was chattering bravely. Falling
in with my companion's humour, I dismounted,
and, after his example, hitched my mare's rein
over the rail. There was a raciness about the
adventure that took my fancy. We chose two
boulders from a heap of lesser stones close beside
the beck, and divided the sandwiches, for though
I protested I was not hungry, the old gentleman
insisted on our sharing alike. And now, as
the liquor warmed his heart and the sunshine
smote^upon his back, his eyes sparkled, and


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-SANDS. 141
he launched on a flood of the gayest talk—
yet always of a world that I felt was before
my time. Indeed, as he rattled on, the feeling
that this must be some Kip Van Winkle re-
stored from a thirty years' sleep grew stronger
and stronger upon me. He spoke of Bleakirk,
and displayed a knowledge of it sufficiently
thorough—intimate even—yet of the old friends
for whom he inquired many names were un-
known to me, many familiar only through their
epitaphs in the windy cemetery above the cliff.
Of the rest, the pretty girls he named were now
grandmothers, the young men long since bent
and rheumatic; the youngest well over fifty.
This, however, seemed to depress him little.
His eyes would sadden for a moment, then
laugh again. "Well, well," he said, "wrinkles,
bald heads, and the deafness of the tomb—we
have our day notwithstanding. Pluck the
bloom of it — hey? a commonplace of the
poets."
"But, sir," I put in as politely as I might,
"you have not yet told me with whom I have
the pleasure of lunching."


142 Noughts and crosses.
"Gently, young sir." He waved his hand
towards the encircling moors. "We have feasted
more Homerico, and in Homer, you remember,
the host allowed his guest fourteen days before
asking that question. Permit me to delay the
answer only till I have poured libation on the
turf here. Ah! I perceive the whisky is ex-
hausted: but water shall suffice. May I trouble
you—my joints are stiff—to fill your drinking-
cup from the brook at your feet?"
I took the cup from his hands and stooped
over the water. As I did so, he leapt on me like
a cat from behind. I felt a hideous blow on the
nape of the neck: a jagged flame leapt up: the
sunshine turned to blood—then to darkness.
With hands spread out, I stumbled blindly
forward and fell at full length into the beck.
When my senses returned, I became aware,
first that I was lying, bound hand and foot and
securely gagged, upon the turf; secondly, that
the horses were still tethered, and standing
quietly at the foot-bridge; and, thirdly, that
my companion had resumed his position on


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKiRK-ON-SANDS. 143
the boulder, and there sat watching my re-
covery.
Seeing my eyes open, he raised his hat and
addressed me in tones of grave punctilio.
"Believe me, sir, I am earnest in my regret
for this state of things. Nothing but the
severest necessity could have persuaded me to
knock the son of my late esteemed friend over
the skull and gag his utterance with a stone—
to pass over the fact that it fairly lays my sense
of your hospitality under suspicion. Upon my
word, sir, it places me in a cursedly equivocal
position!"
He took a pinch of snuff, absorbed it slowly,
and pursued.
"It was necessary, however. You will partly
grasp the situation when I tell you that my
name is Teague—the Reverend William Teague,
Doctor of Divinity, and formerly incumbent of
Bleakirk-on-Sands."
His words explained much, though not every-
thing. The circumstances which led to the
Reverend William's departure from Bleakirk had
happened some two years before my birth: but


Ui ftOVGHTS A&i> CROSSES.
they were startling enough to supply talk in
that dull fishing village for many a long day.
In my nursery I had heard the tale that my
companion's name recalled: and if till now I
had felt humiliation, henceforth I felt absolute
fear, for I know that I had to deal with a
madman.
"I perceive by your eyes, sir," he went on,
"that with a part of my story you are already
familiar: the rest I am about to tell you. It
will be within your knowledge that late on a
Sunday night, just twenty-nine years ago, my
wife left the Vicarage-house, Bleakirk, and never
returned; that subsequent inquiry yielded no
trace of her flight, beyond the fact that she went
provided with a small hand-bag containing a
change of clothing; that, as we had lived to-
gether for twenty years in the entirest harmony,
no reason could then, or afterwards, be given for
her astonishing conduct. Moreover, you will
be aware that its effect upon me was tragical;
that my lively emotions underneath the shock
deepened into a settled gloom; that my faculties
(notoriously eminent) in a short time became


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAEIRK-ON-SANDS. 146
clouded, nay, eclipsed—necessitating my re-
moval (I will not refine) to a madhouse. Hey,
is it not so?"
I nodded assent as well as I could. He
paused, with a pinch between finger and thumb,
to nod back to me. Though his eyes were now
blazing with madness, his demeanour was for-
mally, even affectedly, polite.
"My wife never came back: naturally, sir—
for she was dead."
He shifted a little on the boulders, slipped the
snuff-box back into his waistcoat pocket, then
crossing his legs and clasping his hands over one
knee, bent forward and regarded me fixedly.
"I murdered her," he said slowly, and
nodded.
A pause followed that seemed to last an
hour. The stone which he had strapped in
my mouth with his bandanna was giving me
acute pain ; it obstructed, too, what little breath-
ing my emotion left me; and I dared not take
my eyes off his. The strain on my nerves grew
so tense that I felt myself fainting when his
voice recalled me.
K


146
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"I wonder now," he asked, as if it were a
riddle—" I wonder if you can guess why the
body was never found?"
Again there was an intolerable silence before
he went on.
"Lydia was a dear creature: in many respects
she made me an admirable wife. Her affection
for me was canine—positively. But she was fat,
sir; her face a jelly, her shoulders mountainous.
Moreover, her voice!—it was my cruciation—
monotonously, regularly, desperately voluble. If
she talked of archangels, they became insig-
nificant—and her themes, in ordinary, were of
the pettiest. Her waist, sir, and my arm had
once been commensurate: now not three of
Homer's heroes could embrace her. Her voice
could once touch my heart-strings into music; it
brayed them now, between the millstones of the
commonplace. Figure to yourself a man of my
sensibility condemned to live on these terms!"
He paused, tightened his grasp on his knee,
and pursued.
"You remember, sir, the story of the baker
in Langius? He narrates that a certain woman


148
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"That Sunday evening we sat, one on each
side of the hearth, in the Vicarage drawing-
room. She was talking—talking; and I sat tap-
ping my foot and whispering to myself, 'You are
too fat, Lydia, you are too fat.' Her talk ran
on the two sermons I had preached that day,
the dresses of the congregation, the expense of
living, the parish ailments — inexhaustible,
trivial, relentless. Suddenly she looked up and
our eyes met. Her voice trailed off and dropped
like a bird wounded in full flight. She stood up
and took a step towards me. 'Is anything the
matter, William?' she asked solicitously. 'You
are too fat, my dear,' I answered, laughing,
and struck her full in the face with my fist.
"She did not quiver much—not half enough
—but dropped like a half-full sack on to the
carpet. I caught up a candle and examined
her. Her neck was dislocated. She was quite
dead."
The madman skipped up from his boulder,
and looked at me with indescribable cunning.
"I am so glad, sir," he said, " that you did
not bleed when I struck you; it was a great


160
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
would need for a journey, descended with it,
opened the front door, went out to be sure the
servants had blown out their lights, returned,
and hoisting my wife on my shoulder, with the
bag in my left hand, softly closed the door and
stepped out into the night. In the shed beside
the garden-gate the gardener had left his wheel-
barrow. I fetched it out, set Lydia on the
top of it, and wheeled her off towards Woeful
Ness. There was just the rim of a waning
moon to light me, but I knew every inch of the
way.
"For the greater part of it I had turf under-
foot; but where this ended and the rock began,
I had to leave the barrow behind. It was
ticklish work, climbing down; for footing had
to be found, and Lydia was a monstrous weight.
Pah! how fat she was and clumsy—lolling this
way and that! Besides, the bag hampered me.
But I reached the foot at last, and after a short
rest clambered out along the ridge as fast as I
could. I was sick and tired of the business.
"Well, the rest was easy. Arrived at the
furthest spit of rock, I tossed the bag from me


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-SANDS. 151
far into the northern sand. Then I turned to
Lydia, whom I had set down for the moment.
In the moonlight her lips were parted as though
she were still chattering; so I kissed her once,
because I had loved her, and dropped her body
over into the Quick-Boy Sand. In three
minutes or so I had seen the last of her.
"I trundled home the barrow, mixed myself
a glass of whisky, sat beside it for half an hour,
and then aroused the servants. I was cunning,
sir; and no one could trace my footprints on
the turf and rock of Woeful Ness. The missing
hand-bag, and the disarray I had been careful to
make in the bed-room, provided them at once
with a clue—but it did not lead them to the
Quick-Boy. For two days they searched; at
the end of that time it grew clear to them that
grief was turning my brain. Your father, sir,
was instant with his sympathy—at least ten
times a day I had much ado to keep from
laughing in his face. Finally two doctors
visited me, and I was taken to a madhouse.
"I have remained within its walls twenty-nine
years; but no—I have never been thoroughly at


152
SOUQBTS AND CROSSES.
home there. Two days ago I discovered that
the place was boring me. So I determined to
escape; and this to a man of my resources
presented few difficulties. I borrowed this pony
from a stable not many yards from the mad-
house wall; he belongs, I think, to a chimney-
sweep, and I trust that, after serving my pur-
pose, he may find a way back to his master."
I suppose at this point he must have de-
tected the question in my eyes, for he cried
sharply,
"You wish to know my purpose? It is
simple." He passed a thin hand over his fore-
head. "I have been shut up, as I say, for
twenty-nine years, and I now discover that the
madhouse bores me. If they re-take me—and
the hue and cry must be out long before this—
I shall be dragged back. What, then, is my
proposal? I ride to Bleakirk and out along
the summit of Woeful Ness. There I dismount,
turn my pony loose, and, descending along the
ridge, step into the sand that swallowed Lydia.
Simple, is it not? Excessi, evasi, evanui. I
shall be there before sunset—which reminds


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKJBK-ON-SANDS. 153
me," he added, pulling out his watch, "that my
time is nearly up. I regret to leave you in this
plight, but you see how I am placed. I felt,
when I saw you, a sudden desire to unbosom
myself of a secret which, until the past half-
hour, I have shared with no man. I see by
your eyes again that if set at liberty you would
interfere with my purpose. It is unfortunate
that scarcely a soul ever rides this way—I know
the road of old. But to-morrow is Sunday: I
will scribble a line and fix it on the church-
door at Bleakirk, so that the parish may at
least know your predicament before twenty-
four hours are out. I must now be going. The
bandanna about your mouth I entreat you to
accept as a memento. With renewed apologies,
sir, I wish you good-day ; and count it extremely
fortunate that you did not bleed."
He nodded in the friendliest manner, turned
on his heel, and walked quietly towards the
bridge. As he untethered his pony, mounted,
and ambled quietly off in the direction of the
coast, I lay stupidly watching him. His black
coat for some time lay, a diminishing blot, on


THE AFFAIR OF BLEAKIRK-ON-SANDS. 155
speechless from sheer amazement. I believe
my hands were loosened before a word was
spoken. The situation was painfully ridiculous;
but my story was partly out before they had
time to laugh, and the rest of it was gasped
to the accompaniment of pounding hoofs and
cracking whips.
Never did the Netherkirk Hunt ride after
fox as it rode after the Rev. William Teague
that afternoon. We streamed over the moor,
a thin red wave, like a rank of charging cavalry,
the whip even forgetting his tired hounds that
straggled aimlessly in our wake. On the hill
above Bleakirk we saw that the tide was out,
and our company divided without drawing rein,
some four horsemen descending to the beach,
to ride along the sands out under Woeful Ness,
and across the Dead-Boy, hoping to gain the
ridge before the madman and cut him off. The
rest, whom I led by a few yards, breasted the
height above and thundered past the grey
churchyard wall. Inside it I caught a flying
glimpse of the yellow pony quietly cropping
among the tombs. We had our prey, then,


156
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
enclosed in that peninsula as in a trap; but
there was one outlet.
I remember looking down towards the vil-
lage as we tore along, and seeing the fisher-folk
run out at their doors and stand staring at the
two bodies of horsemen thus rushing to the sea.
The riders on the beach had a slight lead of us
at first; but this they quickly lost as their
horses began to be distressed in the heavy
sand. I looked back for an instant. The others
were close at my heels; and, behind again, the
bewildered hounds followed, yelping mournfully.
But neither man nor hound could see him whom
they hunted, for the cliff s edge hid the quick-
sand in front.
Presently the turf ceased. Dismounting, I
ran to the edge and plunged down the rocky
face. I had descended about twenty feet, when
I came to the spot where, by craning forward,!
could catch sight of the spit of rock, and the
Quick-Boy Sand to the right of it.
The sun—a blazing ball of red—was just
now setting behind us, and its level rays
fell full upon the man we were chasing.


ins
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
the sand had him by the ankles. For a moment
he fought it, then, throwing up his arms, sank
forward, slowly and as if bowing yet, upon his
face. Second by second we stood and watched
him disappear. Within five minutes the ripples
of the Quick-Boy Sand met once more above
him.
In the course of the next afternoon the Vicar
of Bleakirk called at the Hall with a paper
which he had found pinned to the church door.
It was evidently a scrap torn from an old letter,
and bore, scribbled in pencil by a clerkly hand,
these words: "The young Squire Cartwright in
straits by the foot-bridge, six miles toward
Netherkirk. Orate pro anma Guliemli Teague."


II.—THE CONSTANT POST-BOY.
It was a stifling August afternoon. Not a
breath of wind came over the downs, and the
sky was just a great flaming oven inverted over
them. I sat down under a dusty gorse-bush (no
tree could be seen) beside the high-road, and
tugging off a boot, searched for a prickle that
somehow had got into it. Then, finding myself
too hot to pull the boot on again, I turned out
some crumbs of tobacco from' a waistcoat pocket,
lit my pipe, and unbuckled my pack.
I "travel" in Tracts, edifying magazines,
and books on the Holy Land; but in Tracts
especially. As Watteau painted the ladies and
cavaliers of Versailles so admirably, because he
despised them, so I will sell a Tract against any
man alive. Also, if there be one kind of Tract
that I loathe more than another, it is the Pink
Tract. Paper of that colour is sacred to the
Loves—to stolen kisses and assignations—and
to see it with a comminatory text tacked on at


160
NOUGHTS AND GROSSES.
the foot of the page turns my stomach. I have
served in my time many different masters, and
mistresses; and it still pleases me, after quit-
ting their service, to recognise the distinction
between their dues. So it must have been the
heat that made me select a Pink Tract. I leant
back with my head in the shadow to digest its
crude absurdity.
It was entitled, "How infernally Hot!" I
doubt not the words were put in the mouth of
some sinner, and the moral dwelt on their literal
significance. But half-way down the first page
sleep must have descended on me: and I woke
up to the sound of light footsteps.
Pit-a-pat—pit-a-pat-a-pit-pat. I lifted my
head.
Two small children were coming along the
road towards me, hand-in-hand, through the
heat—a boy and a girl; who, drawing near and
spying my long legs sprawling out into the dust,
came to a stand, finger in mouth.
"Hullo, my dears!" I called out, "what are
you doing out in this weather?"
The children stared at one another, and were


THE CONSTANT POST-BOY.
in
silent. The girl was about eight years old,
wore a smart pink frock and sash, a big pink
sun-bonnet, and carried an apple with a piece
bitten out. She seemed a little lady; whereas
the boy wore corduroys and a battered straw
hat, and was a clod. Both children were ex-
ceedingly dusty and hot in the cheeks.
Finally, the girl disengaged her hand and
stepped forward—
"If you please, sir, are you a clergyman?"
Now this confused me a good deal; for, to
tell the truth, I had worn a white tie in my
younger days, before. . . So I sat up and
asked why she wished to know.
"Because we want to be married." .
I drew a long breath, looked from her to the
boy, and asked—-
"Is that so?"
"She's wishful," answered he, nodding
sulkily.
"Oho!" I thought; "Adam and Eve and
the apple, complete. Do you love each other?"
I asked.
"I adore Billy," cried the little maid; "he's
L


162
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
the stable-boy at the 'Woolpack' in Blea-
kirk"
"So I am beginning to smell," I put in.
—"and we put up there last night—father
and I. We travel in a chaise. And this
morning in the stable I saw Billy for the first
time, and to see him is to love. He is far below
me in station,—ain't you, Billy dear? But he
rides beautifully, and is ever so strong, and not
so badly ed—educated as you would fancy: he
can say all his 'five-times.' And he worships
me,—don't you, Billy?"
"Washups," said Billy, stolidly.
"Do you mean to tell me you have trotted in
this sun all the way from Bleakirk ?" I inquired.
The girl nodded. She was a splendid child
—dark-haired, proud of chin, and thoroughbred
down to her very toes. And the looks of
fondness she threw at that stable-urchin were as
good as a play.
"And what will you do," I asked, "when you
are married?"
"Go home and ask my father's forgiveness.
He is proud; but very, very kind."


164
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
but their faces was covered. And then I set off
for the " Woolpack."
One spring morning, ten years later, I was
standing outside the "Woolpack," drinking my
mug of beer with a tall recruiting sergeant, and
discussing the similarity of our professions,
when a post-chaise appeared at the head of the
street, and a bobbing red postillion's jacket, and
a pair of greys that came down the hill with a
rattle, and drew up at the inn-door.
A young lady and a young gentleman sat in
the chaise, and the first glance told they were
newly married. They sat in the chaise, and
held each other by the hand, while the horses
were changing. And because I had a bundle of
tracts that fitted their condition, and because
the newly married often pay for a thing beyond
its worth, I approached the chaise-door.
The fresh horses were in as I began my
apologies; and the post-boy was settling himself
in the saddle. Judge of my astonishment when
he leant back, cut me sharply across the calves
with his long whip, and before I could yell had


THE CONSTANT POST-BOY.
105
started his horses up the opposite hill at a
gallop. The hind wheel missed my toes by an
inch. In three minutes the carriage and red
coat were but a speck on the road that led up to
the downs.
I returned to my mug, emptied it moodily,
broke a fine repartee on the sergeant's dull head
(he was consumed with mirth), and followed the
same road at a slow pace; for my business took
me along it.
I was on the downs, and had walked,
perhaps, six miles, when again I saw the red
speck ahead of me. It was the post-boy—a
post-boy returning on foot, of all miracles. He
came straight up to meet me, and then stood
in the road, barring my path, and tapping his
riding-boot with the butt of his whip—a
handsome young fellow, well proportioned and
well set up.
"I want you," he said, "to walk back with
me to Bleakirk."
"Upon my word!" I cried out. "Consider-
ing that Bleakirk is six miles away, that I am
s


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
walking in the other direction, and that, two
hours back, you gave me a cursed cut over the
legs with that whip, I fancy I see myself
obliging you!"
He regarded me moodily for about a minute,
but did not shift his position.
"Why are you on foot?" I asked.
"Oh, my God!" he cried out quickly, as a
man might that was stabbed; "I couldn't trust
myself to ride; I couldn't." He shuddered, and
put a hand over his eyes. "Look here," he said,
"you must walk home with me, or at least see
me past the Chalk-pit."
Now the Chalk-pit, when spelt with a capital
letter, is an especially deep and ugly one on the
very edge of the Bleakirk road, about two miles
out of the village. A weak fence only separates
its lip from the macadam. It is a nasty place to
pass by night with a carriage; but here it was
broad day, and the fellow was walking. So I
didn't take him at all.
"Listen to me," he went on in a dull voice;
"do you remember sitting beside this road, close
on ten years back? And a boy and girl who


THE CONSTANT POST-DO V.
1B7
came along this road together and asked you to
marry them?"
"Bless my soul! Were you that boy?"
He nodded. "Yes: and the young lady in
the chaise to-day was that girl. Old man, I
know you reckon yourself clever,—I've heard
you talk: but that when I met her to-day,
three hours married, and she didn't know me, I
had a hell in my heart as I drove past the
Chalk-pit, is a thing that passes your under-
standing, perhaps. They were laughing to-
gether, mark you, and yet they weren't a hair's
breadth from death. And, by the Lord, you
must help me past that pit!"
"Young man," I said, musing, "when first I
met you, you were ten years old, and I thought
you a fool. To-day you have grown into an
unmitigated ass. But you are dangerous;
and therefore I respect you, and will see you
home."
I turned back with him. When we came to
the Chalk-pit, I kept him on the farther side
of the road, though it cost me some terror to
walk between him and the edge; for I have


ICS
NOV GUTS AND CROSSES.
too much imagination to be a thoroughly brave
man.
The sun was sinking as we walked down to
1 ileakirk; and the recruiting sergeant sat asleep
outside the "Woolpack," with his head on the
window-sill. I woke him up; and within half
an hour my post-boy wore a bunch of ribbons on
his cap—red, white, and blue.
I believe he has seen some fighting since
then; and has risen in the ranks.


A DARK MIRROR
In the room of one of my friends hangs a
mirror. It is an oblong sheet of glass, set in a
frame of dark, highly varnished wood, carved in
the worst taste of the Regency period, and
relieved with faded gilt. Glancing at it from a
distance, you would guess the thing a relic from
some "genteel" drawing-room of Miss Austen's
time. But go nearer and look into the glass
itself. By some malformation or mere freak of
make, all the images it throws back are livid.
Flood the room with sunshine; stand before this
glass with youth and hot blood tingling on your
cheeks; and the glass will give back neither
sun nor colour; but your own face, blue and
dead, and behind it a horror of inscrutable
shadow.
Since I heard this mirror's history, I have
stood more than once and twice before it, and
peered into this shadow. And these are the
simulacra I seem to have seen there darkly.


170
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
I have seen a bleak stone parsonage,
hemmed in on two sides by a grave-yard; and
behind for many miles nothing but sombre
moors climbing and stretching away. I have
heard the winds moaning and wuthering
night and morning, among the gravestones, and
around the angles of the house; and crossing
the threshold, I know by instinct that this
mirror will stand over the mantelpiece in the
bare room to the left. I know also to whom
those four suppressed voices will belong that
greet me while yet my hand is on the latch.
Four children are within—three girls and a boy
—and they are disputing over a box of wooden
soldiers. The eldest girl, a plain child with
reddish-brown eyes, and the most wonderfully
small hands, snatches up one of the wooden
soldiers, crying, "This is the Duke of Welling-
ton! This shall be the Duke!" and her soldier
is the gayest of all, and the tallest, and the most
perfect in every part. The second girl makes
her choice, and they call him "Gravey" because
of the solemnity of his painted features. And
then all laugh at the youngest girl, for she has


A DARK MIRROR.
171
chosen a queer little warrior, much like herself;
but she smiles at their laughter, and smiles
again when they christen him " Waiting Boy."
Lastly the boy chooses. He is handsomer than
his sisters, and is their hope and pride; and has
a massive brow and a mouth well formed though
a trifle loose. His soldier shall be called Bona-
parte.
Though the door is closed between us, I can
see these motherless children under this same
blue mirror—the glass that had helped to pale
the blood on their mother's face after she left
the warm Cornish sea that was her home, and
came to settle and die in this bleak exile. Some
of her books are in the little bookcase here.
They were sent round from the West by sea,
and met with shipwreck. For the most part
they are Methodist Magazines—for, like most
Cornish folk, her parents were followers of
Wesley—and the stains of the salt water are
still on their pages.
I know also that the father will be sitting in
the room to my right—sitting at his solitary
meal, for his digestion is queer, and he prefers to


172
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
dine alone: a strange, small, purblind man, full
of sorrow and strong will. He is a clergyman,
but carries a revolver always in his pocket by
day, and by night sleeps with it under his
pillow. He has done so ever since some one
told him that the moors above were unsafe for
a person with his opinions.
All this the glass shows me, and more. I
see the children growing up. I see the girls
droop and pine in this dreary parsonage, where
the winds nip, and the miasma from the church-
yard chokes them. I see the handsome promis-
ing boy going to the devil—slowly at first,
then by strides. As their hope fades from his
sisters' faces, he drinks and takes to opium-eat-
ing—and worse. He comes home from a short
absence, wrecked in body and soul. After this
there is no rest in the house. He sleeps in the
room with that small, persistent father of his,
and often there are sounds of horrible strag-
glings within it. And the girls lie awake, sick
with fear, listening, till their ears grow heavy
and dull, for the report of their father's pistol.
At morning, the drunkard will stagger out, and


A DARK MIRROR.
173
look perhaps into this glass, that gives him back
more than all his despair. "The poor old man
and I have had a terrible night of it," he
stammers; "he does his best—the poor old
man! but it's all over with me."
I see him go headlong at last and meet his
end in the room above after twenty minutes'
struggle, with a curious desire at the last to play
the man and face his death standing. I see the
second sister fight with a swiftly wasting
disease; and, because she is a solitary Titanic
spirit, refuse all help and solace. She gets up
one morning, insists on dressing herself, and
dies; and the youngest sister follows her but
more slowly and tranquilly, as beseems her
gentler nature.
Two only are left now—the queer father and
the eldest of the four children, the reddish-eyed
girl with the small hands, the girl who "never
talked hopefully." Fame has come to her and
to her dead sisters. For looking from childhood
into this livid glass that reflected their world,
they have peopled it with strange spirits. Men
and women in the real world recognise the awful


174
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
power of these spirits, without understanding
them, not having been brought up themselves in
front of this mirror. But the survivor knows
the mirror too well
.
"Mademoiselle, vous ites triste."
"Monsieur, fen ai bien le droit."
With a last look I see into the small,
commonplace church that lies just below the
parsonage: and on a tablet by the altar I read a
list of many names
And the last is that of Charlotte Bronte.


THE SMALL PEOPLE.
To a Lady who had asked
for a Fairy Tale.
You thought it natural, my dear lady, to lay
this command on me at the dance last night.
We had parted, two months ago, in London, and
we met, unexpectedly and to music, in this
corner of the land where (they say) the piskies
still keep. And certainly, when I led you out
upon the balcony (that you might not see the
new moon through glass and lose a lucky
month), it was not hard to picture the Small
People at their play on the turf and among
the dim flower-beds below us. But, as a matter
of fact, they are dead, these Small People.
They were the long-lived but not immortal
spirits of the folk who inhabited Cornwall many
thousands of years back—far beyond Christ's
birth. They were "poor innocents," not good
enough for heaven yet too good for the eternal
fires; and when they first came, were of ordinary


170
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
stature. But after Christ's birth they began to
grow smaller and smaller, and at length turned
into emmets and vanished from the earth.
The last I heard of them was a sad and
serious little history, very different from the old
legends. Part of it I was told by a hospital
surgeon, of all people in the world. Part I
learnt by looking at your beautiful gown last
night, as you leant on the balcony-rail. You
remember how heavy the dew was, and that I
fetched a shawl for your shoulders. You did
not wrap it so tightly round but that four
marguerites in gold embroidery showed on the
front of your bodice; and these come into the
tale, the remainder of which I was taught this
morning before breakfast, down among the
cairns by the sea where the Small People's
Gardens still remain—sheltered spots of green,
with here and there some ferns and cliff-pinks
left. For me they are libraries where sometimes
I read for a whole summer's day; and with the
help of the hospital surgeon, I bring you from
them a story about your ball-gown which is
perfectly true.


THE SMALL PEOPLE.
177
Twenty years ago — before the fairies had
dwindled into ants, and when wayfarers were
still used to turn their coats inside out, after
nightfall, for fear of being "pisky-led"—there
lived, down at the village, a girl who knew all
the secrets of the Small People's Gardens.
Where you and I discover sea-pinks only, and
hear only the wash of the waves, she would go
on midsummer nights and find flowers of every
colour spread, and hundreds of little lights
moving among them, and fountains and water-
falls and swarms of small ladies and gentle-
men, dressed in green and gold, walking and
sporting among them, or reposing on the turf
and telling stories to the most ravishing soft
music. This was as much as she would relate;
but it is certain that the piskies were friends of
hers. For, in spite of her nightly wanderings,
her housework was always well and cleanly done
before other girls were dressed—the morning
milk fresh in the dairy, the step sanded, the
fire lit and the scalding-pans warming over it.
And as for her needlework, it was a wonder.
Some said she was a changeling; others that
M


178
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
she had found the four-leaved clover or the fairy
ointment, and rubbed her eyes with it. But it
was her own secret; for whenever the people
tried to follow her to the "Gardens," whir!
whir! whir! buzzed in their ears, as if a flight
of bees were passing, and every limb would feel
as if stuck full of pins and pinched with
tweezers, and they were rolled over and over,
their tongues tied as if with cords, and at last,
as soon as they could manage, they would pick
themselves up, and hobble home for their
lives.
Well, the history—which, I must remind
you, is a true one—goes on to say that in time
the girl grew ambitious, or fell in love (I cannot
remember which), and went to London. In any
case it must have been a strong call that took
her: for there are no fairies in London. I regret
that my researches do not allow me to tell you
how the Small People at home took her de-
parture; but we will suppose that it grieved
them deeply. Nor can I say precisely how the
girl fared for many years. I think her fortune
contained both joy and sorrow for a while j and


i 80
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
sought forgetfuLness. She found the one, in
small quantities, and out of it she managed to
buy the other, now and then, over the counter.
But she had long given up looking for the
fairies. The lights along the Embankment had
ceased to remind her of those in the Small
People's Gardens; nor did the noise bursting
from music-hall doors as she passed, recall the
old sounds; and as for the scents, there were
plenty in London, but none resembling that
of the garden which you might smell a mile
out at sea.
I told you that her needlework had been a
marvel when she lived down at the village.
Curiously enough, this was the one gift of the
fairies that stayed by her, and it remained as
wonderful as ever. Her most frequent employer
was a flat-footed Jew with a large, fleshy face;
and because she had a name for honesty, she
was not seldom entrusted with costly pieces of
stuff, and allowed to carry them home to turn
into ball-dresses under the roof through the
gaps of which, as she stitched, she could see
the night pass from purple to black, and from


THE SMALL PEOPLE.
181
black to the lilac of daybreak. There, with a
hundred pounds' worth of silk and lace on her
knee, she would sit and work a dozen hours
to earn as many pence. With fingers weary
and But you know Hood's song, and no
doubt have taken it to heart a dozen times.
It came to this, however, that one evening,
when she had not eaten for forty hours, her
employer gave her a piece of embroidery to
work against time. The fact is, my dear lady,
that you are very particular about having your
commissions executed to the hour, and your
dressmakers are anxious to oblige, knowing that
you never squabble over the price. To be sure,
you have never heard of the fiat-footed Jew
man—how should you? And we may believe
that your dressmakers knew just as little of the
poor woman who had used to be the friend of
the Small People. But the truth remains that,
in the press of your many pleasures, you were
pardonably twenty-four hours late in ordering
the gown in which you were to appear an
angel.
Ah, madam! will it comfort you to hear that


182
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
you were the one to reconcile the Small People
with that poor sister of yours who had left them,
twenty years before, and wanted them so sorely?
The hospital doctor gave her complaint a long
name, and I gather that it has a place by itself
in books of pathology. But the woman's tale
was that, after she had been stitching through
the long night, the dawn came through the roof
and found her with four marguerites still left to
be embroidered in gold on the pieces of satin
that lay in her lap. She threaded her needle
afresh, rubbed her weary eyes, and began—
when, lo! a miracle.
Instead of one hand, there were four at
work—four hands, four needles, four lines of
thread. The four marguerites were all being
embroidered at the same time! The piskies had
forgiven, had remembered her at last, after these
many years, and were coming to her help, as of
old. Ah, madam, the tears of thankfulness that
ran from her hot eyes and fell upon those golden
marguerites of yours!
Of course her eyes were disordered. There





THE MAYOR OF GANTICK.
One of these days I hope to write a treatise
on the Mayors of Cornwall—dignitaries whose
pleasant fame is now night, remembered only in
some neat by-word or saying of the country
people. Thus you may hear, now and again, of
"the Mayor of Falmouth, who thanked God
when the town gaol was enlarged," " the Mayor
of Market Jew, sitting in his own light," or
"the Mayor of Calenich, who walked two miles
to ride one." But the one whose history per-
plexed me most, till I heard the truth from an
eye-witness, was "the mad Mayor of Gantick,
who was wise for a long day, and then died
of it."
It was an old tin-streamer who told me—a
thin fellow with a shrivelled mouth, and a back
bent two-double. And I heard it on the very
hearthstone of the Mayor's cottage, one after-
noon, as we sat and smoked in the shadow of
the crumbling mud wall, with a square of blue


188
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
sky for roof, and for carpet a tangle of brambles,
nettles, and rank grass.
It seems that the village of Gantick, half a
mile away, was used once in every year to purge
itself of evil. To this end the villagers prepared
a huge dragon of pasteboard and marched out
with it to a sandy common, since cut up by tin-
works, but still known as Dragon's Moor. Here
they would choose one of their number to be
Mayor, and submit to him all questions of con-
science, and such cases of notorious evil living as
the law failed to provide for. Summary justice
waited on all his decisions; and as the village
wag was usually chosen for the post, you may
guess that the horse-play was rough at times.
When this was over, and the public conscience
purified, the company fell on the pasteboard
dragon with sticks and whacked him into small
pieces, which they buried in a small hollow
called Dragon Pit; and so returned gladly to
their homes to start on another twelve months
of sin.
This feast of purification fell always on the


188
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
he was starting for his work when an indescrib-
able hubbub sounded up the road, and presently
came by the whole rabble of Gantick with cow-
horns and instruments of percussion, and in
their midst the famous dragon—all green, with
fiery, painted eyes, and a long tongue of red
flannel. Behind it the prisoners were escorted
■—a pale woman or two with dazed, terrified
eyes, an old man suspected of egg-stealing, a
cow addicted to trespass, and so on.
The Mayor was not chosen yet, this cere-
mony being deferred by rule till the crowd
reached Dragon's Moor. But drawing near the
cottage door and catching sight of the half-
witted man with his foot on the threshold, a
village wit called out and proposed that they
should take "the Mounster " (as he was called)
along with them for Mayor.
It hit the mob's humour, and they cheered.
The Mounster's mother, standing in the door-
way, went white as if painted.
"Man in the lump's a hateful animal," she
said to herself, hoarsely. "Come indoors,
Jonathan, an' let 'em go by."


THE MAYOR OF GANTICK.
180
"Come an' rule over us," the crowd invited
him, and a gleam of proud delight woke in his
silly face.
"The heat—his head won't stand it." The
woman looked up at the cloudless sky. "For
God's sake take your fun elsewhere!" she cried.
The women who were led to judgment
looked at her stupidly. They too suffered, with-
out understanding, the heavy sport of men. At
last one said—
"Old woman, let him come. We'll have
more mercy from a mazed man."
"Sister, you've been loose, they tell me,"
answered the old woman, "an' must eat the
bitter fruit o't. But my son's an inno-
cent. Jonathan, they'll look for you at the
works."
"There's prouder work for me 'pon Dragon's
Moor," the Mounster decided, with smiling eyes.
"Come along, mother, an' see me exalted."
The crowd bore him off at their head, and
the din broke out again. The new Mayor
strutted among them with lifted chin and a
radiant face. He thought it glorious. His


190
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
mother ran into the cottage, fetched a bottle
and followed after the dusty tail of the pro-
cession. Once, as they were passing a running
stream, she halted and filled the bottle care-
fully, emptying it again and again until the
film outside the glass was to her liking.
Then she followed again, and came to Dragon's
Moor.
They sat the Mayor on a mound, took off his
hat, placed a crown on his head and a broom-
stick in his hand, and brought him the cases to
try.
The first was a grey mare, possessed (they
alleged) with a devil. Her skin hung like a
sack on her bones.
"'Tis Eli Thorns' mare. What's to be done
to cure her?" they asked.
"Let Eli Thorns buy a comb, an' comb his
mare's tail while she eats her feed. So Eli '11
know if 'tis the devil or no that steals oats from
his manger."
They applauded his wisdom and brought
forward the woman who had pleaded just now
with his mother.


192
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
boy is mad, I think; an' 'tis a terrible lot, to be
mad. This is the Devil's doing, out o' doubt.
Beat the DeviL"
"Simme," said one in the crowd, "the sins o'
Gantick be wearin' out the smoky man at a
terrible rate."
"Ay," answered another, "His Naughtiness
hain't ekal to Gantick." And this observation
was the original of a proverb, still repeated—
"As naughty as Gantick, where the Devil struck
for shorter hours."
There was no cruelty that day on Dragon's
Moor. All the afternoon the mad Mayor sat in
the sun's eye and gave judgment, while his
mother from time to time wiped away the froth
that gathered on his lips, and moistened them
with water from her bottle. From first to last
she never spoke a word, but sat with a horror in
her eyes, and watched the flushed cheeks of this
grown-up, bearded son. And all the afternoon
the men of Gantick brayed the Devil into
shreds.
I said there was no cruelty on Dragon's


THE MAYOR OF GANTICK.
193
Moor that day. But at sundown the Mayor
turned to his mother and said—
"We've been over-hasty, mother. We ought
to ha' found out who made the Devil what he is."
At last the sun dropped; a shadow fell on
the brown moors and crept up the mound where
the mother and son sat. The brightness died
out of the Mayor's face.
Three minutes after, he flung up his hands
and cried, "Mother—my head, my head!"
She rose, still without a word, pulled down
his arms, slipped one within her own, and led
him away to the road. The crowd did not inter-
fere; they were burying the broken dragon,
with shouts and rough play.
A woman followed them to the road, and
tried to clasp the Mayor's knees as he staggered.
His mother beat her away.
"Off wi' you!" she cried; "'tis your reproach
he's bearin'."
She helped him slowly home. In the
shadow of the cottage the inspired look that he
had worn all day returned for a moment. Then
a convulsion took him, casting him on the floor.
N


194
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
At nine o'clock he died, with his head on her
lap.
She closed his eyes, smoothed the wrinkles
on his tired face, and sat watching him for some
time. At length she lifted and laid him on the
deal table at full length, bolted the door, put the
heavy shutter on the low window, and began to
light the fire.
For fuel she had a heap of peat-turves and
some sticks. Having lit it, she set a crock of
water to warm, and undressed the man slowly.
Then, the water being ready, she washed and
laid him out, chafing his limbs and talking to
herself all the while.
"Fair, straight legs," she said; "beautiful
body that leapt in my side, forty years back, and
thrilled me! How proud I was! Why did God
make you beautiful?"
All night she sat caressing him. And the
smoke of the peat-turves, finding no exit and no
draught to carry them up the chimney, crept
around and killed her quietly beside her son.


THE DOCTOR'S FOUNDLING.
There are said to be many vipers on the Downs
above the sea; but it was so pleasant to find a
breeze up there allaying the fervid afternoon,
that I risked the consequences and stretched
myself at full length, tilting my straw hat well
over my nose.
Presently, above the tic-a-tic-tick of the
grasshoppers, and the wail of a passing gull, a
human sound seemed to start abruptly out of
the solitude—the voice of a man singing. I
rose on my elbow, and pushed the straw hat up
a bit. Under its brim through the quivering
atmosphere, I saw the fellow, two hundred yards
away, a dark obtrusive blot on the bronze land-
scape. He was coming along the track that
would lead him down-hill to the port; and his
voice fell louder on the still air—
N 2


IDS
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"Ho! the prickly briar,
It prickles my throat so sore—
If I get out o' the prickly briar,
Til never get in any more.
Ho! just loosen the rope"
At this point I must have come within
his view, for he halted a moment, and then
turned abruptly out of the track towards me,
—a scare-crow of a figure, powdered white
with dust. In spite of the weather, he wore
his tattered coat buttoned at the throat, with
the collar turned up. Probably he possessed
no shirt; certainly no socks, for his toes pro-
truded from the broken boots. He was quite
young.
Without salutation he dropped on the turf
two paces off and remarked—
"It's bleedin 'ot."
There was just a pause while he cast his eyes
back on the country he had travelled; then,
jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of the port, he inquired—
'"Ow's the old lot?"


THE DOCTORS FOUNDLING.
197
Said I, "Look here; you're Dick Jago. How
far have you walked to-day?"
He had turned on me as if ready with a
sharp question, but changed his mind and
answered doggedly—
"All the way from Drakeport."
"Very well; then it's right-about-face with
you and back to Drakeport before I let you go.
Do you see this stick? If you attempt to walk a
step more towards the port, I'll crack your head
with it."
He gulped down something in his throat.
"Is the old man ill?" he asked.
"He's dead," said I, simply.
The fellow turned his eyes to the horizon,
and began whistling the air of "The Prickly
Briar" softly to himself. And while he whistled,
my memory ran back to the day when he first
came to trouble us, and-play the fiend's mischief
with a couple of dear honest hearts.
The day I travelled back to was one in the
prime of May, when the lilacs were out by
Dr. Jago's green gate, and the General from


198
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
Drakeport Barracks, with the red and white
feathers in his cocked-hat, had just cantered
up the street, followed by a dozen shouting
urchins, on his way to the Downs. For it
was the end of the militia-training, when the
review was always held; and all the morning
the bugles had been sounding at the head
of every street and lane where the men were
billeted.
When the gold-laced General disappeared, he
left the streets all but empty; for the towns-
people by this time had flocked to the Downs.
Only by Dr. Jago's gate there stood a small
group in the sunshine. Kitty, the doctor's mare
that had pulled his gig for ten years, was
standing saddled in the roadway, with a stable-
boy at her head; just outside the gate, the little
doctor himself in regimentals and black cocked-
hat with black feathers, regarding her; behind,
the pleasant old face of his wife, regarding him;
and, behind again, the two maid-servants re-
garding the group generally from behind their
mistress's shoulder.
"Maria, I shall never do it," said the doctor,


TEE DOCTORS FOUNDLING.
109
measuring with his eye the distance between the
ground and the stirrup.
"Indeed, John, I don't think you will."
"There was a time when I'd have vaulted
it. I'm abominably late as it is, Maria."
"Shall I give master a leg up?" suggested
one of the maids.
"No, Susan, you will do nothing of the
kind." Mrs. Jago paused, her brow wrinkled
beneath her white lace cap. Then an inspiration
came—" The chair—a kitchen chair, Susan!"
The maid flew; the chair was brought; and
that is how the good old doctor mounted for the
review. Three minutes later he was trotting
soberly up the street, pausing twice to kiss his
hand to his wife, who watched him proudly from
the green gate, and took off her spectacles and
wiped them, the better to see him out of sight.
By the time Dr. Jago reached the Downs,
the review was in full swing. The colonel
shouted, the captains shouted, the regiment
formed, re-formed, marched, charged at the
double, and fired volleys of blank cartridges.
The General and orderlies galloped from spot to


THE DOCTOR'S FOUNDLING.
201
its eyes and began to wail. At this instant an
orderly appeared on the ridge above, scanning
the country. He caught sight of the doctor and
descended to the opposite shore of the pool,
where he saluted and yelled his message. It
appeared that some awkward militiaman had
blown his thumb off in the blank cartridge
practice and surgical help was wanted at
once.
Doctor Jago dropped the corner of the hand-
kerchief, returned across the pool, was helped on
to Kitty's back and cantered away, the orderly
after him.
In an hour's time, having put on a tourni-
quet and bandaged the hand, he was back again
by the pool. The baby was still there. He
lifted it and found a scrap of paper under-
neath. . . .
The doctor returned by devious ways to his
home, a full hour before he was expected. He
rode in at the back gate, where to his secret
satisfaction he found no stable-boy. So he
stabled Kitty himself, and crept into his own


202
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
house like a thief. Nor was it like his habits to
pay, as he did, a visit to the little cupboard
(where the brandy-bottle was kept) underneath
the stairs, before entering the drawing-room,
with his face full of guilt and diplomacy.
"Gracious, John!" cried out Mrs. Jago,
dropping her knitting. "Is the review over
already?"
"No, I don't think it is—at least, I don't
know," stammered the doctor.
"John, you have had another attack of that
vertigo."
"Upon my honour I have not, Maria." The
doctor was vehement; for the vertigo necessi-
tated brandy, and a visit to the little cupboard
below the stairs meant hideous detection.
So he sat up and tried to describe" the review
to his wife, and made such an abject mess of it,
that after twenty minutes she made up her
mind that he must have a headache, and,
leaving the room quietly, went to the little cup-
board below the stairs. She found the door
ajar. . . .
When, after a long absence, she reappeared
-


THE DOCTORS FOUNDLING.
in the drawing-room, she had forgotten to bring
the brandy, and wore a look as guilty as her
husband's. So they sat together and talked in
the twilight on trivial matters; and each had
a heart insufferably burdened, and each was
waiting desperately for an opportunity to lighten
it.
"John," said Mrs. Jago at last, "we are
getting poor company for each other."
"Maria!"
The doctor leapt to his feet: and these old
souls, who knew each other so passing well,
looked into each other's eyes, half in terror.
At that instant a feeble wail smote on their
ears. It came from the cupboard underneath
the stairs.
"Maria! I put it there myself, two hours
ago. I picked it up on the downs. I've
been"
"You! I thought it was some beggar-
woman's doing. John, John—why didn't you
say so before!"
And she rushed out of the room.


204
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
This seedy scamp who reclined beside me
was the child that she brought back with her
from the little cupboard. They had adopted
him, fed him, educated him, wrapped him round
with love; and he had lived to break their
hearts. Possibly there was some gipsy blood in
him that defied their nurture. But the specu-
lation is not worth going into. I only know
that I felt the better that afternoon as I
watched his figure diminishing on the road back
to Drakeport. He had a crown of mine in his
pocket, and was still singing—
"Ho ! just loosen the rope,
If it's only just for a while;
I fancy I see my father coming
Across from yonder stile."
I had lied in telling him that the old doctor was
dead. As a matter of fact he lay dying that
afternoon. Half-way down the hill I saw the
small figure of Jacobs, the sexton, turn in at the
church-gate. He was going to toll the passing-
bell.


THE GIFTS OF FEODOR HIMKOFF.
It is just six years ago that I first travelled the
coast from Gorrans Haven to Zoze Point.
Since then I have visited it in fair weather
and foul; and in time, perhaps, shall rival the
coastguardsmen, who can walk it blindfold. But
to this day it remains in my recollection the
coast I trod, without companion, during four
dark days in December. It was a rude intro-
duction. The wind blew in my face, with scuds
of cold rain; a leaden mist hung low on the
left, and rolled slowly up Channel. Now and
then it thinned enough to reveal a white zigzag
of breakers in front, and a blur of land; or, far
below, a cluster of dripping rocks, with the sea
crawling between and lifting their weed. But
for the most part I saw only the furze-bushes
beside the path, each powdered with fine rain-
drops, that in the aggregate resembled a coat of
grey frieze, and the puffs of spray that shot up
over the cliff's lip and drenched me.


206
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
Just beyond the Nare Head, where the path
dipped steeply, a bright square disengaged itself
from the mist as I passed, and, around it, the
looming outline of a cottage, between the foot-
path and the sea. A habitation more desolate
than this odd angle of the coast could hardly
have been chosen; on the other hand, the glow
of firelight within the kitchen window was
almost an invitation. . It seemed worth my
while to ask for a drink of milk there, and find
out what manner of folk were the inmates.
An old woman answered my knock. She
was tall, with a slight stoop, and a tinge of
yellow pervading her face, as if some of the
complexion had run into her teeth and the
whites of her eyes. A clean white cap, tied
under the chin with tape, concealed all but the
edge of her grey locks. She wore a violet turn-
over, a large wrapper, a brown stuff gown that
hardly reached her ankles, and thick worsted
stockings, but no shoes.
"A drink o' milk? Why not a dish o'
tea?"
"That will be troubling you," said I, a bit


THE GIFTS OF FEODOR HIMKOFF.
207
ashamed for feeling so little in want of susten-
ance.
"Few they be that troubles us, my dear.
Too few by land, an' too many by sea, rest their
dear souls! Step inside by the fire. There's
only my old man here, an' you needn't stand
'pon ceremony wi' he: for he's stone-deaf an'
totelin'. Isaac, you poor deaf haddock, here's a
strange body for 'ee to look at; tho' you'm past
all pomp but buryin', I reckon." She sighed as
I stepped past into the warmth.
The man she called Isaac was huddled and
nodding in a chair, before the bluish blaze of a
wreck-wood fire. He met me with an incurious
stare, and began to doze again. He was clearly
in the last decline of manhood, the stage of
utter childishness and mere oblivion; and sat
there with his faculties collapsed, waiting for
release.
My mired boots played havoc with the neatly
sanded floor; but the old woman dusted a chair
for me as carefully as if I had worn robes of
state, and set it on the other side of the hearth.
Then she put the kettle to boil, and unhitching


COS
NOUGIITS AND CROSSES,
a cup from the dresser, took a key from it, and
opened a small cupboard between the fireplace
and the wall. That which she sought stood on
the top shelf, and she had to climb on a chair to
reach it. I offered my help; but no—she would
get it herself. It proved to be a small green
canister.
The tea that came from this canister I wish
I could describe. No sooner did the boiling
water touch it than the room was filled with
fragrance. The dotard in the chair drew a long
breath through his nostrils, as though the aroma
touched some quick centre in his moribund
brain. The woman poured out a cup, and I
sipped it.
"Smuggled," I thought to myself; for indeed
you cannot get such tea in London if you pay
fifty shillings a pound.
"You like it?" she asked. Before I could
answer, a small table stood at my elbow, and she
was loading it with delicacies from the cupboard.
The contents of that cupboard! Caviare came
from it, and a small ambrosial cheese; dried figs
and guava jelly; olives, cherries in brandy, won-


THE GIFTS OF FEODOR HIMKOFF. 209
derful filberts glazed with sugar; biscuits and
all manner of queer Russian sweets. I leant
back with wide eyes.
"Feodor sends us these," said the old woman,
bringing a dish of Cornish cream and a home-
made loaf to give the feast a basis.
"Who's Feodor?"
"Feodor Himkoff." She paused a moment,
and added, " He's mate on a Russian vessel."
"A friend?"
The question went unnoticed. "Is there any
you fancy?" she asked. "Some o't may be out-
landish eatin'."
"Do you like these things?" I looked from
her to the caviare.
"I don't know. I never tried. We keeps
'em, my man an' I, for all poor come-by-chance
folks that knocks."
"But these are dainties for rich men's tables."
"May be. I've never tasted—they'd stick in
our ozels if we tried."
I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but
thought it politer to accept this strange hos-
pitality in silence. Glancing up presently,
o


210
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
however, I saw her eyes still fixed on me, and
laid down my knife.
"I can't help it," I said, "I want to know
about Feodor Himkoff."
"There's no secret," she answered. "Least-
ways, there was one, but either God has con-
demned or forgiven afore now. Look at my
man there; he's done all the repentin' he's likely
to do."
After a few seconds' hesitation she went on—
"I had a boy, you must know—oh! a straight
young man—that went for a soldier, an' was
killed at Inkerman by the Rooshians. Take
another look at his father here; you think 'en a
bundle o' frailties, I dessay. Well, when the
news was brought us, this poor old worm lifts
his fist up to the sun an' says, ' God do so to me
an' more also,' he says, ' if ever I falls across a
Rooshian!' An' 'God send me a Rooshian—
just one!' he says, meanin' that Rooshians don't
grow on brambles hereabouts. Now the boy was
our only flesh.
"Well, sir, nigh sixteen year' went by, an' we
two were sittin', one cmakin' night, beside this


THE GIFTS OF FEODOR HIMKOFF. 211
very fire, hearkenin' to the bedlam outside: for
'twas the big storm in 'Seventy, an' even indoors
we must shout to make ourselves heard. About
ten, as we was thinkin to alley-couchey, there
comes a bangin' on the door, an' Isaac gets up
an' lets the bar down, singin' out, ' Who is it?'
"There was a big young man 'twixt the door-
posts, drippin' wet, wi' smears o' blood on his
face, an' white teeth showin' when he talked.
'Twas a half-furrin talk, an' he spoke a bit faint
too, but fairly grinned for joy to see our warm
fire,—an' his teeth were white as pearl.
"' Ah, sir,' he cried, 'you will help? Our
barque is ashore below—fifteen poor brothers!
You will send for help ?—you will aid?'
"Then Isaac stepped back, and spoke very
slow—' What nation?' he asked. 'She is Russ
—we are all Russ; sixteen poor brothers from
Archangel,' said the young man, as soon as he
took in the question. My man slewed round on
his heel, and walked to the hearth here; but
the sailor stretched out his hands, an' I saw the
middle finger of his right hand was gone. 'You
will aid, eh? Ah, yes, you will aid. They are.


212
NOUGHTS AXD CROSSES.
clingin'—so—fifteen poor brothers, and many
have wives.' But Isaac said, 'Thank Thee, God,'
and picked np a log from the hearth here.
'Take 'em this message,' said he, facin' round;
an', runnin' on the sailor, who was faint and
swayin', beat him forth wi' the burnin' stick, and
bolted the door upon him.
"After that we sat quiet, he an' I, all the
night through, never takin' our clothes off. An'
at daybreak Isaac walked down to the shore.
There was nothin' to see but two bodies, an' he
buried them an' waited for more. That evenin'
another came in, an' next day, two; an' so on for
a se'nnight. Ten bodies in all he picked up and
buried i' the meadow below. An' on the fourth
day he picked up a body wi' one finger missin',
under the Nare Head. 'Twas the young man he
had driven forth, who had wandered there an'
broke his neck. Isaac buried him too. An' that
was all, except two that the coastguard found an'
held an inquest over an' carr'd off to church-
yard.
"So it befell; an' for five year' neither Isaac
nor me opened mouth 'pon it, not to each other


214
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"An' ever since he's been breaking our heads
dro' the post-office wi' such-like precious balms
as these here." She broke off to settle Isaac
more comfortably in his chair. "Tis all we can
do to get rid of 'em on poor trampin' fellows
same as yourself."


YORKSHIRE DICK.
"See here, you'd best lose the bitch—till to-
morrow, anyway. She ain't the sight to please a
strict man, like your dad, on the Sabbath day.
What's more, she won't heal for a fortni't, not to
deceive a Croolty-to-Animals Inspector at fifty
yards; an' with any man but me she'll take a
month."
My friend Yorkshire Dick said this, with that
curious gypsy intonation that turns English into
a foreign tongue if you forget the words and
listen only to the voice. He was squatting in
the sunshine, with his back against an oak
sapling, a black cutty under his nose, and Meg,
my small fox-terrier, between his thighs. In
those days, being just fifteen, I had taken a
sketch-book and put myself to school under
Dick to learn the lore of Things As They Are:
and, as part of the course, we had been the
death of a badger that morning—Sunday morn-
ing.


21C
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
It was one of those days in autumn when the
dews linger in the shade till noon and the black-
berry grows too watery for the connoisseur. On
the ridge where we loafed, the short turf was
dry enough, and the sun strong between the
sparse saplings; but the paths that zigzagged
down the thick coppice to right and left were
soft to the foot, and streaked with the slimy
tracks of snails. A fine blue mist filled the
gulf on either hand, and beneath it mingled the
voices of streams and of birds busy beside them.
At the mouth of each valley a thicker column of
blue smoke curled up like a feather—that to the
left rising from the kitchen chimney of my
father's cottage, that to the right from the en-
campment where Dick's bouillon was simmering
above a wood fire.
Looking over Dick's shoulder along the ridge
I could see, at a point where the two valleys
climbed to the upland, a white-washed building,
set alone, and backed by an undulating moor-
land dotted with clay-works. This was Ebenezer
Chapel; and my father was its deacon. Its one
bell had sounded down the ridge and tinkled in


YORKSHIRE DICK.
217
my ear from half-past ten to eleven that morn-
ing.- Its pastor would walk back and eat roast
duck and drink three-star brandy under my
father's roof after service. Bell and pastor had
spoken in vain, as far as I was concerned; but I
knew that all they had to say would be rubbed
in with my father's stirrup-leather before night-
fall.
"'Tis pretty sport," said Dick, " but it leaves
traces."
Between us the thin red soil of the ridge was
heaped in mounds, and its stain streaked our
clothes and faces. On one of these mounds lay
a spade and two picks, a pair of tongs, an old
sack, dyed in its original service of holding
sheep's reddle, and, on the sack, the carcase of
our badger, its grey hairs messed with blood
about the snout. This carcase was a matter of
study not only to me, who had my sketch-book
out, but to a couple of Dick's terriers tied up to
a sapling close by—an ugly mongrel, half fox—-
half bull-terrier, and a Dandie Dinmont—who
were straining to get at it. As for Dick, he
never lifted his eyes, but went on handling Meg.


218
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
He had the gypsy's secret with animals, and the
poor little bitch hardly winced under his touch,
though her under-lip was torn away, and hung,
like a red rag, by half an inch of flesh.
We had dug and listened and dug again for
our badger, all the morning. Then Dick sent his
mongrel in at the hole, and the mongrel had
come forth like a projectile and sat down at a
distance, bewailing his lot. After him the
Dandie went in and sneaked out again with a
fore-paw bitten to the bone. And at last Meg
stepped in grimly, and stayed. For a time
there was dead silence, and then as we pressed
our ears against the turf and the violets, that
were just beginning their autumnal flowering, we
heard a scuffling underground and began to dig
down to it, till the sweat streamed into our eyes.
Now Dick's wife had helped us to bring up the
tools, and hung around to watch the sport—an
ugly, apathetic woman, with hair like a horse's
tail bound in a yellow rag, a man's hips, and a
skirt of old sacking. I think there was no love
lost between her and Dick, because she had


222
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
it in by turns, while Dick went on with his
surgery, his mouth pursed up for a soundless
whistle. The prosecution had it all its own
way, and I felt uncomfortably sure about the
sentence.
But at last, to our amazement, Dick, having
finished the bandaging, let Meg go and advanced.
He picked up my sketch-book.
"Gentlemen both," said he, "I've been listen-
ing respectful to your talk about God and his
wrath, and as a poor heathen I'd like to know
your idea of him. Here's a pencil and paper.
Will you be kind enough to draw God? that I
may see what he's like."
The pastor's jaw dropped. My father went
grey with rage. Dick stood a pace back, smiling;
and the sun glanced on the gold rings in his
ears.
"No, sirs. It ain't blasphemy. But I know
you can't give me a notion that won't make
him out to be a sort of man, pretty much like
yourselves—two eyes, a nose, mouth, and beard
perhaps. Now my wife says there's points about
a woman that you don't reckon into your notion;


YORKSHIRE DICK.
223
and my dog says there's more in a tail than
most men estimate—■—."
"You foul-tongued poacher "broke out
my father.
"Now you're mixing matters up," Dick inter-
rupted, blandly; "I poach, and that's a crime.
I've shown your boy to-day how men kill
badgers, and maybe that's wrong. But look
here, sir—I've taught him some things besides;
the ways of birds and beasts, and their calls;
how to tell the hour by sun and stars; how to
know an ash from a beech, of a pitch-dark night,
by the sound of the wind in their tops; what
herbs will cure disease and where to seek them;
why some birds hop and others run. Sirs, I
come of an old race that has outlived books
and pictures and meeting-houses: you belong to
a new one and a cock-sure, and maybe you're
right. Anyhow, you know precious little of this
world, whatever you may of another."
He stopped, pushed a hand through his
coarse black hair, and, as if suddenly tired, re-
sumed the old, sidelong gypsy look that he had
been straightening with an effort.


221
AOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
"Your boy'll believe what you tell him: he's
got the strength in his blood. Take him home
and don't beat him too hard."
He glanced at me with a light nod, untied
his dogs, shouldered his tools, and slouched
away down the path, to sleep under his accus-
tomed tree that night and be off again, next day,
travelling amongst men and watching them with
his weary ironical smile.


228
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
and the manner in which that frock was hitched
upon her made me stare.
"I got out of bed again and dressed myself,"
she explained.. "Nurse is in the kitchen, danc-
ing with the young man from Penare, who can't
afford to marry her for ever so long, father says.
I saw them twirling, as I slipped out"
"You have done a wrong thing," said I:
"you might catch your death."
Her lip fell:—she was but five. "Dick, I
only wanted to see if 'twas true."
"What?" I asked, covering her shoulders
with the empty sack that had been my pillow.
"Why, that the cows pray on Christmas-eve.
Nurse says that at twelve o'clock to-night all the
cows in their stalls will be on their knees, if only
somebody is there to see. So, as it's near twelve
by the tall clock indoors, I've come to see," she
wound up.
"It's quig-nogs, I expect. I never heard of
it."
"Nurse says they kneel and make a cruel
moan, like any Christian folk. It's because
Christ was born in a stable, and so the cows


230 NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
last week—the one that says 'Far and far I
carry it.'"
So I sang, while she rocked the babe:—
"' Naked boy, brown boy,
In the snow deep,
Piping, carolling
Folks out of sleep;
Little shoes, thin shoes,
Shoes so wet and worn'—
'But I bring the merry news
—Christ is born!
Rise, pretty mistress,
In your smock of silk;
Give me for my good news
Bread and new milk,
Joy, joy in Jewry,
This very morn!
Far and far I carry it
—Christ is bor n !'"
She heard me with a grave face to the end;
then pulling a handful of straw, spread it in the
empty manger and laid the doll there. No, I
forget; one moment she held it close to her


THE CAROL.
231
breast and looked down on it. The God who
fashions children can tell where she learnt that
look, and why I remembered it ten years later,
when they let me look into the room where she
lay with another babe in her clay-cold arms.
"Count forty," she went on, using the very
words of Pretty Tommy, our parish clerk;
"count forty, and let fly with 'Now draw
around '"
"Now draw around, good Christian mien,
And rest you worship-ping—"
We sang the carol softly together, she resting
one hand on the edge of the manger.
"Dick, ain't you proud of him? I don't see
the spiders beginning, though."
"The spiders?"
"Dick, you're very ig-norant. Everybody
knows that, when Christ was laid in a manger,
the spiders came and spun their webs over Him
and hid Him. That's why King Herod couldn't
find Him."
"There, now! We live and learn," said I.
"Well, now there's nothing to do but sit


232
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
down and wait for the wise men and the
shepherds."
It was a little while that she watched, being
long over-tired. The warm air of the chall
weighed on her eyelids; and, as they closed, her
head sank on my shoulder. For ten minutes I sat,
listening to her breathing. Dinah rose heavily
from her bed and lay down again, with a long
sigh; another cow woke up and rattled her rope a
dozen times through its ring; up at the house
the fiddling grew more furious; but the little
maid slept on. At last I wrapped the sack
closely round her, and lifting her in my arms,
carried her out into the night. She was my
master's daughter, and I had not the courage to
kiss so much as her hair. Yet I had no envy
for the dancers, then.
As we passed into the cold air she stirred.
"Did they come? And where are you carry-
ing me?" Then, when I told her, "Dick, I will
never speak to you again, if you don't carry me
first to the gate of the upper field."
So I carried her to the gate, and sitting up
in my arms she called twice,


NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
tell: but to me it seemed, for the moment, that
the shepherd among his ewes, the dancers
within the house, the sea beneath us, and the
stars in their courses overhead moved all to
one tune,—the carol of two children on the
hill-side.


THE PARADISE OF CHOICE. 241
She began "When other lips . . ." in a
whisper which gradually developed into a reedy
soprano. She had forgotten half the words, but
Adam lit a pipe and listened appreciatively.
"Tell you what," he said at the close; "you'll
be able to pick up a little on the road with your
singing. We'll tramp west to-morrow, and pass
ourselves off for man and wife. Likely we'll get
some farm work, down in the country. Let's
get out of this."
They joined hands and started off again,
unable to see a foot before them in the black-
ness. So it happened next morning that the
park-keeper, coming at his usual hour to unlock
the gates, found a man and a woman inside with
their white faces pressed against the railings,
through which they glared like caged beasts.
He set them free, and they ran out, for his
paradise was too big.
Now, facing west, they tramped for two days
on the Bath road, leaving the fog behind them,
and drew near Reading. It was a clear night as
they approached it, and the sky studded with
Q


252
NOUGHTS AND CROSSES.
behind the drawn blinds of my sitting-room
window I saw the funeral leave the house and
move down the front garden to the high-road
—the heads of the mourners, each with a white
handkerchief pressed to its nose, appearing
above the wall like the top of a procession in
some Assyrian sculpture. The husband wore a
ridiculously tall hat, and a hat-band with long
tails. The whole affair had the appearance of
an hysterical outrage on the afternoon sun-
shine. At the foot of the garden they struck
up a "burying tune," and passed down the road,
shouting it with all their lungs.
I caught up a book and rushed out into the
back garden for fresh air. Even out of doors it
was insufferably hot, and soon I flung myself
down on the bench within the arbour and set
myself to read. A plank behind me had started,
and after a while the edge of it began to gall my
shoulders as I leant back. I tried once or twice
to push it into its place, without success, and
then, in a moment of irritation, gave it a tug.
It came away in my hand, and something rolled
out on the bench before me, and broke in two.


THE MAGIC SHADOW.
20]
stance. He said nothing of the Shadow: but it
is true he had saved a certain amount. "Then
to all intents and purposes you are a gentle-
man," said the Retired Colonel; and the wed-
ding-day was fixed.
They were married in dull weather, and
spent a delightful honeymoon. But when spring
came and brighter days, the young wife began to
feel lonely; for her husband locked himself, all
the day long, in his study—to work, as he said.
He seemed to be always at work; and whenever
he consented to a holiday, it was sure to fall on
the bleakest and dismallest day in the week.
"You are never so gay now as you were last
Autumn. I am jealous of that work of yours.
At least," she pleaded, "let me sit with you and
share your affection with it."
But he laughed and denied her: and next
day she peered in through the keyhole of his
study.
That same evening she ran away from him:
having seen the shadow of another woman by
his side.
Then the poor man—for he had loved his


THE MAGIC SHADOW.
26?
already were heaping them with flowers and
calling them divine.
Then the man folded his arms and lifted his
chin.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I am simply
a sinner."
There are in this world certain men who
create. The children of such are poems, and the
half of their soul is female. For it is written
that without woman no new thing shall come
into the world.
THE END.


PRINTED BY
-aSSELL & COMPaNY, LIMITED, La BELLE SaCVaGE,
LONDON, E.C.


Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications.
Sports and Pastimes, Cassell's Complete Book of. Cheap Edition.
With more than oot Illustrations. Medium 8vo, 092 pages, cloth, 3s. 6d.
Stanley in East Africa, Scouting for: a Record of the Adventures
of Thomas Stevens in Search of H. M. Stanley. With 14 Illus-
trations. Cloth, 7s. 6d.
Star-Land. By Sir Robert Stawell Ball, LL.D., F.R S., F.R. A.S.
Illustrated. Crown Bvo, 6s.
Steam Engine, The. By W. H. Northcott, C.E. 3s. 6d.
Strange Doings in Strange Places. Complete Sensati mal Stories by
Frank Barrett, Q, G. Manville Fenn, &c. &c. Cr. 8vo, 5s.
Technical Education. By F. C. Montague. 6d.
Thackeray, Character Sketches from. Six New and Original Draw-
ings by Frederick Barnard, reproduced in Photogravure. 2is.
Treasure Island. By R. L. Stevenson. Illustrated. 5s.
Treatment, The Year-Book of. A Critical Review for Practitioners of
Medicine and Surgery. Greatly Enlarged. $zo pages. 7s. 6d.
Trees, Familiar. By G. S. Boulger, F.L.S. Two Series. With 40
full-page Coloured Plates by W. H. J. Boot. 12s. 6d. each.
Troy Town, The Astonishing History of. By Q. 5s.
Two Women or One? From the Manuscripts of Doctor Leonard
Benary. By Henry Harland. is.
11 Unicode": the Universal Telegraphic Phrase Book. Desk or
Pocket Edition. as. 6d.
United States, Cassell's History of the. By the late Edmund
Ollier. With 600 Illustrations. . Three Vols. gs. each.
Universal History, Cassell's Illustrated. Four Vols. gs. each.
Verdict, The. A Tract on the Political Significance of the Report of the
Parnell Commission. By Prof. A. V. Dicey. Q.C. as. 6d.
Vicar of Wakefield and other Works by Oliver Goldsmith.
Illustrated. 3s. 6d.; cloth, gilt edges, 5s.
What Girls Can Do. By Phyllis Browne, as. 6d.
Wild Birds, Familiar. By W. Swaysland. Four Series. With 40
- Coloured Plates in each. 1as. 6d. each.
Wild Flowers, Familiar. By F. E. Hulme, F.L.S., F.S.A. Five
Series. With 40 Coloured Plates in each. 12s. 6d. each.
Woman's World, The. Yearly Volume. 18s.
Wood, Rev. J. G., Life of the. By the Rev. Theodore Wood.
Demy 8vo, cloth, price 10s. 6d.
Work. An Illustrated Magazine of Practice and Theory for all Work-
men, Professional and Amateur. Yearly Vol., 7s. 6d.
World of Wit and Humour, The. With 400 Illustrations. Cloth,
7s. 6d.: cloth gilt, gilt edges, 10s. 6d.
World of Wonders. Two Vols. With 400 Illustrations. 7s. 6d. each.
Yule Tide. Cassell's Christmas Annual, is.
ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINES.
The Quiver. Enlarged Series. Monthly, 6d.
Cassell's Family Magazine, Monthly, 7d.
"Little Folks" Magazine' Monthly, 6d.
The Magazine of Art. Monthly, is.
Cassell's Saturday Journal. Weekly, id.: Monthly, 6&
Work. Weekly, id.; Monthly, 6d.
Catalogues of cassell & Company's Publications, which may be had at all
Booksellers', or will be sent post free on applicaticn to the Publishers:—
Cassell's Complete Catalogue, containing particulars of upwards of
One Thousand Volumes.
Cassell's Classified Catalogue, in which their Works are arranged
a cording to price, from 7"A eepence to Fifty Guineas.
Cassell's educational Catalogue, containing particulars of Cas ell
& COMPaNY'S Educational Woiks and Students'Manuals.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited, Ludgate Hill, London.


Selections from Cassell & Company s Publications.
grilles attir lleligions Works.
Bible, Cassell's Illustrated Family. With 900 Illustrations.
gilt edges, £2 1os.
Bible Dictionary, Cassell's. With nearly 600 Illustrations. 7s. 6d.
Bible Educator, The. Edited by the Very Rev. Dean Plumptre, D.D.,
Wells. With Illustrations, Maps, &c Four Vols., cloth, 6s. each.
Bible Student in the British Museum, The. By the Rev. J. G.
Kitchin, M.A. is.
Biblewomen and Nurses. Yearly Volume. Illustrated. 3s.
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress and Holy War. With 200 Illustrations.
With a New LifeofBunyan by the Rev. John Brown, B.A., D.D.
Cloth, ,16s.
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress (Cassell's Illustrated). 4to. 7s. 6d.
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. With Illustrations. Cloth, 2s. 6d.
Child's Bible, The. With 200 Illustrations. 150M Thousand. 7s. 6d.
Child's Life of Christ, The. With 200 Illustrations. 7s. 6d.
"Come, ye Children." Illustrated. By Rev. Benjamin Waugh. 5s.
Conquests of the Cross. With numerous Illustrations. Vols. I. and II.,
gs. each.
Dore- Bible. With 238 Illustrations by Gustave Dors. Small folio,
cloth, £8; best morocco, gilt edges, £15.
Early Days of Christianity, The. By the Ven. Archdeacon Farrar,
D.D., F.R.S. Library Edition. Two Vols., 24s.; morocco, £2 2s.
Popular Edition. _ Complete in One Volume, cloth, 6s.; cloth, gilt
edges, 7s. 6d.; Persian morocco, 10s. 6d.; tree-calf, 15s.
Family Prayer-Book, The. Edited by Rev. Canon Garbett, M.A.,
and Rev. S. Martin. Extra crown 410, cloth, 5s. ; morocco, 18s.
Gleanings after Harvest. Studies and Sketches by the Rev. John R.
Vernon, M.A. 6s.
Glories of the Man of Sorrows, The. Sermons preached at St. James's,
Piccadilly. By Rev. H. G. Bonavia Hunt, Mus. D., F.R.S., Ed. 2s. 6d.
"Graven in the Rock;" or, the Historical Accuracy cfthe Bible.
By the Rev. Dr. Samuel Kinns, F.R.A.S., Author of "Mosesand
Geology." Illustrated. 12s. 6d.
** Heart Chords." A Series of Works by Eminent Divines. Bound in
cloth, red edges, One Shilling each.
Mv BIBLE, By the Right Rev. W. BOYD
Carpenter, Bishop of Ripon.
MY FATHER. By the Right Rev. ASH
TON Oxenden, late Bishop of Mon-
treal.
MY WORK FOR God. By the Right
Rev. Bishop COTTERILL,
MY OBJECT IN LliV.. By the Ven.
Archdeacon FARRAR, D.D.
MY ASPIRATIONS. By the Rev. G.
MATHBSON, D.D.
MY EMOTIONAL LIFE. By the Rev.
Preb. CHADWICK. D.D.
MY BODY. By the Rev. Prof. W. G.
BLAIKIE, D.D.
My Growth in Divine Life. By the
Rev. Preb. Reynolds, M.a.
MY SOUL. By the Rev. P. B. Power,
M.a.
MY Hereafter. By the Very Rev.
Dean BlCKERSTETH.
MY WALK WITH GOD. By the Very
Rev. Dean MONTGOMERY.
MY AIDS TO THE DIVINE LIFE. By
the Very Rev. Dean BOYLE.
MY SOURCES OF STRENGTH. By the
Rev. E.E.JENKINS, M. A., Secretary
of Wesleyan Missionary Society.
Helps to Belief. A Series of Helpful Manuals on the Religious
Difficulties of the Day. Edited by the Rev. Teignmouth Shore, M.A.,
Chaplain-in-Ordinary to the Queen. Cloth, is. each.
Creation. By the Lord Bishop of
Carlisle.
The divinity of Our lord. By
the Lord Bishop of Derry.
The Morality of the old Testa-
ment. By the Rev. Newman
Smyth, D.D.
MIRACLES. By the Rev. Brownlow
Maitland, M.A.
Prayer. By the Rev. T. Teignmouth
Shore, M.A.
THE ATONEMENT. By the Lord Bishop
of Peterborough.
|B. 2.01


Selections from Cassell $ Company's Publications.
Holy Land and the Bible, The. By the R«v. Cunningham Ghikie,
D.D. Two Vols., with Map, 245.
Lectures on Christianity and Socialism. By the Right Rev. Alfred
. Barry, D.D. Cloth, 3s. 6d.
Life of Christ, The. By the Ven. Archdeacon Farrar, D.D., F.R.S.
Illustrated Edition, 2is.; morocco antique, 42s. Library Edi-
tion. Two Vols. Cloth, 24s.; morocco, 42s. Popular Edition, in
One Vol., 8vo, cloth, 6s.; cloth, gilt edges, 7s. 6d.; Persian morocco,
gilt edges, 1os. 6d. ; tree-calf, 15s.
Marriage Ring, The. By William Landels, D.D. New and
Cheaper Edition. 3s. 6d.
Moses and Geology; or, The Harmony of the Bible with Science.
By the Rev. Samuel Kinns, Ph.D., F.R.A.S. Illustrated. Cheap
Edition, 6s.
New Testament Commentary for English Readers, The. Edited
. by the Rt. Rev. C J. Ellicott, D.D., Lord Bishop of Gloucester
and Bristol. In Three Volumes, 21s. each. Vol. I.—The Four Gospels.
Vol. II.—The Acts, Romans, Corinthians, Galatians. Vol. III.—The
remaining Books of the New Testament.
New Testament Commentary. Edited by Bishop Ellicott. Handy
Volume Edition. St. Matthew, 3s. 6d. St. Mark, 3s. St. Luke,
3s. 6d. St. John, 3s. 6d. The Acts of the Apostles, 3s. 6d. Romans,
2s. 6d. Corinthians I. and II., 3s. Galatians, Ephesians, and Philip-
pians, 3s. Colossians, Thessalonians, and Timothy, 3s. Titus,
Philemon, Hebrews, and James, 3s. Peter, Jude, and John, 3s.
The Revelation, 3s. An Introduction to the New Testament, 3s. 6_J..
Old Testament Commentary for English Readers, The. Edited
by the Right Rev. C J. Ellicott, D.D., Lord Bishop of Gloucester
and Bristol. Complete in Five Vols., 21s. each. Vol. I.—Genesis to Num-
bers. Vol. II.—Deuteronomy to Samuel II. Vol. III.—Kings I. to
Esther. Vol. IV.—Job to Isaiah. Vol. V. —Jeremiah to Malachi.
Old Testament Commentary. Edited by Bishop Ellicott. Handy
Volume Edition. Genesis, 3s. 6d. Exodus, 3s. Leviticus, 3s.
Numbers, 2s. 6d. Deuteronomy, 2s. 6d.
Protestantism, The History of. By the Rev. J. A. Wylie, LL.D.
Containing upwards of 600 Original Illustrations. Three Vols., gs. each.
Quiver Yearly Volume, The. 250 high-class Illustrations. 7s. 6d.
Religion, The Dictionary of. By the Rev. W. Benham, B.D. 2is.;
Roxburgh, 25s.
St. George for England; and other Sermons preached to Children. By
the Rev. T. Teignmouth Shore, M.A. 5s.
St. Paul, The Life and Work of. By the Ven. Archdeacon Farrar,
D.D., F.R.S., Chaplain-in-Ordinary to the Queen. Library Edition.
Two Vols., cloth, 24s.; calf, 42s. Illustrated Edition, complete
in One Volume, with about 300 Illustrations, £1 is.; morocco, £2 2s.
Popular Edition. One Volume, 8vo, cloth, 6s.; cloth, gilt edges,
7s. 6d. ; Persian morocco, 10s. 6d. ; tree-calf, 15s.
Shall We Know One Another in Heaven? By the Rt. Rev. J. C.
Ryle, D.D., Bishop of Liverpool. Cheap Edition. Paper covers, 6d.
Signa Christi: Evidences of Christianity set forth in the Person and
Work of Christ. By James Aitchison, Minister of Erskine Church,
Falkirk. 5s.
"Sunday/' Its Origin, History, and Present Obligation. By the
Ven. Archdeacon Hessey, D.C.L. Fifth Edition. 7s. 6d.
Twilight of Life, The. Words of Counsel and Comfort for the
Aged. By the Rev. John Ellerton, M.A. is. 6d.
Voice of Time, The. By John Stroud. Cloth gilt, is.


■ /
I
Selections from Cassefl | Companys Publications.
Laundry Work (How to Teach It). By Mrs. E. Lord. 6d.
Laws of Every-Day Life. By H. O. Arnold-Forster. is. 6d.
Little Folks' History of England. Illustrated, is. 6d.
Making of the Home, The: A Book of Domestic Economy for School
and Home Use. By Mrs. Samuel A. Barnett. is. 6d.
Map-Building Series, CasseU's.- Outline Maps prepared by H. O.
Arnold-Forster. Per Set of Twelve, is.
Marlborough Books:—Arithmetic Examples, 3s. Arithmetic Rules, is. 6d.
French Exercises, 3s. 6d. French Grammar, 2s. 6d. German do., 3s. 6d.
Mechanics and Machine Design, Numerical Examples in Practical.
By R. G. Blaine, M.E, With Diagrams. Cloth, as. 6d.
M Model Joint" Wall Sheets, for Instruction in Manual Training. By
S. Barter. Eight Sheets, 2s. 6d. each.
New Poetry Readers, CasseU's. Illustrated. 12 Books, id. each;
or Complete in One Vol., cloth, is. 6d.
Object Lessons from Nature. By Prof. L. C. Miall, F.L.S. 2s. 6d.
Popular Educator, CasseU's NEW. With Revised Text, New Maps,
New Coloured Plates, New Type, &c. To be completed in 8 Vols. 5s.each*
Popular Educator, CasseU's. Complete in Six Vols., 5s. each.
Readers, CasseU's "Higher Class." (List on application.)
Readers, CasseU's Historical. Illustrated throughout, printed on
superior paper, and strongly bound in cloth. (List on application.)
Readers, CasseU's Readable. Carefully graduated, extremely in-
teresting, and illustrated throughout. (List on application.)
Readers for Infant Schools, Coloured. Three Books. 4d. each.
Reader, The Citizen. By H. O. Arnold-Forster. Illustrated, is. 6d.
Reader, The Temperance. By Rev. J. Dennis Hird. Cr. 8vo, is. 6d.
Readers, The "Modern School" Geographical. (List on application.)
Readers, The "Modern School." Illustrated. (List on application.)
Reckoning, Howard's Anglo-American Art of. By C. Fruskkk
Howard. Paper covers, is. ; cloth, 2s.
Science Applied to Work. By J. A. Bower, is.
Science 01 Everyday Life. By John A. Bower. Illustrated, is.
Shade from Models, Common Objects, and Casts of Ornament,
How to. By W. E. Sparkes. With 25 Plates by the Author. 3s.
Shakspere's Plays for School Use. 5 Books. Illustrated. 6d. each.
Shakspere Reading Book, The. Illustrated. 3s. 6d.
Spelling, A Complete Manual of. By J. D. Morell, LL.D. is.
Technical Manuals, CasseU's. Illustrated throughout:—
Handrailing and Staircasing, 3s. 6d.—Bricklayers, Drawing for, 3s.—
Building Construction, 2s.—Cabinet-Makers, Drawing for, 3s.—
Carpenters and Joiners, Drawing for, 3s. 6d.—Gothic Stonework, 3s.
—Linear Drawing and Practical Geometry, 2s.—Linear Drawing and
- Projection. The Two Vols, in One, 3s. 6d.—Machinists and Engineers,
Drawing for, 4s. 6d.—Metal-Plate Workers, Drawing for, 3s.—Model
Drawing,3s.—Orthographical and Isometrical Projection, 2s.—Practical
Perspective, 3s.—Stonemasons, Drawing for, 3s. —Applied Mechanics,
by Sir R. S. Ball, LL.D., 2s.—Systematic Drawing and Shading, 2s.
Technical Educator, CasseU's. Revised Edition. Four Vols., 5s. each.
Technology, Manuals of. Edited by Prof. Ayrton, F.R.S., and
Richard Wormell, D.Sc, M.A. Illustrated throughout:—
The Dyeing of Textile Fabrics, by Prof. Hummel, 5s.—Watch and
Clock Making, by D. Glasgow, 4s. 6d.—Steel and Iron, by Prof.
W. H. Greenwood, F.C.S., M.I.C.E., &a, 5s.—Spinning Woollen and
Worsted, by W. S. B. McLaren, M.P., 4s.6d.—Design in Textile
Fabrics, by T. R. Ashenhurst, 4s. 6d.—Practical Mechanics, by Prof.
Perry, M.E., 3s. 6d.—Cutting Tools Worked by Hand and Machine,
by Prof. Smith, 3s. 6d. (A Prospectus on application.)
Test Cards, CasseU's Combination. In sets, is. each.
Test Cards, "Modern School," CasseU's. In Sets, is. each.
CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited, Ludgatt Hill, London.


Selections from Cas sell $ Company's Publications.
"Golden Mottoes" Series, The. Each Book containing 208 pages, with
Four full-page Original Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, as. each.
By Jeanie
Emily
'Nil Desperandum." By the [
Rev. F. Langbridge, M.A.
"Bear and Forbear."
Pitt.
"Foremost if I Can."
Atteridge.
By Sarah
By Helen
'Honour la my Guide.'
Hering (Mrs. Adams-ac
"Aim at a Sure End,'
Searchfield.
'He Conquers who Endures.'
the Author of "May Ci
Trial," &c
Cheap Editions of Recent Popular Volumes for Young People.
Wild Adventures in Wild
Places. By Dr. Gordon Stables,
R.N. Illustrated Price as. 6d.
Freedom's Sword: a Story of the
Days of Wallace and Bruce. By
Annie S. Swan. Price as. 6d.
Perils Afloat and Brigands Ashore.
By Alfred Elwes. Price as. 6d.
Pictures of School Life and Boy-
hood. Selected from the best Au-
thors. Edited by Percy Fitzgerald,
M.a. Price as. 6&
Modern Explorers. By Thomas Frost. Illustrated. Price as. 6d-
Cassell's Picture Story Books. Each containing Sixty Pages of
Pictures and Stories, &c. 6d, each.
Little Talks. Daisy's Story Book.
Bright Stars. Dot's Story Book.
Nursery Toys. A Nest of Stories.
Pets Posy. Good-Night Stories.
Chats for Small Chatterers.
Tiny Tales.
Auntie's Stories.
Birdie's Story Book.
Little Chimes.
A Sheaf of Tales.
Dew drop Stories.
Cassell's Sixpenny Story Books. All Illustrated, and containing
Interesting Stories by well-known writers.
The Smuggler's Cave.
Little Lizzie.
Little Bitd, Life and Adven-
tures of.
Luke Barnicott.
The Delft Jug.
The Boat Club.
Little Pickles.
The Elchester College Boys.
My First Cruise.
The Little Peacem
Cassell's Shilling Story Books,
ing Stories.
Bunty and the Boys.
The Heir of Elmdale.
The Mystery at Shonclifl
School.
Claimed at Last, and Boy's
Reward-
Thorns and Tangles.
The Cuckoo in the Robin's Nest.
John's Mistake.
The History of Five Little
Pitchers.
Diamonds in the Sand.
All Illustrated, and containing Interest-
Surly Bob.
The Giant's Cradle.
Shag and Doll.
Aunt Luoia's Locket,
The Magio Mirror.
The Cost of Revenge.
Clever Frank.
Among the Redskins.
The Ferryman of Brill.
Harry Maxwell.
A Banished Monaroh.
Seventeen Cats.
Illustrated Books for the Little Ones. Containing interesting Stories.
All Illustrated, is. each ; cloth gilt, is. 6d.
Scrambles and Scrapes.
Tittle Tattle Tales.
Up and Down the Garden.
All Sorts of AdventuxeB.
Our Sunday Stories.
Our Holiday Hours.
Indoors and Out.
Some Farm Friends.
Wandering Ways.
Dumb Friends.
Those Golden Sands.
Little Mothers & their Children.
Our Prettv Pets.
Our Sohoolday Hours.
Creatures Tame.
Creatures Wild.
Albums for Children.
The Album for Home, Sohool,
and Play. Containing Stories by
Popular Authors.- Set in bold
type, and Illustrated throughout.
My Own Album of
With Full-page IUi
Price 3s. 6d. each.
Picture Album of All Sorts.
Full-page Illustrations.
The Chit-Chat Album,
throughout





UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 06394 6480