24403	----	None 
63295	----	https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) Transcriber's Notes: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. Small uppercase have been replaced with regular uppercase. Blank pages have been eliminated. Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been left as in the original. FRONTISPIECE. [Illustration: _See Page 11._] THE WISHING-CAP. BY MRS. SHERWOOD, AUTHOR OF "LITTLE HENRY AND HIS BEARER," &c. &c. _NEW EDITION._ LONDON: HOULSTON AND STONEMAN, 63, PATERNOSTER ROW. THE WISHING-CAP. There lived once a lady in London, who had a great deal of money, but who had never given her heart to God. This lady had the care of five children: four of them were brothers and sisters; and their names were James and Edward, Charlotte and Louisa. The fifth child was an orphan, and had no brothers or sisters. The name of this little boy was Charles. Little Charles's papa and mamma had been dead only a very few months: they were very pious people, and had brought up their little boy in the fear of God. Charles thought of his papa and mamma every day: he knew they were gone to heaven, and he knew, also, who that blessed person was, for whose sake they had been received into that happy place. [Illustration] Every day little Charles read a few chapters in a Bible which his papa had given him, and he tried to remember the good things which had been taught him: so God blessed little Charles, and helped him to be good. It happened, one Sunday afternoon, in the Christmas holidays, that the lady came into the children's play-room, and sat down among them. "I am come," she said, "to drink tea with you this evening; after which we will put on a wishing-cap; and then we shall see what fine things the wishing-cap will produce." The children were all pleased to see the lady sit down among them; and while they were drinking their tea, they talked a great deal about the wishing-cap. "What can a wishing-cap be?" said Louisa, who was the youngest: "and how can it bring fine things?" "I never heard of a wishing-cap in all my life," said James. "I want tea to be over, that we may see it." "O!" said Charlotte, "I know what is meant by a wishing-cap. I remember reading of a man, in a fairy tale, who had a wishing-cap; and when he put this cap on, and wished for any thing, he had it immediately: but I thought there were no such things really as wishing-caps, except in fairy tales." "Well, well," said the lady, "we shall see what kind of wishing-cap I can make: but I must tell you, my wishing-cap is not so good a one as the man's in the fairy tale; it will only produce such things as may be easily had, it will not bring wonders to pass." In this manner they went on talking till tea was over, and the tea-things carried away. Then the lady drew her chair to the fire, and bidding the children sit round her, she put her hand into her pocket, and pulled out a sheet of white paper. She then folded up the paper in the shape of a cap, and holding it up in her hand, "This is the wishing-cap," she said; "you shall put it on, and try what it is good for. Come, who will be the first to wear the cap?" Then the lady placed the cap on Charlotte's head. "Now," she said, "think! what do you wish for?" [Illustration] "But will what I wish for really come?" said Charlotte. "Perhaps it may," answered the lady: "we shall know to-morrow morning." "Then," said Charlotte, "I wish for a muslin frock, trimmed with satin ribbon." "Very well," said the lady. "Who comes next?" "I! I!" cried James, snatching the cap from his sister's head, and putting it on his own; "I wish for a rocking-horse." "Now for me," said Edward; "give me the cap. I wish for a coachman's whip. Now, Louisa, it is your turn." "I wish for a wax doll, with flaxen hair, and blue eyes," said Louisa. "Now you have all had your turns," said the lady, "but Charles: come, Louisa, give the cap to Charles." "There, take it," cried Louisa, throwing the cap at him, "and make haste." The cap fell at Charles's feet: he took it up, and laid it on the table. "Put it on your head, you foolish boy," said James, "and wish a wish." Charles smiled, but he did not offer to take up the cap. "What are you about?" said James, giving him a push; "put on the cap, and tell us your wish." "Charles," said the lady, "don't you understand what you are to do? Put on the cap, and don't be stupid." "I thank you, Ma'am," answered Charles; "but I beg that you will not be angry, if I don't put on the wishing-cap." [Illustration] "But you shall have it on," said James, taking it off the table, and putting it on his head. Charles took it quietly off his head, and laid it on the table. The lady looked surprised; and drawing Charles to her, she said, "What is the meaning of your behaviour? Why will you not play with us?" "Perhaps you may not be pleased, if I tell you, Ma'am; and I do not wish to make you angry," answered little Charles. "But I will know," said the lady, looking vexed. "My poor papa, when he was alive," said Charles, "used to tell me that I ought not to wish for any thing but God's blessing: and he taught me this verse--_Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you_: (Matt. vi. 33.) and this is the reason why I do not like to put on the wishing-cap." While little Charles was speaking, the rest of the children stood staring and laughing; and when he had done, the lady pushed him away, saying, "You are a strange, foolish boy, and not fit to play with other children. Go to bed immediately." Charles went up to his room. His cheeks were wet with tears, and his heart was very sad. He remembered, that he once had a papa to lean his head against when he was unhappy, and a dear mamma to wipe away his tears; but they were both dead: yet still he had a Saviour to whom he might freely go. So he tried to lift up his heart to this dear Saviour, and laying his little head on his pillow, he fell asleep. In his sleep he had a very sweet dream about heaven: and when he awoke in the morning, he remembered these words in the Prophet Isaiah--_As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you_. (Isaiah lxvi. 13.) [Illustration] While Charles was dressing himself, he heard a very great noise down stairs. He made haste, and running into the play-room, he found the rest of the children screaming and jumping for joy. Charlotte dressed in a new muslin frock; Louisa with the wax doll she had wished for; James riding on a large new rocking-horse; and Edward with a coachman's whip. "Look here, Master Charles," said James, "see what the wishing-cap has brought us! Are you not sorry now that you were such a fool as to refuse to put on the wishing-cap?" Then the rude boy began to shout and halloo, riding up and down as hard as the horse would go; while Edward kept cutting and lashing the heels of the wooden horse with his coachman's whip, whistling, and smacking his lips, like a coachman; Louisa sung to her doll; and Charlotte danced about in her new frock, singing and laughing: and, all together, there was such a noise, that it might have been heard to the end of the street; the boys every now and then crying out, "Well, Master Charles, what do you think of us now?" Every thing went on very well, and all were in the greatest good-humour, till Edward, without intending it, instead of lashing the wooden legs of the horse, gave his brother a most terrible cut with his long whip, over one knee, and across one hand. James, being made very angry with the pain, jumped from his horse; and flying at his brother, began to beat him with all his strength. Edward ran to his sisters for help; and James followed, continuing to beat him, and saying, "You sha'n't horse-whip me for nothing, Sir, I can tell you that." At length, James pushed Edward against Louisa; by which means, her doll was thrown down, and broken to pieces: and Edward, as he fell, caught his foot in Charlotte's new frock, and tore it sadly. Charlotte and Louisa now began to scream and cry in their turns; and there was such a dreadful noise, that the lady came in haste to see what was the matter. The children were all quiet, as soon as they saw the lady, and very much frightened too. "So," she said, "you have been fighting, you naughty children, instead of enjoying the pretty things I got for you! You, Charlotte, have torn your frock; and you, Louisa, have broken your doll. And as to you, you naughty boys, you have been beating each other: go up to your bed-rooms; and there you shall stay all day, and have nothing but bread and water. As for the rocking-horse and the whip, I shall send them back to the shop." So the four children were taken up to their rooms; and the whip and the rocking-horse were sent back to the shop: but little Charles was asked to breakfast with the lady in the parlour. And she said to him, "I begin to think your papa was a wise man, when he taught you to seek for nothing but God's blessing: for I see that having the things we wish for, does not always make us the happier." Little Charles was much pleased, when he heard the lady speak so kindly; and he asked her to forgive the other children, but she would not. [Illustration] And now I will tell you how little Charles received at last what he had secretly desired above all things, and how happy it made him. About two months after this time, all the children were taken ill with a fever which was then going about London. They all recovered, however, but little Charles; for though the lady took great care of him, because she now began to love him, and though a very skilful doctor came often to see him, yet he got worse and worse. For many days he could not speak, and did not know any body. At last, the time of his death drew very near. He had been asleep; and opened his eyes, while the lady was standing by his bed. He looked quite cheerful; and holding out his hand to her, "I am going to die, Ma'am," he said, "I feel death approaching; but I am very happy. That dear Saviour whose love my father taught me to seek, is very near me, though my eyes do not now see him. He comforts me with his promises, and tells me that for his sake death shall be made easy to me." [Illustration] "It was because I desired his love alone, that I ceased to wish for other things. I knew that they could not make me happy. All the world, my papa taught me, could not make me happy without my Saviour's love. And now I am going to this dear Saviour; and I know that he will forgive my sins, because he gave me grace to seek him." Then little Charles prayed that God would bless the lady, and the other children under her care: and soon afterwards he died. I am happy to tell you, that the lady never forgot little Charles's words upon his dying bed. From that time, she gave her heart to seek heavenly blessings instead of earthly possessions: and she used often to say to the other children, when they were wishing for toys, or other foolish things, "Remember little Charles; and, like him, put away the wishing-cap." And so I say to you, my dear little children, who may hereafter read this story,-- DON'T PUT ON THE WISHING-CAP. FINIS. 
42850	----	[Illustration] If this is borrowed by a friend Right welcome shall he be To read, to study, _not_ to _lend_ But to return to me. Not that imparted knowledge doth Diminish learning's store But books I find if often lent Return to me no more. Every Boy's Library For Little Boys NEW EDITION, 1910 =1 The Man Without a Country= By Rev. E. E. Hale =2 The Bicycle Highwaymen= By Frank M. Bicknell =3 The Railroad Cut= By W. O. Stoddard =4 J. Cole= By Emma Gellibrand =5 Laddie= By Evelyn Whitaker =6 Miss Toosey= By Evelyn Whitaker =7 Elder Leland's Ghost= By Hezekiah Butterworth =9 Wonder Book Stories= By Nathaniel Hawthorne =10 The Prince of the Pin Elves= By Charles Lee Sleight =11 The Little Lame Prince= By Miss Mulock =12 One Thousand Men for a Christmas Present= By Mary B. Sheldon =13 The Little Earl= By Ouida =14 The Double Prince= By Frank M. Bicknell =15 The Young Archer= By Charles E. Brimblecom =16 Little Peterkin Vandike= By Charles Stuart Pratt =17 Christmas Carol= By Charles Dickens =18 A Great Emergency= By Juliana Horatia Ewing =19 The Rose and the Ring= By William M. Thackeray =20 Lazy Lawrence and other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =21 Forgive and Forget and Other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =22 The False Key and other Stories= By Maria Edgeworth =23 A Boy's Battle= By Will Allen Dromgoole =24 The Gold Bug= By Edgar Allan Poe =25 The Pineboro Quartette= By Willis Boyd Allen =26 His Majesty the King and Wee Willie Winkie= By Rudyard Kipling =27 The Old Monday Farm= By Louise R. Baker =28 Daddy Darwin's Dovecote= By Juliana H. Ewing =29 Little Dick's Christmas= By Etheldred B. Barry =30 What Paul Did= By Etheldred B. Barry =31 Harum Scarum Joe= By Will Allen Dromgoole =32 The Drums of the Fore and Aft= By Rudyard Kipling =33 The Child of Urbino and Moufflou= By Ouida =34 Hero-Chums= By Will Allen Dromgoole =35 Little Tong's Mission= By Etheldred B. Barry H. M. CALDWELL COMPANY Publishers NEW YORK AND BOSTON [Illustration: THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN] EVERY BOY'S LIBRARY THE PIED PIPER of HAMELIN and Other Poems By ROBERT BROWNING [Illustration] ILLUSTRATED H. M. CALDWELL CO. PUBLISHERS NEW YORK & BOSTON _Copyright, 1899_ BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY CONTENTS. PAGE THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 11 HERVÉ RIEL 24 CAVALIER TUNES 31 "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX" 34 THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR 37 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 39 CLIVE 41 MULÉYKEH 59 TRAY 68 A TALE 70 GOLD HAIR 75 DONALD 82 THE GLOVE 90 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN _Frontispiece_ "'LEAVE TO GO AND SEE MY WIFE, WHOM I CALL THE BELLE AURORE'" 30 "I GALLOPED, DIRCK GALLOPED, WE GALLOPED ALL THREE" 34 "A RIDER BOUND ON BOUND FULL GALLOPING, NOR BRIDLE DREW UNTIL HE REACHED THE MOUND" 39 "HAIR, SUCH A WONDER OF FLIX AND FLOSS" 75 "AND FULL IN THE FACE OF ITS OWNER FLUNG THE GLOVE" 95 THE BOYS' BROWNING. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. A CHILD'S STORY. I. Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II. Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. III. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. IV. An hour they sat in council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" V. "Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" VI. He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! --Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' --I found the Weser rolling o'er me." VIII. You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" IX. A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" X. The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion." XI. "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII. Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, --Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountainside, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountainside shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!" XIV. Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabour Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. XV. So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! HERVÉ RIEL. I. On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II. 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!" III. Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV. Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V. "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese. VI. And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel. VII. Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, Up the English come--too late! VIII. So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX. Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." X. Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. XI. Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! [Illustration: "'LEAVE TO GO AND SEE MY WIFE, WHOM I CALL THE BELLE AURORE.'"] CAVALIER TUNES. I. MARCHING ALONG. Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles! Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you're-- CHORUS.--Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell. Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, CHO.--Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, CHO.--March we along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! II. GIVE A ROUSE. King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! Who gave me the goods that went since? Who raised me the house that sank once? Who helped me to gold I spent since? Who found me in wine you drank once? CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! To whom used my boy George quaff else, By the old fool's side that begot him? For whom did he cheer and laugh else, While Noll's damned troopers shot him? CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now? King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, King Charles! III. BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they? CHO.--"Boot, saddle, to horse and away!" [Illustration: "I GALLOPED, DIRCK GALLOPED, WE GALLOPED ALL THREE."] "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear: At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" "How they'll greet us!" and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to hear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is--friends flocking round As I sat with his head, 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR. As I ride, as I ride, With a full heart for my guide, So its tide rocks my side, As I ride, as I ride, That, as I were double-eyed, He, in whom our Tribes confide, Is descried, ways untried, As I ride, as I ride. As I ride, as I ride To our Chief and his Allied, Who dares chide my heart's pride As I ride, as I ride? Or are witnesses denied-- Through the desert waste and wide Do I glide unespied As I ride, as I ride? As I ride, as I ride, When an inner voice has cried, The sands slide, nor abide (As I ride, as I ride) O'er each visioned homicide That came vaunting (has he lied?) To reside--where he died, As I ride, as I ride. As I ride, as I ride, Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, Yet his hide, streaked and pied, As I ride, as I ride, Shows where sweat has sprung and dried, --Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed-- How has vied stride with stride As I ride, as I ride! As I ride, as I ride, Could I loose what Fate has tied, Ere I pried, she should hide (As I ride, as I ride) All that's meant me--satisfied When the Prophet and the Bride Stop veins I'd have subside As I ride, as I ride! [Illustration: "A RIDER BOUND ON BOUND FULL GALLOPING, NOR BRIDLE DREW UNTIL HE REACHED THE MOUND."] INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader, Lannes, Waver at yonder wall,--" Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" and his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. CLIVE. I and Clive were friends--and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives--egad, England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak-- "Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades--" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, I was, am, and ever shall be--mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive--he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished! Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings,--silence, save for biscuit crunch, Black, unbroken,--thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long past life appears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still,--I'm startled in my solitude Ever and anon by--what's the sudden mocking light that breaks On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask--aloud, I do believe, God help me!--"Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us--" (Us,--you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) "--One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "Got no end of wealth and honour,--yet I stood stock-still no less?" --"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice--call Hero! None of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says, the land's the Lord's: Louts then--what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before T'other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still Marks a man,--God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. You've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin; Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in! True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage--ah, the brute he was! Why, that Clive,--that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,-- He sustained a siege in Arcot ... But the world knows! Pass the wine. Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear!" Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear. We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely threaten to absorb Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,--friendship might, with steadier eye Drawing near, hear what had burned else, now no blaze--all majesty. Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle's new: None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about Towers--the heap he kicks now! Turrets--just the measure of his cane! Will that do? Observe moreover--(same similitude again)-- Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'Tis when foes are foiled, and fighting's finished that vile rains invade, Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes Fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last. A week before, Dining with him,--after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,-- Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head-piece, foot-piece, when they lean Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between. As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,--"One more throw Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let's venture some good rattling question!" So-- "Come Clive, tell us"--out I blurted--"what to tell in turn, years hence, When my boy--suppose I have one--asks me on what evidence I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit Worth your Alexanders, Cæsars, Marlboroughs, and--what said Pitt?-- Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"--I want to say-- "Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away --In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess-- Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness! Come! What moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!) If a friend has leave to question,--when were you most brave, in short?" Up he arched his brows o' the instant--formidably Clive again. "When was I most brave? I'd answer, were the instance half as plain As another instance that's a brain-lodged crystal--curse it!--here Freezing when my memory touches--ugh!--the time I felt most fear. Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear--anyhow, Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now." "Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that's the rarer: that's a specimen to seek, Ticket up in one's museum, _Mind-Freaks_, _Lord Clive's Fear_, _Unique_!" Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. When he spoke 'twas like a lawyer reading word by word some will, Some blind jungle of a statement,--beating on and on until Out there leaps fierce life to fight with. "This fell in my factor-days. Desk-drudge, slaving at Saint David's, one must game, or drink, or craze. I chose gaming: and,--because your high-flown gamesters hardly take Umbrage at a factor's elbow, if the factor pays his stake,-- I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, Captain This and Major That, men high of colour, loud of voice, Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile Who not merely risked, but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile. "Down I sat to cards, one evening,--had for my antagonist Homebody whose name's a secret--you'll know why--so, if you list, Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel! Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel Quite sufficient honour came of bending over one green baize, I the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise Shadow of objection should the honour stay but playing end More or less abruptly,--whether disinclined he grew to spend Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare At--not ask of--lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,-- Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!' "I rose. 'Such the new manoeuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows. What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?' "Never did a thunder-clap Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap, As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack) Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black. "When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!' "'Well, you forced a card and cheated!' "'Possibly a factor's brain, Busied with his all important balance of accounts, may deem Weighing words superfluous trouble: cheat to clerkly ears may seem Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! When a gentleman is joked with,--if he's good at repartee, He rejoins, as do I--Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull Lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! Choose quick-- Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!' "'Well, you cheated!' "Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace! No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space! Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, Fly the sword! This clerk's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then! Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he's alert, Likelier hits the broader target!' "Up we stood accordingly. As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out Every spark of his existence, that,--crept close to, curled about By that toying, tempting, teasing, fool-forefinger's middle joint,-- Don't you guess?--the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead. "Up he marched in flaming triumph--'twas his right, mind!--up, within Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky, with a grin As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?' "'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. As for me, my homely breeding bids you--fire and go to Hell!' "Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist. Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list, I can't! God's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No! There's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,--so, I did cheat!' "And down he threw the pistol, out rushed--by the door Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, He effected disappearance--I'll engage no glance was sent That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking--mute they stood as mice. "Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'Rogue and rascal! Who'd have thought it? What's to be expected next, When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext For ... But where's the need of wasting time now? Naught requires delay: Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed! Drum and fife must play the Rogue's-March, rank and file be free to speed Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear --Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,--never fear, Mister Clive, for--though a clerk--you bore yourself--suppose we say-- Just as would beseem a soldier? "'Gentlemen, attention--pray! First, one word!' "I passed each speaker severally in review. When I had precise their number, names, and styles, and fully knew Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,--why, then-- "Some five minutes since, my life lay--as you all saw, gentlemen-- At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised In arrest of judgment, not one tongue--before my powder blazed-- Ventured "Can it be the youngster plundered, really seemed to mark Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark, Guess at random,--still, for sake of fair play--what if for a freak, In a fit of absence,--such things have been!--if our friend proved weak --What's the phrase?--corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!" Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each, To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech --To his face, behind his back,--that speaker has to do with me: Me who promise, if positions change, and mine the chance should be, Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!' "Twenty-five Years ago this matter happened: and 'tis certain," added Clive, "Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you. All I know is--Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,--grew Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,-- That's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate. Ugh--the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate Longer? You've my story, there's your instance: fear I did, you see!" "Well"--I hardly kept from laughing--"if I see it, thanks must be Wholly to your Lordship's candour. Not that--in a common case-- When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'Tis no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. Fear I naturally look for--unless, of all men alive, I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive. Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death--the whole world knows-- Came to somewhat closer quarters." Quarters? Had we come to blows, Clive and I, you had not wondered--up he sprang so, out he rapped Such a round of oaths--no matter! I'll endeavour to adapt To our modern usage words he--well, 'twas friendly license--flung At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue. "You--a soldier? You--at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, --At his mercy, at his malice,--has you, through some stupid inch Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,--not to flinch --That needs courage, you'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man, Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span Distant from my temple,--curse him!--quietly had bade me, 'There! Keep your life, calumniator!--worthless life I freely spare: Mine you freely would have taken--murdered me and my good fame Both at once--and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these, He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please? Nay, I'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained-- Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will." "Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate --No, by not one jot nor tittle,--of your act my estimate. Fear--I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough-- Call it desperation, madness--never mind! for here's in rough Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face --None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times, Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes Rub some marks away--not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink, Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think There's advantage in what's left us--ground to stand on, time to call 'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over--do not leap, that's all!" Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught Something like "Yes--courage; only fools will call it fear." If aught Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard, Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "Fearfully courageous!"--this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned. I'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed--we'll hope condoned. MULÉYKEH. If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" Or haply "God help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. "What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinán? They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, Muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!' "So in the pride of his soul laughs Hóseyn--and right, I say. Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all, Ever Muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we used to call Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hóseyn, I say, to laugh!" "Boasts he Muléykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: "Be sure On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both On Duhl the son of Sheybán, who withers away in heart For envy of Hóseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'For the vulgar--flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize apart.'" Lo, Duhl the son of Sheybán comes riding to Hóseyn's tent, And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" bids he. "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'Tis said of your Pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too long." Said Hóseyn, "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Múzennem: There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. But I love Muléykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels--go gaze on them! Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. "You are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift.'" Said Hóseyn, "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muléykeh lives. Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muléykeh died? It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" Another year, and--hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines With the robber--and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, Must wring from Hóseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench. "He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store, And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew? Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. "I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: Let him die, then,--let me live! Be bold--but not too rash! I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy! "As he said--there lies in peace Hóseyn--how happy! Beside Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, Buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. "No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape." Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, He is out and off and away on Buhéyseh, whose worth we know! And Hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, And Buhéyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit, And to reach the ridge El-Sabán,--no safety till that he spied! And Buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: Buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. She is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! What folly makes Hóseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust, Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!" And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceived Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the ground Weeping: and neighbours came, the tribesmen of Bénu-Asád In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief. And they jeered him, one and all: "Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope! How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? To have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "And the beaten in speed!" wept Hóseyn. "You never have loved my Pearl." TRAY. Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst Of soul, ye bards! Quoth Bard the first: "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don His helm and eke his habergeon"... Sir Olaf and his bard--! "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), "That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned My hero to some steep, beneath Which precipice smiled tempting death"... You too without your host have reckoned! "A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) "Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird Sang to herself at careless play, And fell into the stream. 'Dismay! Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred. "Bystanders reason, think of wives And children ere they risk their lives. Over the balustrade has bounced A mere instinctive dog, and pounced Plumb on the prize. 'How well he dives! "'Up he comes with the child, see, tight In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet! Good dog! What, off again? There's yet Another child to save? All right! "'How strange we saw no other fall! It's instinct in the animal. Good dog! But he's a long while under: If he got drowned I should not wonder-- Strong current, that against the wall! "'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time --What may the thing be? Well, that's prime! Now, did you ever? Reason reigns In man alone, since all Tray's pains Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' "And so, amid the laughter gay, Trotted my hero off,--old Tray,-- Till somebody, prerogatived With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived, His brain would show us, I should say. "'John, go and catch--or, if needs be, Purchase--that animal for me! By vivisection, at expense Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence, How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" A TALE. What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada?" Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat? Ay, and ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet. Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one assent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument? Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done? That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul-development. No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!" So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. That's the tale: its application? Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize! If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? "For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again,-- "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone." But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!) [Illustration: "HAIR, SUCH A WONDER OF FLIX AND FLOSS."] GOLD HAIR. Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea, Just where the sea and the Loire unite! And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write. Too white, for the flower of life is red: Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead. Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! One grace that grew to its full on earth: Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, And her waist want half a girdle's girth, But she had her great gold hair. Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too! Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross: Here, Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!" And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!" So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that, when delicate evening dies, And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, There's a shoot of colour startles the skies With sudden, violent change,-- That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, "I must speak!" "Not my hair!" made the girl her moan-- "All the rest is gone or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone!" The passion thus vented, dead lay she; Her parents sobbed their worst on that; All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For indeed the hair was to wonder at, As it spread--not flowing free, But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck--ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap I' the gold, it reached her gown. All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge. And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar; keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate. And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold, both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, So it never was touched at all. Years flew; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summed in one Sentence survivors passed: To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was--she knew her gold hair's worth. * * * * * At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research. 'Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose, A baron with armour-adornments quaint, Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint; So we come to find them in after-days When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways: For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise. They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor Humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!-- They found--no gaud they were prying for, No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- A double Louis-d'or! Here was a case for the priest: he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid Finger on nose, smiled, "There's a bird Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade, Dig deeper!"--he gave the word. And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid A mint of money, it served for the nonce To hold in its hair-heaps hid! Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont (She the stainless soul) to treasure up Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? Had a spider found out the communion-cup, Was a toad in the christening-font? Truth is truth: too true it was. Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas-- Till the humour grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass,-- "Talk not of God, my heart is stone! Nor lover nor friend--be gold for both! Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone!" Louis-d'or, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, With parents preventing her soul's release By kisses that kept alive,-- With heaven's gold gates about to ope, With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope For gold, the true sort--"Gold in heaven, if you will; But I keep earth's too, I hope." Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield: The parents, they eyed that price of sin As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed On the place _to bury strangers in_, The hideous Potter's Field. But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that's spilt' --You know the adage! Watch and pray! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! It would build a new altar; that, we may!" And the altar therewith was built. Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach: Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse. The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith proves false, I find; For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate Begins to tell on the public mind, And Colenso's words have weight: I still, to suppose it true, for my part, See reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart At the head of a lie--taught Original Sin, The Corruption of Man's Heart. DONALD. Do you happen to know in Ross-shire Mount Ben ... but the name scarce matters: Of the naked fact I am sure enough, Though I clothe it in rags and tatters. You may recognise Ben by description; Behind him--a moor's immenseness: Up goes the middle mount of a range, Fringed with its firs in denseness. Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind! For an edge there is, though narrow; From end to end of the range, a strip Of path runs straight as an arrow. And the mountaineer who takes that path Saves himself miles of journey He has to plod if he crosses the moor Through heather, peat, and burnie. But a mountaineer he needs must be, For, look you, right in the middle Projects bluff Ben--with an end in _ich_-- Why planted there, is a riddle: Since all Ben's brothers little and big Keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder, And only this burliest out must bulge Till it seems--to the beholder From down in the gully,--as if Ben's breast, To a sudden spike diminished, Would signify to the boldest foot "All further passage finished!" Yet the mountaineer who sidles on And on to the very bending, Discovers, if heart and brain be proof, No necessary ending. Foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt Having trod, he, there arriving, Finds--what he took for a point was breadth A mercy of Nature's contriving. So, he rounds what, when 'tis reached, proves straight, From one side gains the other: The wee path widens--resume the march, And he foils you, Ben my brother! But Donald--(that name, I hope, will do)-- I wrong him if I call "foiling" The tramp of the callant, whistling the while As blithe as our kettle's boiling. He had dared the danger from boyhood up, And now,--when perchance was waiting A lass at the brig below,--'twixt mount And moor would he standing debating? Moreover this Donald was twenty-five, A glory of bone and muscle: Did a fiend dispute the right of way, Donald would try a tussle. Lightsomely marched he out of the broad On to the narrow and narrow; A step more, rounding the angular rock, Reached the front straight as an arrow. He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood, When--whom found he full-facing? What fellow in courage and wariness too, Had scouted ignoble pacing, And left low safety to timid mates, And made for the dread dear danger, And gained the height where--who could guess He would meet with a rival ranger? 'Twas a gold-red stag that stood and stared, Gigantic and magnific, By the wonder--ay, and the peril--struck Intelligent and pacific: For a red deer is no fallow deer Grown cowardly through park-feeding; He batters you like a thunderbolt If you brave his haunts unheeding. I doubt he could hardly perform _volte-face_ Had valour advised discretion: You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope No Blondin makes profession. Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit, Though pride ill brooks retiring: Each eyed each--mute man, motionless beast-- Less fearing than admiring. These are the moments when quite new sense, To meet some need as novel, Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource: --"Nor advance nor retreat but--grovel!" And slowly, surely, never a whit Relaxing the steady tension Of eye-stare which binds man to beast,-- By an inch and inch declension, Sank Donald sidewise down and down: Till flat, breast upwards, lying At his six-foot length, no corpse more still, --"If he cross me! The trick's worth trying." Minutes were an eternity; But a new sense was created In the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure, With eye-stare unabated, Feelingly he extends a foot Which tastes the way ere it touches Earth's solid and just escapes man's soft, Nor hold of the same unclutches Till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk, Lands itself no less finely: So a mother removes a fly from the face Of her babe asleep supinely. And now 'tis the haunch and hind-foot's turn --That's hard: can the beast quite raise it? Yes, traversing half the prostrate length, His hoof-tip does not graze it. Just one more lift! But Donald, you see, Was sportsman first, man after: A fancy lightened his caution through, --He wellnigh broke into laughter: "It were nothing short of a miracle! Unrivalled, unexampled-- All sporting feats with this feat matched Were down and dead and trampled!" The last of the legs as tenderly Follows the rest: or never Or now is the time! His knife in reach, And his right hand loose--how clever! For this can stab up the stomach's soft, While the left hand grasps the pastern. A rise on the elbow, and--now's the time Or never: this turn's the last turn! I shall dare to place myself by God Who scanned--for he does--each feature Of the face thrown up in appeal to him By the agonising creature. Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!" Up he sprang, back he staggered, Over he fell, and with him our friend --At following game no laggard. Yet he was not dead when they picked next day From the gully's depth the wreck of him; His fall had been stayed by the stag beneath Who cushioned and saved the neck of him. But the rest of his body--why, doctors said, Whatever could break was broken; Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast In a tumbler of port wine soaken. "That your life is left you, thank the stag!" Said they when--the slow cure ended-- They opened the hospital door, and thence --Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended, And minor damage left wisely alone,-- Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled, Out--what went in a Goliath wellnigh,-- Some half of a David hobbled. "You must ask an alms from house to house: Sell the stag's head for a bracket, With its grand twelve tines--I'd buy it myself-- And use the skin for a jacket!" He was wiser, made both head and hide His win-penny: hands and knees on, Would manage to crawl--poor crab--by the roads In the misty stalking season. And if he discovered a bothy like this, Why, harvest was sure: folk listened. He told his tale to the lovers of Sport: Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened. And when he had come to the close, and spread His spoils for the gazers' wonder, With "Gentlemen, here's the skull of the stag I was over, thank God, not under!"-- The company broke out in applause; "By Jingo, a lucky cripple! Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread, And a tug, besides, at our tipple!" And "There's my pay for your pluck!" cried This, "And mine for your jolly story!" Cried That, while T'other--but he was drunk-- Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!" I hope I gave twice as much as the rest; For, as Homer would say, "within grate Though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled, "Rightly rewarded,--Ingrate!" [Illustration: "AND FULL IN THE FACE OF ITS OWNER FLUNG THE GLOVE."] THE GLOVE. (PETER RONSARD _loipuitur_.) "Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, "Distance all value enhances! When a man's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm Caught thinking war the true pastime. Is there a reason in metre? Give us your speech, master Peter!" I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at a loss with my Naso, "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: Men are the merest Ixions"-- Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's --Heigho--go look at our lions!" Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis. And so, to the courtyard proceeding Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon. And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most. Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow, And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion. Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow, And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you _Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu_. One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead: For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! And you saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady. He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress. "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear, (No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere And so can afford the confession,) We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold, Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly purloin The visitor's brisket or sirloin: But who's he would prove so foolhardy? Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!" The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with nonchalance Fine speeches like gold from a balance. Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove,--while the lion Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-- Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove. "Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? So should I!"--cried the King--"'twas mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity!" Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing. Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-possession Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,-- As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful,-- As if she had tried in a crucible, To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt the smoke in her face was but proper; To know what she had _not_ to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too. She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet: Human nature,--behooves that I know it!" She told me, "Too long had I heard Of the deed proved alone by the word: For my love--what De Lorge would not dare! With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare! And the endless descriptions of death He would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, For such gifts as no lady could spurn, Must offer my love in return. When I looked on your lion, it brought All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den,-- From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, With no King and no Court to applaud, By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, Yet to capture the creature made shift, That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, --To the page who last leaped o'er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what 'death for my sake' Really meant, while the power was yet mine, Than to wait until time should define Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just 'to die.' The blow a glove gives is but weak: Does the mark yet discolour my cheek? But when the heart suffers a blow, Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?" I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway. No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian; And yet, had our brute been Nemean-- (I judge by a certain calm fervour The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!" And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur. THE END. Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. There is no Number 8 in the list of books in "Every Boy's Library". Illustrations have been moved. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. Bold text has been marked with =equals signs=. OE ligatures have been expanded. 
18832	----	A CARDINAL SIN by EUGENE SUE Translated by Alexina Loranger Chicago W. B. Conkey Company Copyright, 1892 by Morrill, Higgins & Co. Copyright, 1893 by W. B. Conkey Company A CARDINAL SIN. CHAPTER I. On a beautiful, bright morning of the month of May, 18--, a young girl of eighteen years or thereabouts, whose pale, melancholy face reflected only too plainly the wretchedness and privations of her daily life, was wending her way, timidly and with hesitating steps, through that populous quarter of the city known as the _Charnier des Innocents_, a dreary spot, principally noted for its large number of public scribes, who make a precarious living by acting as secretaries to the ignorant people of the vicinity. Two or three times she paused, undecided, before an open door; then, thinking perhaps that the writer was either too young or unprepossessing, she slowly resumed her search. She had reached the last of the row, and was on the point of retracing her steps, when her gaze fell on a venerable old man, whose benign countenance beamed kindly on her from his desk; and without further hesitation she resolutely entered the little shop. Struck by the touching beauty and modest attitude of the young girl, the scribe greeted her with paternal affability, and discreetly drawing the curtain over the dingy window, motioned her to a seat, while he sank back into his old leather-covered arm-chair and waited for her to speak. The girl's pretty face flushed and she cast down her large, blue eyes in embarrassment, while a painful silence followed. She was evidently agitated by a deep emotion, for her breast heaved visibly beneath the worn merino shawl she wore over her faded gingham dress, and her hands trembled slightly as she folded them on her lap. "Why this embarrassment, my dear child?" said the old man kindly. "Do you wish me to draw up a petition, a request, or write a letter?" "Yes, monsieur, I want a letter written," she replied in a low, soft voice, her face flushing still more painfully. "Can you not write?" She shook her head and cast down her eyes once more. Fearing he had needlessly humiliated his client, the old man hastened to add: "Poor child, do you suppose me capable of blaming your ignorance?" "Monsieur!--" she began in protestation. "Ah! believe me," he interrupted, "I feel a great deal of compassion for persons who, having no education, are forced to have recourse to men of my profession, to admit them into their confidence, and reveal their most secret and dearest thoughts! It is very painful, is it not?" "Yes, indeed, monsieur!" exclaimed the girl, touched by these words. "To be obliged to address myself to a stranger, to--" Her eyes filled with tears and she paused in confusion. "My dear child, pray recover your composure," entreated the scribe. "You need fear neither indiscretion nor ridicule with me. The confidence reposed in me by persons whom chance or misfortune has deprived of the benefits of education, has always been considered as sacred to me." "Oh! thank you, monsieur; you relieve me of half my grief by understanding and excusing my embarrassment," said Mariette, gratefully. "Oh! yes," she went on with a sigh, "it is very cruel to know neither how to read nor write; but alas! it is not my fault." "Ah! my poor child, like many others who come to me, it is the want of opportunity, and not the absence of good will, which has deprived you of knowledge. Some are forced to assume the care of younger brothers and sisters while the parents work; others are sent out as apprentices at an early age--" "I was placed as an apprentice at the age of nine," sighed Mariette, "and until that time I was retained at home to care for a little brother, who died shortly before my parents." "Poor child, your story is similar to those of your companions that come to me. But why did you not try to gain some education when you had finished your apprenticeship?" "Where would I find the time, monsieur? I work almost day and night to provide for my godmother and myself--" "Time, alas! is the bread of the poor!" broke in the old man; "they must starve to death or live in ignorance." He paused for a moment, then asked with renewed interest: "You speak of your godmother; have you no other relative?" "No, Monsieur," replied the girl sadly. "But forgive me, I am taking up your time uselessly instead of coming to the purpose of my visit." "My time could not be better employed than in listening to you, my child; for I am sure you are a good and honest girl. Now let us see about the letter. Will you merely state what you wish to write, or do you prefer to dictate to me?" "I prefer to dictate the letter." "Very well, I am ready," declared the old man, adjusting his glasses and bending over his desk that he might not increase his pretty client's confusion. With down-cast eyes, and after a moment of hesitation, Mariette began: "Monsieur Louis--" At the name of Louis the old man started, but said quietly: "It is written, my child." Nothwithstanding her confidence in the old man, the girl instinctively shrank from revealing her inmost thoughts to a stranger. But after a momentary pause, she went on hesitatingly: "I have received no word from you, and I am very sad. Yet, you had promised to write during your voyage--" "During your voyage," repeated the writer, who had become suddenly thoughtful. "A strange coincidence," he said to himself, with growing anxiety. "His name is Louis, and he is away." "I hope that you are well," continued the girl, "and that your silence is not caused by illness, for my grief would be doubled." "To-day is the sixth of May, Monsieur Louis--_the sixth of May_--and I would not let the day pass without reminding you of me. Perhaps you had the same thought also, and I may receive a letter from you when you receive this from me, the day after to-morrow. Then I shall know that the delay was not caused by illness or forgetfulness, and how happy I shall be! I shall therefore await the day after to-morrow with much impatience. May heaven protect me from disappointment, Monsieur Louis--" Mariette stifled a sigh and wiped a tear from her pale cheek. The features of the writer, who still bent low over his desk, were invisible to the young girl, and she was unconscious of the expression of alarm that had crept over them. Two or three times, while writing, he had cast furtive, scrutinizing glances at his client; and it was evident that his first impulse of sympathetic interest was changing to restraint caused by serious apprehensions. Folding her hands once more on her lap, Mariette resumed: "I have nothing new to tell you, Monsieur Louis. My godmother is still ill, she suffers very much, and the torture she undergoes embitters her character more and more. That I may be near her as much as possible, I now work at home instead of going to Mme. Jourdan. The days seem wretchedly long and sad, for working at the shop with my companions is much more cheerful, and I can accomplish more. I am therefore obliged to stay up very late; and I sleep but little, as my godmother always suffers more at night and, consequently needs more care. Sometimes I fail to hear her first call, I sleep so soundly; then she scolds me, which is only natural when she suffers so much. "I tell you these things to show you that my life is not a happy one, and that one word of friendship from you would encourage and console me for so many sad things. "Farewell, Monsieur Louis. I counted on Augustine to write; but she has gone away and I am dictating this letter to another person. Ah! never have I so much regretted my inability to read and write as at this moment. Farewell, once more, Monsieur Louis; think of me I beg you, for I think of you always." "Is this all, my child?" queried the old man, after a moment of silence. "Yes, monsieur." "And what name shall I sign?" "Mariette." "Mariette only?" "Mariette Moreau, if you please." "Mariette Moreau," repeated the old man, as he inscribed the name. Then folding the letter, he made a violent effort to conceal the secret anguish with which he awaited the reply to his question, and asked: "To whom shall I address it?" "To M. Louis Richard, at Dreux, to be called for." "No more doubt of it," thought the old man, as he prepared to address the letter. Had the young girl been less pre-occupied with her, own thoughts, she could not have failed to remark the harsh expression which darkened the public writer's countenance when he learned beyond doubt to whom this innocent missive was addressed. In fact, he seemed unable to make up his mind to inscribe the name given, for when he had written the word "Monsieur," he suddenly dropped the pen and looked up. "My dear child," he began, trying to smile with his usual benevolence, that he might not betray his resentment and apprehensions, "although this is the first time we meet, it seems to me that I have inspired confidence in you." "Indeed you have, monsieur," she assured him. "Before entering your house I feared I would not find the courage to dictate the letter to a total stranger; but you received me with so much kindness that my embarrassment has almost completely melted away." "Why should you have felt any embarrassment, my child? Even though I were your father, I could not find a word to reproach you in what you have written to--to M. Louis--and it I did not fear to abuse your confidence in me I would ask--but no--it would be an indiscretion." "What would you ask, monsieur?" "Who this M. Louis Richard is." "Oh! that's no secret, I assure you. M. Louis is a student; the notary's office in which he is employed is in the same building as the shop in which I work. That is how we met, just one year ago to-day." "Ah! I now understand why you insisted on the date of your letter; to-day is the anniversary of your first meeting!" "Yes, monsieur." "And you love each other. There, don't blush, my child--I suppose you will marry some day?" "Yes, monsieur." "Has M. Louis' family consented to the marriage?" "M. Louis has no one to consult but his father, and we hope he will not refuse his consent." "And what kind of a man is he?" "The best of fathers--so M. Louis tells me--and a man who endures his poverty most courageously, although he once had a comfortable home. But M. Louis and his father are now as poor as godmother and myself; and this is why we expect no opposition to our marriage. No difficulty can arise between poor people." "It seems to me that your godmother does not make life very happy for you, my child." "What will you? it is so natural to be ill-humored when one suffers incessantly and life is but a continual round of misfortunes." "Is she a cripple?" "She has lost one hand, besides being afflicted with a lung disease which has kept her confined to her bed for more than a year." "How did she lose that hand?" "She pricked her finger with a mattress needle, and as she could not stop work, blood poisoning followed, and she was forced to have her arm amputated." "Poor woman," broke in the old man, absent-mindedly. "As for her lung trouble, it is very common among women who continually breathe the dust arising from the wool used in mattresses. My godmother is almost bent double, and during her long paroxysms of coughing I am sometimes obliged to support her in my arms for hours." "You alone, then, contribute to her support?" "Certainly, since she is unable to work." "Such devotion on your part is very generous." "I only do my duty, monsieur. She gave me shelter after my parents died, and paid for my three years of apprenticeship in the shop. Is it not just that I should now care for her?" "You must work very hard to earn sufficiently." "From fifteen to eighteen hours a day." "And instead of taking a much needed rest at night, you watch over your godmother?" "Who would care for her if I did not?" "Why not try to place her in the hospital?" "She would not be admitted, as her case is incurable. Besides, I scarcely think I would have the courage to desert her thus." "You are indeed a noble girl, my child, and I judged you rightly," declared the old man, grasping her hand in his. "Oh! my God!" cried Mariette, as she saw his sleeve catch the inkstand, spilling the contents over the precious letter. "Ah! monsieur, what a misfortune!" "What awkwardness!" exclaimed the writer angrily. "But never mind, I can copy it in a very few minutes. I shall read it aloud as I go on, so that you may suggest any change you may think proper." "I am so grieved to give you all this trouble," she murmured, evidently much distressed. "It serves me right, my dear,--I alone am to blame." As he resumed his work, a violent internal conflict seemed reflected on his features; from time to time a sigh of relief and satisfaction escaped his lips; then again he appeared confused and avoided Mariette's limpid gaze; while she leaned on the table, her head supported on one hand, anxiously and enviously following the rapid pen of the writer, as he traced the magic characters that would convey her thoughts to her lover. "How much do I owe you, monsieur?" she asked timidly, when he had folded the missive and addressed it. "Fifty centimes," rejoined the old man, after a moment of hesitation, "and remember that I charge you for one of the letters only. I alone am responsible for my awkwardness." "You are very kind, monsieur," said Mariette, touched by what she considered a proof of generosity on his part. "Indeed," she added, as she replaced her slender purse into her pocket, "you have been so good to me that I shall ask you a very great service--" "Go on, my child." "If I have more letters to send, it will be almost impossible for me to go to a stranger--" "I shall always be at your service, my child." "What I wished to say was, that my godmother is also unable to write or read, and the friend who was my confidante has gone to the country. So if I should receive a letter from M. Louis, would you have the goodness to read it for me? I would then dictate the answer at once." "Certainly, my child; bring me all your letters," rejoined the old man, dissimulating his satisfaction. "I am indeed much gratified by the confidence you show in me. Good-bye, then. I hope you feel less embarrassment now than when you entered?" "I did not expect so much kindness, monsieur." "Try to look on me as your reader and secretary, my child. Does it not seem as though we had known each other for ten years." "Indeed it does--Good-bye, monsieur." Mariette had scarcely vanished, when the postman pushed the door open and handed in a letter, saying: "Here is a letter from Dreux, père Richard." "A letter from Dreux!" exclaimed the old man, grasping it eagerly and examining the writing closely. "Ah! it comes from Ramon," he muttered to himself. "I wonder what he thinks of my son? Alas! what will now become of the fine projects so long formed between us!" "Six sous, père Richard," observed the postman, arousing him from his reverie. "Six sous!" cried the old man. "The devil! was it not prepaid? Ah! true enough," he sighed, as he regretfully handed the man the coin he had just received from Mariette. CHAPTER II. In the meantime, Mariette was hurrying homeward, somewhat uneasy at the thought of her long absence. Having reached that sad, gloomy street known as the Rue des Prêtres-Saint-Germain, she walked rapidly along until she came to the last dingy house facing the dark walls of the church, where she entered. Crossing an obscure passage, the girl ascended a rickety stairway, only dimly lighted from a small court-yard that resembled nothing more than a narrow well, and stopped at the door of the _portière_. "Madame Justin," she said to the woman, who stood on the threshold, "have you been up to see if my godmother wanted anything?" "I carried up her milk, Mademoiselle Mariette," replied the woman, "but she was in such a temper that she received me like a dog." "We must take pity on her, Madame Justin; she suffers so much." "Of course you always excuse her and suffer everything in silence, Mademoiselle Mariette. It shows your kind heart, but it does not alter the fact that your godmother is as wicked as a red mule. Poor child! you are doing your purgatory on earth; and if there is no Heaven, you will be well cheated." "Good-bye, Madame Justin, I must go up now." "Wait a moment, I have a letter for you." "A letter!" cried Mariette, her cheeks flushing and her heart throbbing violently. "Is it from the provinces?" "Yes; the postmark is from Dreux, and it costs her six sous. Here it is. The word 'Urgent' is written in one corner of the envelope." The girl thrust the missive in her bosom; then drawing her purse, she took out her last ten-sou piece and paid the woman. Taking her key, she then ran up the last stairs, her heart beating wildly with a sensation of mingled happiness and sadness. Though she was happy in the possession of the letter, the word "Urgent" on the corner of the envelope filled her with misgivings; besides, what sadness filled her heart at the thought that perhaps several hours must elapse before she could learn what Louis Richard had written. Having finally reached the fifth floor of the dilapidated house, so gloomy and ill-smelling, with its atmosphere poisoned by stagnant water in the defective sinks and sewers, she hesitatingly entered the dingy room occupied by her godmother and herself. A woman was lying with her face to the wall, on the only bed that the room boasted; while the thin mattress that served Mariette as a couch was rolled in a corner, as much out of the way as possible. A work table, an old dresser, two chairs, and a few kitchen utensils hanging around the chimney, composed the sole furniture of this humble home, lighted only by a narrow window overlooking the gloomy yard, but the most rigorous neatness was remarkable everywhere. The girl's godmother, Madame Lacombe, was a tall, gaunt woman of fifty years, with a cadaverous complexion and harsh, disagreeable features. A bitter, sardonic smile, caused by a lifetime of misery and suffering, habitually contracted her livid lips, her form being almost bent double; her mutilated arm and bilious face, enframed in a ragged cap, through which hung long wisps of gray hair, were alone visible outside the coverings. "Where have you been?" she cried, in a rasping voice, making an effort to tarn in her bed as the girl entered. "Dear godmother, I--" began Mariette. "Oh, yes; you go running about the streets, leaving me here alone to fret and fume!" interrupted the woman furiously. "But I was scarcely gone an hour," protested the girl. "And you hoped to find me dead on your return, eh?" "Heavens! how can you think such a thing!" sobbed Mariette. "Oh! yes; you may whine now. But I am not your dupe! You have had enough of me; and the day when I am screwed down in my coffin will be a day of rejoicing for you--and so will it be for me, too--Oh! my God! this is too much agony," she groaned, pressing her thin hand to her breast. Mariette wiped away the tears drawn by this harsh sarcasm, and approaching the bed, said sweetly: "You had such a bad night that I thought you might sleep a little in my absence." "Oh! yes--you leave me here alone, to die like a dog, while you run about the streets." "I was obliged to go out; but Madame Justin promised--" "I had rather see death itself than that creature," interrupted the sick woman angrily, "and you take every opportunity to send her to me." A bitter smile flitted over the girl's lips; but she passed this new sarcasm unnoticed and said gently: "Shall I put fresh bandages on your arm?" "It's too late now; you stayed away purposely." "I am sorry I was delayed; but allow me to do it now." "Leave me alone." "But the wound will be inflamed." "That's exactly what you are aiming at." "Godmother, I beg you!" "Don't come near me!" shrieked the sick woman furiously. "I shall wait then," sighed the girl. "Shall I warm up your milk?" "Milk! milk! and nothing but milk!--I am just sick of it. The doctor prescribed good chicken broth; and here it is Sunday, and I have had none since Tuesday." "It's no fault of mine, godmother. The doctor prescribes--but money must be found to provide what he orders. And I can scarcely make twenty sous a day now." "You don't mind what you spend on yourself," snapped Mme. Lacombe. "You know well that I have worn nothing but this faded print dress all winter," rejoined Mariette, with touching resignation. "I economize as much as I can--and we owe two quarters of rent." "You might as well say right now that I am a burden to you. These are the thanks I get for taking you out of the streets and paying for your apprenticeship!--you ungrateful, heartless child!" "No, no, I am not ungrateful, godmother!" protested Mariette, restraining her tears with difficulty. "And, if you suffered less, you would not be so unjust to me--but do take something, or else you will be ill." "I know it, I feel a terrible gnawing at my stomach." "Please have some milk, godmother," entreated the girl. "Go to the devil with your milk!" she snapped angrily. "Shall I get you some fresh eggs?" "No!" "Will you have some rice?" "I want some chicken!" "But I can't get one on credit." "You had twenty-seven sous in your purse this morning, and the quarter of a chicken will do me." "But, godmother, that money--" "Well, what about that money?" "It's gone; I have only a few sous left." "And where are those two ten-sous pieces?--Will you answer me?" "I--I don't know," faltered the girl, reproaching herself bitterly for spending her money on the letters. "They must have dropped from my purse; for I have lost them." "You lie!--I see it in your face." "I assure you--" "That's it," rejoined the sick woman, with a sardonic laugh, "she leaves me to rot on this wretched pallet, while she feasts on cakes and sweetmeats!" "I?--Oh, my God!" moaned the girl. "Out of here, you wretched creature! You may leave me to starve; but don't let me see your face again!" cried the unhappy woman, driven to desperation by the tortures she endured and the exasperating animosity of fate against her. "Ah! yes, you are very anxious to make me swallow that milk," she added, with a still more ironical laugh; "I am such a burden that you may have dropped something in it!" At this accusation--still more senseless than atrocious--Mariette remained for a moment dumbfounded, not realizing the full meaning of the horrible words. But when their full sense burst upon her, she clasped her two hands together and shrank back in terror; then, unable to restrain her sobs any longer, and yielding to an irresistible impulse, she threw her arms about the sick woman's neck and, covering her face with tears and kisses, murmured brokenly: "Oh! godmother! godmother!" This heart-broken protestation against an accusation which could have had its birth in a delirious brain only, fortunately recalled the sick woman to reason. Her heart relaxed a little under this flow of tears, and she realized her injustice. "There, there, little one," she said with emotion, as she took one of the girl's trembling hands in hers and pressed the quivering form against her breast, "don't cry so--how foolish you are!--don't you see I was only jesting?" Jesting! A sad jest, alas! worthy only of such abject misery. "Yes; I was wrong to take your words seriously," returned Mariette, wiping away the tears from her pale cheeks. "What will you? you must take pity on your poor godmother, my little Mariette. By dint of suffering, you see, my gall has overflowed, and my heart is like my mouth--bitter, Oh, so bitter!" "I know that you grumble in spite of yourself sometimes, godmother--Ah, it is so easy to be always cheerful and contented when one is happy; while you have found little happiness in your life." "True enough," said the old woman, feeling a sort of cruel satisfaction in justifying her embittered character by the enumeration of her wrongs against an implacable destiny; "true enough, many have fared as badly as myself, but few have fared worse. Beaten in my apprenticeship, beaten by a drunken husband, crippled and ill, I have dragged my chains for fifty years, and none can say that I have had one happy day--one single happy day in my accursed life. As we say, my little Mariette, my life has been without a single Sunday, while each day is a holiday to so many." "Poor godmother, I can understand what you have suffered," murmured the girl, sympathetically. "No, no, you can never understand, although you have known much sorrow in your eighteen years. You are pretty, at least, and when you have a new frock, with a fresh bit of ribbon in your golden hair, you can smile at your reflection in the mirror and feel a moment of happiness." "Oh, godmother! I--" "Be frank, little one; admit that it makes you happy, and perhaps a little proud, too, when people turn their heads to look at you, in spite of your faded gown and coarse shoes." "Indeed you are mistaken, godmother; it makes me blush to have any one look at me. When I worked at the shop, there was a gentleman who came every day and always gazed persistently at me while talking to Madame Jourdan, and it mortified me to death." "Yes, but at heart you were pleased; and when you are old you will remember it. You will then have something like a reflection of your youth; while I see nothing but gloom, and don't even know if I was ever young. But as for being ugly, I am sure of that." "Oh! godmother!" "Yes, I was so ugly that I could not bear the sight of a mirror. The consequence was that I found nothing better than a drunken husband, who nearly killed me with blows; and I was even deprived of the chance of rejoicing over his death, for I was obliged to pay his debts at the wine-shop. Then I became a cripple, and would starve were it not for you." "You are unjust, godmother," observed Mariette, with a tender smile, trying to dispel her melancholy. "To my knowledge, you have had one happy day, at least, in your life." "Which was that?" "The day you gave me shelter, after my mother's death. Did not the good action give you satisfaction and make you happy for the day?" "Well, if you call that a happy day--I want no more like it." "Why?" "It was rather one of my worst days!" "Oh! godmother!" expostulated the girl sadly. "Since my wretched husband's death, I had but myself to care for; but in taking charge of you, it was like being left a widow with a child to support. I call that anything but gay, when a woman can scarcely earn her own living. But you looked so charming with your pretty curly head and large blue eyes, and you seemed so sad kneeling beside your mother's coffin, that I had not the heart to let them take you to the asylum. And what a dreary night I spent, wondering what I would do with you, and what would become of you if work failed me! And you call that a happy day? No, no! Had I been in comfortable circumstances, I would have felt that your future was assured and been happy. But to merely exchange your misery for worse still was nothing to rejoice over." "Well, let us say no more about days," said Mariette soothingly, smiling through her tears, "but let us speak of moments; for I am determined to show that you have experienced some happiness. Now, for instance, take this moment--" "Well, what of it?" "I am sure that you are happy to see that I have dried my tears, thanks to your kind words." The sick woman shook her head sadly. "Do you know what I think when I get over my bad humor?" she said, with a sigh. "Well, I think that you must hate me for my harshness and injustice toward you. And I deserve it, too." "Now you are going back to your melancholy thoughts," said the girl reproachfully. "Admit that I am right. It's only natural, after all. You kill yourself working for me, you feed and nurse me, and I repay you with harsh words only. My death would indeed be a relief to you; and the sooner I am laid in my coffin the better." "I know you are jesting once more," rejoined Mariette, making an effort to smile, though her heart was full to bursting. "Well, if I am only jesting, little one, don't look so grieved," returned the old woman, touched by the girl's evident distress. "Now put the milk on the fire, and bandage my arm while waiting for it to boil." Mariette was as delighted over these orders as though they had been the kindest words in the world. She hastily lighted the fire; cut up their only remaining piece of bread into a dish of milk, placed it on the stove, and returned to the invalid. In spite of the repugnance which the putrid sore inspired in her, Mariette showed as much patience as dexterity in cleansing and bandaging the mutilated arm; and the young girl's devotion, as well as her noble resignation, touched the woman's heart anew. "Sisters of Charity are often praised, my dear," she said admiringly, "but none of them deserve half the praise you do." "But those good sisters devote their time to strangers, godmother," protested the girl modestly, "while you are like a mother to me. I only do my duty, and therefore have no merit." "Poor child, my affection for you brings you but little happiness. Only a few moments ago I made you burst into tears; and to-morrow will be the same as to-day." To escape from a reply to these bitter words, Mariette brought the steaming milk, which the invalid drank with appetite, and then busied herself in making the bed more comfortable. "What will you eat, Mariette?" asked the old woman, as she swallowed the last spoonful. "Oh! I have had my breakfast," said the girl bravely. "I bought a small loaf of rye bread this morning and ate it on my way--there, now," giving a last shake to the pillow, "you must try to sleep, you had such a bad night--are you more comfortable now?" "Yes, thank you, child." "I shall take my work near the window; the room is dark and this is very delicate work." "What is it?" "A fine cambric chemise, godmother. Madame Jourdan trusted me with it only after many recommendations not to lose this magnificent Valencienne trimming, which alone is worth two hundred francs. This brings the cost to three hundred francs apiece, and there are two dozen to make. It seems they are intended for somebody's mistress," concluded the girl naïvely. The invalid burst into a sardonic laugh. "What is it?" asked Mariette in surprise. "Such a funny idea." "Ah!" ejaculated Mariette, with a vague feeling of apprehension, for she knew only too well the habitual character of her godmother's jests. "What idea, godmother?" "I was asking myself of what use such people as you and I are in this world--wretched creatures, who know nothing but the sorrows and miseries of life; do you know, child?" "Indeed, godmother, I scarcely know what to say." "Why should a respectable girl like you, who has but two or three ragged chemises to her name, earn the paltry sum of twenty sous per day sewing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for--" She burst into another bitter laugh, and turned her face to the wall, saying: "Take up your work courageously, child! I shall try to dream of cemeteries to cheer me up!" CHAPTER III. Mariette's heart was fortunately too pure, and she was, moreover, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to feel the wretched bitterness of this last sarcasm. Drawing the letter she had received from her bosom, she placed it on her lap where her godmother's eyes could not reach it, and gazed longingly at it while continuing her work. The regular breathing of the invalid soon convinced her that she was asleep, however, and she paused in her work long enough to tear open the envelope and spread the letter before her eyes. Vain and puerile curiosity! The characters were undecipherable to her! No picture could be more sorrowful and touching than the sight of this young girl, gazing with a fast beating heart at the unintelligible missive. One thing she remarked, however; the letter was very short, and this fact filled her with hope and uneasiness both. Did this short, urgent letter announce good or bad news? she anxiously asked herself. With her eyes fixed on the mysterious words, Mariette lost herself in conjectures and suppositions, fully convinced that so short a letter, after a prolonged absence, must inevitably bring unexpected news. In her poignant perplexity Mariette endured torments and excruciating torture, to which the uneducated are continually exposed. To hold in our grasp, and beneath our eyes, the few lines that bring us joy or sorrow, and be unable to penetrate the secret; to be under the necessity of asking a stranger to read these lines, and to receive from indifferent lips the announcement of something on which life itself almost depends, is an agony beyond words! Mariette's anguish soon reached such a point that she resolved, at the risk of being cruelly treated on her return, to have recourse to the public scribe at once. Cautiously arising from her seat, that she might not arouse the sick woman, she tiptoed softly to the door; but as she crossed the threshold, a sudden painful thought stopped her. She could not ask the scribe to read the letter without dictating a reply, and she possessed barely enough money to purchase the bread necessary for the day. She already owed the baker twenty francs, and he had refused her further credit; she could not, therefore, spend her last sou on what she considered as culpable prodigality. The reader may smile at this picture of overwhelming grief and cruel recriminations against herself _apropos_ of a couple of fifty centime pieces. Alas! no sum is small or insignificant to the poor; an increase of ten sous in wages brings back life to the starved bodies, alleviates that living agony which leads so many to a premature grave. For a moment the young girl was tempted to carry Louis' letter to the janitress; but fearing the gossip and perhaps the raillery of the woman, she preferred to make a painful sacrifice and not expose herself to new humiliations. She still possessed a pretty dress, bought at the Temple and altered to her figure, which she had worn only on the few occasions she had gone out with Louis. Taking the gown from its accustomed peg in the corner, she folded it into a basket with a silk fichu that was almost new, and walked cautiously to the door once more. "Going out again--" muttered her godmother, drowsily, as she turned over in her bed and dropped asleep once more. Mariette stood motionless for a moment, then glided softly through the door and ran swiftly down the stairs. Having obtained fifty sous on the gown and fichu at the _Mont-de-Piété_, she hurried toward the _Charnier des Innocents_ in quest of the old scribe. Since Mariette's departure, and more especially since he had read his son's letter in the morning, the old man had reflected with ever-growing anxiety over the obstacles he might have to overcome to accomplish his cherished project, in view of the secret he had discovered during his interview with the young girl. He was still buried in painful meditation when Mariette suddenly appeared at the door. "What is it, my child?" he asked, alarmed at this unexpected return. "I did not expect to see you back so soon." "I have a letter from M. Louis, monsieur," she replied, her voice quivering slightly, as she drew the missive from her bosom, "and I have come to beg you to read it for me--and answer it if necessary." Trembling with uneasiness and curiosity, she gazed intently at the old man while he glanced through the short letter, making a strong effort to conceal the annoyance given him by the few lines. Then suddenly starting up, and feigning great indignation, he tore the letter into shreds, crushed the pieces between his hands and hurled them under his desk. "Ah, monsieur, what have you done!" cried Mariette in dismay. "Ah! my poor child!" sighed the old man, looking at her pityingly. "My God! something has happened M. Louis!" she gasped, clasping her hands together. "No, my child--but you must forget him." "Forget him?"' "Yes, believe me; you must renounce your cherished hopes." "Heavens! what has happened?" "Ignorance is a very sad thing, my poor child; and yet, at this moment, I would pity you if you could read." "But, monsieur, what does the letter contain?" "You must think no more of your marriage--" "Does M. Louis write that?" "Yes; he appeals to your generosity and delicacy, as well as your kindness of heart." "M. Louis gives me up--and tells me to give him up also," she said slowly. "Alas! yes, poor child! Come, be brave and resigned." Mariette turned ghastly pale and stood silent for a moment, while big tears rolled down her cheeky; then, falling to her knees, she gathered the fragments of the torn letter and placed them on the desk before the old man's eyes. "I shall have the courage to hear it through," she said sadly; "replace the pieces and read it." "Please don't insist, my child, I beg of you," he rejoined, with hypocritical sympathy. "In mercy, read it, monsieur!" "But--" "However painful it may be for me to listen, I must know its contents." "I have already told you what it contained--spare yourself useless pain." "Have pity on me, monsieur! In the name of heaven, read it--read it! I must at least know the full extent of my misfortune--and, besides, there may be one line or word of consolation." "Since you insist on it, my poor child, I shall read it," said the old man, readjusting the torn pieces, while Mariette looked on with eyes dimmed with tears, her heart throbbing with anguish. "Here it is." "My Dear Mariette: "I write these few words in haste, my soul filled with the sadness of death. We must renounce our hopes, for I must secure comfort and rest for my father in his old days. You know how much I love my father. I have given my word, and we shall never meet again. "One last prayer: I address myself to your delicacy of feelings and generosity of heart--do not attempt to see me again, or change my resolution. I must choose between you and my father; and if I see you again I may not have the courage to do my duty as a son. My father's fate lies in your hands, and I count on your generosity. Farewell, I can write no more. "Farewell once more, Farewell forever! Louis." Standing motionless beside the writer's desk, with downcast eyes and the tears rolling silently down her pale cheeks, her lips quivering and her hands clasped convulsively together, Mariette presented a fit model for the picture of "Despair," as she listened to the words that crushed her heart with such cruel force. "There. I was sure the letter would pain you frightfully," observed the old man, looking up as he finished reading. Mariette made no reply. "Don't tremble so, my child," resumed the old scribe. "Sit down--here, take this glass of fresh water." Mariette did not even hear; but still stood gazing fixedly at the torn letter, though she saw it but dimly through her tears. "It is all over, then," she murmured brokenly. "Nothing--nothing more in this world!--I was too happy. Ah! I am like godmother; happiness was not made for me!--" Her voice died out in a stifled sob, and a pang of remorse smote the old man as he gazed at her white, set face. "My dear child," he said soothingly, "pray don't give way to despair." These words recalled the young girl to herself; she wiped away her tears and, bending down, slowly gathered the pieces of the letter. "What are you doing?" cried the scribe, in alarm. "Why should you preserve these fragments, which can only recall cruel souvenirs?" "The tomb of some one we have loved, also recalls painful and cherished souvenirs," said Mariette, sadly, "and yet we do not desert it." Having replaced the pieces in the envelope, she again thrust it in her bosom; and, drawing her thin shawl closely about her shoulders, turned toward the door. On the threshold, however, she paused hesitatingly and looked back at the old man. "Thank you very much for your kindness, monsieur," she said gratefully; then, after a moment's silence, she added timidly: "Although there is no answer to this letter, I feel that after so much trouble I should offer you--" "It will be ten sous, the same as a letter," interrupted the scribe; and without the least scruple or hesitation, he pocketed the remuneration with a sort of sensual pleasure, entirely unimpaired by the girl's wretchedness. "Good-bye, my poor child," he said, "I hope we shall meet again under happier circumstances." "May heaven grant it, monsieur." She walked slowly away, while old Richard closed the shutters of his shop and prepared to return home. Haunted by the most somber thoughts, and a prey to the most poignant emotions, Mariette walked mechanically onward, unconscious of surroundings, and of the way she went, until startled by the sight of the river. "Fate has brought me here," she said with a shudder. Crossing to the opposite side of the bridge, she leaned on the parapet and gazed at the rapid waters of the stream. Little by little, she began to experience that strange fascination caused by the attraction of the abyss; and as her eyes followed the swift current, she felt overtaken by a sort of vertigo and drawn more and more toward the flowing waters. "Here is oblivion and an end to all sorrows!" thought the unhappy girl. "It is a sure refuge against all miseries, against fear and hunger, illness and unhappy old age--wretched as that of my godmother's--Ah! what would become of her without me?--" At that moment she felt her arm grasped violently, and a frightened voice cried out: "Look out, child, or you will fall into the river!" The girl drew back shuddering, and gazed wildly around her. "Do you know that you are very imprudent, to say the least of it, my child," said a good-natured looking woman, who stood beside her. "You were leaning so far over the parapet that I thought you would lose your footing any moment." "Thank you, madame," replied Mariette, "I am very careless, indeed." "You must be more careful, my dear," returned the woman warningly. "Heavens! how pale you are--are you ill?" "I feel a little faint, madame," said the girl, feeling a painful dizziness come over her, "but it will pass away." "Lean on me, then. You are, no doubt, just recovering from a serious illness?" "Yes--that's it, madame," responded Mariette, passing her hand over her brow, "but where am I?" "At the _Pont au Change_--Are you a stranger in Paris?" asked the woman, curiously. "No, madame; but I was overcome with a strange feeling of dizziness a few moments ago. It is passing over now, and I recognize the surroundings." "You had better take my arm, you are trembling so," suggested the kind-hearted woman. "Thank you, madame; it's not necessary, I live only a few steps from here." "Well, good-bye, and be very cautious." Having recovered the entire possession of her senses, Mariette now felt her bitter sorrows even more keenly than before; and she trembled at the thought of the harsh reception that awaited her in her desolate home, when she had so much need of consolation, or, at least, of that isolation and sad tranquility which lulls the most intense grief into calm hopelessness. Being anxious to mitigate the cruel reproaches which her prolonged absence would inevitably draw upon her, she bethought herself of her godmother's desire to obtain the part of a chicken, and determined to satisfy this whim in the hope of being forgiven. She therefore hastened to the neighboring shops, purchased the quarter of a fowl and two white rolls with what remained of the money obtained on her gown and fichu, and turned homeward once more. As she neared the house she was somewhat surprised to see an elegant cabriolet before the door; but she entered without giving the circumstance another thought, and stopping at the lodge asked for her key. "Your key, Mademoiselle Mariette?" said Madame Justin, "why, a gentleman has just gone up with it." "What gentleman?" queried the girl. "A decorated gentleman. And finely decorated, too, I assure you. A ribbon two good inches wide--and such a loop! Upon my word, I never saw a man more beautifully decorated." "But I don't know any decorated gentleman," exclaimed the girl in astonishment. "He must be mistaken." "No, indeed. He inquired for a woman named Lacombe, a cripple living with her goddaughter, who is a seamstress. There is no mistake, as you see." "Didn't you tell him that my god-mother was ill and could see no one?" "Yes, I did. But he said he must see her on very important and urgent business; so I gave him the key and let him go up alone, having no desire to be abused by your godmother." More and more astonished, Mariette ascended the rickety stairs to the fifth floor, pausing on the landing to recover her breath and find some excuse for her long absence. The door being ajar, she caught a glimpse of a stranger within the room, and the next moment distinctly heard these words: "I am delighted to find your god-daughter away, my good woman; I can explain myself more clearly without her presence." Mariette, who had been on the point of entering, yielded to an involuntary sentiment of curiosity instead, and remained where she stood. CHAPTER IV. The stranger was a man of forty-five years, or thereabouts, with worn but regular features, bearing deep traces of excessive dissipation and the most absolute profligacy. His physiognomy offered a strange mixture of deceit and impertinence; and these disagreeable traits were still more emphasized by a dark heavy moustache, which shone with a lustre equaled only by the false ebony of his artistically curled hair. His hands and feet were large; and, notwithstanding his visible pretentions, he at once betrayed the vulgar personage destined, not to imitate, but to parody veritable elegance. His dress was pompous, and in exceedingly bad taste; and even Mariette could not refrain from a smile at his affected military attitude and the ridiculously large red ribbon that adorned his button-hole. Madame Lacombe, who had once more returned to her gloomy and sardonic humor, was gazing at the stranger with as much astonishment as distrust, feeling an almost invincible aversion against this insolent and patronizing personage, who had unceremoniously taken a seat at some distance from the bed, and was nibbling at the gold head of his cane while pursuing the conversation with her. "Yes," repeated the visitor, "I am delighted to find you alone; as I was saying, I can explain myself more clearly." "Monsieur," said the invalid, in a crabbed tone, "you have asked me if my name was Lacombe and if I was Mariette Moreau's godmother. I have already told you _yes_. Now what do you want of me? Explain yourself." "To begin with, my good woman--" he began. "I am called Madame Lacombe!" interrupted the woman. "The devil! Well, then, Madame Lacombe," resumed the stranger with mock deference, "I shall first tell you who I am, and then proceed to explain what I want." "Go on." "I am called Commander de La Miraudière, an old military officer, as you see," pointing to the red ribbon on his coat, "ten campaigns and five wounds!" "That's nothing to me. And then?" "I have the most brilliant acquaintances in Paris: dukes, counts, marquises--" "What's that to me?" "I keep a carriage, and spend at least twenty thousand francs a year." "While my god-daughter and myself are starving on twenty sous per day--that is, when she can earn them!" exclaimed the invalid bitterly. "Such is the justice of the world!" "No! it is not justice!" protested the commander. "It is not just, and I am here to put an end to such injustice!" "If you are here to laugh at me," rejoined the woman, with an ominous scowl, "you had better go." "Laugh at you, madame!--I!--judge me by what I offer. Do you want a pretty room, in a fine house, a servant to wait on you, two delicious meals every day, coffee every morning, and fifty francs a month for your snuff or other little fancies? Eh! what do you say to that?" "I say--I say--that it's all a lie--or else there is something beneath it. When one offers so much to a poor, crippled old woman, it is not for the love of God, I am sure." "You are right, Mamma Lacombe; it's for the love of two beautiful eyes." "Whose eyes?" "Your god-daughter's eyes, Mamma Lacombe," returned Commander de La Miraudière cynically. "No use beating around the bush, you know." "You know Mariette, then?" she said, with a piercing glance at his dissipated face. "I often visit Madame Jourdan's establishment, for I am exceedingly fond of fine linen," he observed, casting a complaisant glance on the embroidered folds of his shirt. "I therefore found frequent occasion to admire you god-daughter; I think her beautiful and charming, and--" "And you want to buy her from me?" "Bravo! you are a woman of intelligence and good sense, Mamma Lacombe. You understand things without needless words. Now, this is my proposition: A fine, elegantly furnished apartment for Mariette, with whom you shall live, of course; five hundred francs per month for her expenses, exclusive of maid and cook; a suitable trousseau for the girl; and a purse of fifty louis to begin housekeeping, not counting costly gifts for good conduct. Besides this, there will be carriages, operas, balls, and a host of friends among ladies of my acquaintance. In a word, she will lead an enchanted existence--the existence of a duchess! What do you think of it?" "Why not?" murmured the woman, with a strange smile. "Poor wretches like us are only good to sell ourselves when we are young, or sell others when we are old." "Come now, Mamma Lacombe; to quiet your honest scruples, we shall say sixty francs per month for your pin money, and throw a superb shawl into the bargain. This will enable you to appear to advantage beside Mariette, whom you must watch with motherly solicitude, and never allow out of your sight, for I am jealous as a tiger, and don't like to be deceived." "Only this very morning," put in the sick woman, "I was saying to Mariette, 'You are a respectable girl, and barely earn twenty sous per day sewing on chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, for a kept woman.'" "Chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, ordered from Madame Jourdan? Let me see--ah! yes, I know. They must be for Amandine, the mistress of the Marquis de Saint-Herem, my most intimate friend--I recommended the establishment--a veritable fortune for Madame Jourdan, although that devil of a marquis seldom pays. But, on the other hand, all the furnishers and women he patronizes become the rage. Amandine was but an obscure little shop-girl six months ago, and now she is the most fashionable woman in Paris. And Mariette may have the same luck, you know. Fancy her wearing chemises worth three hundred francs apiece, instead of sewing them! Doesn't it make you feel like bursting with pride, Mamma Lacombe?" "Unless Mariette ended like a girl of my acquaintance, who also sold herself through misery." "What happened her?" "She was robbed." "Robbed?" "She was promised mountains of gold, too; but at the end of three months she was deserted and left without a single sou. Then she killed herself in despair." "The devil! what do you take me for?" cried the visitor, haughtily. "Do I look like a swindler; a _Robert Macaire_?" "I don't know what you are." "I, an old soldier! twenty campaigns and ten times wounded! The intimate companion and friend of all the _lions_ of Paris! a man with his own carriage and who spends twenty thousand francs per annum! The devil! be frank with me! Do you require securities or advances? Very well, then; the house shall be furnished within a week and the lease signed in your own name to-morrow, with the payment of a whole year in advance; besides, if we come to terms, here are twenty-five to thirty louis to bind the bargain." Drawing twenty-eight gold pieces from his pocket, he tossed them on the work-table beside the bed, saying: "I am not like you, Mamma Lacombe; I am not afraid of being robbed." At the clinking of gold, the sick woman leaned out of her bed and cast a glance of covetousness at the glittering pieces. In all the course of her miserable existence, she had never possessed a single gold piece, and the sight of the scattered louis before her eyes almost dazzled her. Grasping a few in her withered fingers, she held them up to the light, trying to catch the sun's rays that she might feast her hungry eyes on their sparkling beauty. "I had to show the bait to catch the old witch," said the tempter to himself, with a contemptuous smile. "At last, at last I have touched the glittering gold!" muttered the old woman, jingling the yellow pieces in her hand. "Touching them is nothing; the agreeable part of it is to spend them, Mamma Lacombe." "And this is enough to live in comfort for four or five months," she went on, piling up the coins with childish glee. "You and Mariette will have as much for every month of the year, if you only say so," said the tempter. "Yes, all this gold; do you hear? in pure, glittering gold!" There was a long interval of silence; then, raising her sunken eyes to the visitor, the invalid said wistfully: "You think Mariette pretty and charming, monsieur, do you not? You are right; there is not a better creature in the world. Now, be generous toward her! This sum is nothing for a rich man like you--give it to us as a gift." "What!" gasped the astounded man. "Monsieur, you are good and kind, pray be charitable also," pleaded the woman. "This sum, so insignificant to you, would set us afloat once more. We could pay our debts, and Mariette would not be obliged to kill herself working. She would then find time to seek a more remunerative position, and we would owe you five or six months of tranquillity, of paradise--we live on so little! Come, my good sir, do that and we shall bless your name forever--and I can say that I was happy once in my life." The request was so naïve, the tone so sincere and earnest that the decorated visitor was more hurt than surprised at this proposition. He could neither understand nor believe that a human being could be stupid enough to seriously make such a request to a man of his stamp. "This is anything but flattering," he muttered to himself; "the old witch must take me for a young duckling ready to be plucked." "The devil! Mamma Lacombe," he added aloud, bursting into a sneering laugh, "do you take me for a philanthropist, the inspector of charitable institutions, or a candidate for the Montyon prize? Tut, tut, you will rot in your bed before you receive charitable gifts of six hundred francs, redeemable in blessings and grateful thanks, my good woman! Bless my stars, I am not a bank of that sort!" The sick woman had yielded to one of those wild, sudden hopes, which sometimes sway the most distrustful beings, and even the most hardened victims of implacable destiny. But the withering scorn it had brought upon her aroused all her ire and bitterness of heart. "Pardon me, Monsieur, if I have insulted you!" she rejoined, with her habitual sardonic laugh. "I am not offended, Mamma Lacombe," he returned magnanimously; "but let us come to the point. Shall I, yes or no, re-pocket these beautiful louis, which you take so much pleasure in handling?" He stretched his hand toward the gold pieces, but she thrust it away with an instinctive movement and drew the shining coins nearer to her. "One moment," she said hoarsely, her eyes glittering with cupidity in their deep orbits, "I shall not eat your gold!" "That is just what I am urging you to do, Mamma Lacombe; I want you to eat that gold, on condition--" "I know Mariette," she interrupted, her wistful gaze still fixed on the gold, "she will never consent." "Nonsense!" "I tell you she is an upright girl. She might, like many others, yield to a man she loved; but to you--never! She would refuse, I am sure. You may laugh, but she has ideas of her own." "Granted, my good woman. I believe in Mariette's good principles, for Madame Jourdan has known her many years and she has full confidence in her." "Well, then?" "Well, I also know, Mamma Lacombe, that you possess great influence over her and that she fears you like the devil himself--so Madame Jourdan informed me. Now, you can induce, or, it need be, compel Mariette to accept happiness! For, after all, you are lodged like beggars and starving to death. Besides, if you refuse, do you know what will happen? The girl, with her fine sentiments of disinterestedness, will, sooner or later, become the victim of some unscrupulous rascal as poor as herself." "That may be, but she will not have sold her soul." "Tut, tut, tut, those are mere phrases. Some fine day, this lover of her choice will probably desert her; then, to save herself from starvation, she will end like the rest--mark my word." "Yes, that may be," she repeated, with a dismal moan. "Hunger is a bad counselor, when we and our children have known its pangs. And how many of those poor, unhappy girls might be saved with this gold! And if Mariette were destined to end like them--would it not be better to yield now?" For a few moments, the most varied emotions were depicted on the pale, emaciated features of the unhappy, crippled creature. With eyes still fixed hungrily on the glittering pieces, she strove to calm the struggle waged between misery and virtue in her heart; then, by a desperate effort, she closed her eyes as if to escape the fascination of the gold, and sank back wearily on her wretched pallet. "Go, and leave me in peace!" she said feebly, as if exhausted by the violent conflict. "What! you refuse?" he cried in amazement. "Yes." "Positively refuse?" "Yes." "Very well, I shall take back my gold," he rejoined, slowly picking up the louis and jingling them together. "I shall refill my pockets with the glittering yellow coins." "The devil take you and your gold!" cried the exasperated woman. "Take it, and go! I have not sheltered Mariette all these years to sell her, body and soul. Rather than eat such bread, I would build a charcoal fire and make on end to us both." At these words Mariette entered, pale and indignant, her cheeks bathed in tears and her eyes flashing with anger and scorn. "Ah! god-mother," she cried, throwing her arms around the woman's neck, "I knew that you loved me as a daughter!" Then turning toward Commander de La Miraudière, whom she recognized as the man whose persistent gaze had so frequently annoyed her at Madame Jourdan's establishment, she added with withering scorn: "Go, this moment, monsieur!" "But, my dear little dove--" he began. "I was there at the door, monsieur, and heard all," she interrupted quickly. "So much the better then, my dear. You know my offer; you are still at liberty to accept it." "Once more, monsieur, I beg you to go out." "There, there, I am going my little Lucretia! But I give you a week for reflection," said the visitor, as he moved toward the door, Pausing on the threshold, however, he added: "Don't forget my name, my dear--Commander de La Miraudière. Madame Jourdan has my address," and he vanished with these words. "Ah! godmother," cried the girl, kissing the sick woman with new effusion, "how warmly you defended me! how your heart spoke for me!" "Yes, yes," muttered the invalid, roughly disengaging herself from the girl's embrace, "and with those fine principles we starve instead of rolling in luxury." "But, my dear godmother--" Mariette tried to protest. "There, there, it's all said and done now," cried the woman impatiently. "I have done my duty, and you have done yours--and it's small good it will do either of us, you may count on that!" "But godmother, listen to me--" "And if some fine morning we are both found dead with a charcoal fire between us, we shall only have done our duty once more. Ha! ha! ha!--" and with this grim laugh, this unhappy creature, so pursued and exasperated by wretchedness and misfortune, cut short the conversation by turning her face to the wall. Mariette silently brought in the basket containing her purchases, arranged the supper on the table near the bed, and quietly withdrew to the narrow window through which filtered the deepening twilight. Then drawing the torn fragments of Louis' letter from her bosom, she gazed at them sadly, and sank back into grim despair. * * * * * * In the meantime, Commander de La Miraudière had reached the street and was rolling away rapidly in his dashing cabriolet. "Bah! this is only a first rebuff," he was saying complacently to himself; "the girl will reflect, and that old schemer will think better of it. Her round eyes fairly blinked at the sight of my gold; it dazzled her like the noonday sun. Besides, their abject misery will plead in my favor, and I have no reason to despair. Two months of fat living will suffice to make the girl the prettiest woman in Paris; and she will do me credit at very small cost. But I must think of business now; I have made a precious discovery." Having reached the Rue Grenelle-Saint-Honoré, he stopped his horse before a house of modest appearance and alighted. "Does M. Richard reside here?" he inquired of the concierge. "Yes, monsieur, both the father and son live here," replied the man. "I want to speak to the son, M. Louis Richard; is he at home?" "He has just arrived in Paris; you will find him with his father." "I must see him alone." "That's rather difficult, as they have but one room between them." The commander drew a card from his pocket, and wrote the following words above his own name: "Will expect M. Louis Richard at my home, between nine and ten o'clock tomorrow morning, to communicate something of grave importance, which admits of no delay." "My dear fellow," he said, addressing the concierge, when he had replaced his pencil, "here are forty sous for a _pourboire_." "Thank you, monsieur," rejoined the man, pocketing the money; "but what do you expect me to do for it?" "Remit this card to M. Louis Richard." "Nothing difficult about that." "It must be given him to-morrow morning as he goes out, and without his father's knowledge; do you understand?" "Perfectly. It can be easily done, as M. Louis goes to his studies at seven o'clock, while old Richard leaves only at nine for his writing office." "I may count on you then?" said the commander, leaping into the cabriolet. "Consider it done, monsieur," was the reassuring reply. The carriage had scarcely vanished when the postman appeared with a letter addressed to M. Louis Richard. It was Mariette's missive, which the old scribe had addressed Rue de Grenelle, Paris, instead of Dreux, according to the girl's request. CHAPTER V. Old Richard and his son jointly occupied a dreary room on the fifth floor of a dilapidated house, which might have made a fit adjunct to the home of Mariette and her god-mother. The same wretchedness, the same destitution was visible everywhere. A thin mattress in one corner for the father, a straw bed in the other for the son, a mouldy table, a few chairs and an old wardrobe, composed the entire furniture of the dingy apartment. On his way homeward, the public scribe had purchased his supper and was now laying the frugal meal on the table; an appetizing slice of ham, placed carefully on a piece of white paper that served as a plate, and a four-pound loaf of bread, the remains of which were to serve as breakfast the next morning. Add to this a bottle of fresh water, standing opposite a thin candle that scarcely dissipated the gloom of the room, and the picture of wretchedness was complete. Louis Richard was a young man of about twenty-five years, with a frank, open countenance, expressive of gentleness and intelligence, and a natural grace which his shabby, worn-out clothes could not conceal. As he dropped his modest traveling bag to the floor and embraced his father, whom he fairly worshipped, the happiness of being near him once more and the certainty of seeing Mariette the next day, made his face perfectly radiant with joy. "And so you made a good voyage, my son," observed the old man, his delight over the young man's return somewhat dampened by the uneasiness he felt concerning his cherished projects for the future and the remembrance of the events of the day. "Excellent, father!" returned Louis. "I am glad to hear it, my boy, and--but will you have some dinner? We can talk while eating." "Will I have some dinner? Well, I should say so! I did not share the meals of the other travelers, and for the best of reasons," laughed the young man gaily, slapping his empty wallet. "Upon my word, you lost but little, my son," rejoined the father, cutting the slice of ham into two unequal pieces and giving the largest to the young man, "those hotel dinners are expensive and not worth much!" Having offered Louis a formidable piece of bread, the old man helped himself to a crust, and both father and son bravely attacked the meager meal, with robust appetites, sprinkling it plentifully with glorious draughts of clear water. "Tell me all about your journey now, my boy," resumed the old man, when he had satisfied the first pangs of hunger. "Really, father, there is not much to tell," remarked Louis. "The notary had given me copies of several deeds, which M. Ramon was to read. Well, he read and studied them most leisurely, taking five whole days! after which the said papers were given back to me, profusely annotated by that wary parsonage, and--thank heaven--here I am at last!" "Thank heaven?--can it be that you were lonely at Dreux?" queried the old man, looking up anxiously. "I was bored to death, my dear father." "What kind of a man must this M. Ramon be, that you were so displeased?" "The very worst kind in the world--a miser." "Hum! hum!" coughed the old man, as if swallowing a disagreeable dose. "So he is a miser? He must be rich then?" "I don't know, but one may be as avaricious with a small fortune as with a great one; and if we are to measure M. Ramon's wealth by his parsimony, he must be a triple millionaire--such a wretched old miser!" continued Louis, contemptuously, biting into his bread with a sort of frenzy. "Had you been brought up in luxury and abundance, I might understand your recriminations against this old miser--as you call him," rejoined old Richard, testily, "but we have always lived in such poverty that, however miserly M. Ramon may be, you must have found but little difference between his manner of existence and our own." "But you don't understand me, father. M. Ramon keeps two servants, and we have none; he occupies a whole house and we live in one attic room; he has three or four dishes for his dinner, while we eat anything we may chance to have. And yet, we live a hundred times better than this greedy personage!" "I really don't understand you, my child," returned the father, more and more annoyed at his son's opinion of his late host. "There can certainly be no comparison between that gentleman's luxury and our poverty." "My dear father, we are veritably poor, at least! We cheerfully endure our privations; and if in my days of ambition, I have sometimes dreamed of a more comfortable existence, it was not for myself, you may rest assured, for I am perfectly satisfied with my fate." "I know your kind heart, my dear boy, as well as your love for me; and my only consolation in our poverty is to know that you do not complain of your condition." "Complain! do you not share it with me? and then, after all, what more could we want?" "We might want a little more comfort." "Upon my word, I don't see it in that light, father. We don't eat stuffed chicken, it is true; but we eat all we want and with appetite--witness this empty paper and the disappearance of the four-pound loaf between us. Our clothes are shabby and worn, but they are warm; our room is up five nights of stairs, but it shelters us; we earn from sixteen to eighteen hundred francs per annum between us--the sum is not enormous, but it suffices; we have no debts! Ah! my dear father, may heaven never send us worse days, and I shall never complain." "My dear boy, I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to hear you speak thus, and to see you accept your fate so bravely. Tell me the truth--have you--have you always been happy?" "Very happy." "Truly?" "Why should I try to deceive you? Now, my dear father, have you ever seen me gloomy or thoughtful? do I look like a discontented person?" "You are endowed with such an excellent character!" "Oh, that depends on circumstances! If, for instance, I were obliged to live with M. Ramon, that abominable griping miser, I should certainly become unbearable, unmanageable and frantic!" "What can you have against that poor man?" "All the ferocious resentment and rancour gathered during five days of torture!" "Torture?" "What else can it be, to inhabit a large dilapidated house, so empty, so cold and gloomy, that a tomb would be a cheerful dwelling in comparison? And then, to see the two wan, emaciated servants coming and going like shadows in this sepulchre; to assist at those meals--and what meals, great heavens!--where the master of the house seems to count the bites you swallow! And such a daughter!--for the wretch has a daughter, alas! and, his race may perhaps be perpetuated. It is she who lays aside the servants' insufficient shares and puts the remains of the meager meal under lock and key! All I can say is that, notwithstanding my usual good appetite, five minutes at that table sufficed to disgust me. For one is either one thing or the other; if rich, avarice is contemptible; if poor, it is stupid to attempt any display." "My dear Louis, I find you strangely hostile to this poor man and his daughter--you who are always so kind and benevolent!" "His daughter! do you call that a daughter?" "What in the devil do you mean! do you take her for a monster?" "I don't take her for a woman." "My dear boy, you must have taken leave of your senses!" "But, my dear father, what would, you call a tall, dry creature, growling and snarling, with hands and feet like a man, a face like a nut-cracker, and a nose--great heavens, what a nose!--as long as this knife, and red as a brick! But to be just, I must admit that this incomparable creature has yellow hair and black teeth." "The portrait is not flattering; but all women cannot be equally beautiful. A kind heart is often better than a pretty face; and as for me, ugliness has always inspired me with pity." "I will say that I was much inclined to pity her when I saw her disagreeable face at first, especially as she was condemned to live with a man as greedy as her father; but when I saw that red-nosed creature eternally nagging and growling at those two unhappy servants, measure their food, and rival with her father in avarice, my first impulse of compassion was immediately turned to aversion for that wicked red-nose. Notwithstanding my good nature, I felt a strong temptation to contradict and annoy this red-nose; but, fearing to compromise my employer's interests, I kept my peace and swallowed my rancour." "And you are relieving your mind with a vengeance. "Ah! what a relief, after five long days of that red-nose!" "You are painfully prejudiced, my son; I would wager that this lady, who appears so miserly and detestable in your eyes, is merely a woman of firm character and economical habits." "Well, it matters little to me what she is! Only, I must say, there seems to exist singular contrasts in certain families." "What do you mean?" "Imagine my surprise in discovering in one of the rooms of this dull house, the portrait of a woman so beautiful, charming and distingué, that it seemed placed there expressly to continually mock and scoff at that wicked red nose. The portrait so closely resembled one of my old class-mates, that I could not refrain from questioning the old miser about it. He then gruffly informed me that the original was his sister, Madame de Saint-Herem, who died some years since. But you would have died laughing had you seen them when I asked if she had left a son." "Well, what did they do?" "At the name of young Saint-Herem you would have thought I had evoked the devil. Red-nose grew fiery and fairly glowed; while her worthy father admitted, with a withering glance at me, that he had the misfortune, in fact, to be the uncle of an infernal young bandit known as Saint-Herem." "This young man must bear a very bad reputation." "Florestan?--why, he is the noblest and most charming fellow in the world!" "But his uncle tells you--" "My dear father, Saint-Herem and myself were close friends at college, and you must judge of him by what I shall relate. I had lost sight of him for years, when, as I was passing along the boulevard six months ago, I saw everybody turn to look at something on the road, and I did likewise. I then perceived two magnificent horses harnessed to a phaeton, with two tiny domestics behind. This equipage was so elegant and rich that it attracted general attention--and who do you suppose was seated in that carriage? My old classmate Saint-Herem, more brilliant and handsome than ever!" "It seems to me he must be a reckless spendthrift." "Wait till I have finished my story, father. The equipage stopped abruptly, and while the two little pages alighted from their seats to hold the horses by the bridles, Saint-Herem leaped from the carriage, ran toward me, and fairly embraced me in his joy to find me again after so long a separation. I was dressed like a poor devil of a notary student, as I am; with my maroon redingote, my black trousers and laced shoes. You must admit that many _lions of society_ would have shrunk from the public recognition of a fellow as shabbily dressed as your humble servant. Florestan was so delighted to see me, however, that he paid no heed to my clothes. As for me, I was very happy and almost ashamed of this proof of friendship; for we presented such a contrast that everybody stared at us. Noticing the attention we attracted, my friend asked me where I was going and proposed to take me to my office, saying it would give us more time to talk. 'What,' I protested, 'enter your beautiful carriage with my umbrella, my shabby coat and coarse shoes!' Florestan shrugged his shoulders, took me by the arm, and led me to the carriage in spite of my remonstrances; and when he left me at the office he made me promise to call on him at his apartments." "Bah!" ejaculated the old man contemptuously; "it was merely the result of a first impulse. I always distrust people who make extravagant displays; and, besides, you are not in a position to mix with _society lions_." "And yet I had to keep my word and breakfast with him one Sunday. He received me like a prince and welcomed me like a friend. Shortly afterward, however, he left Paris, and I have not seen him since." "How strange that you never told me of this breakfast, Louis!" "I feared that in your tender solicitude for me you might imagine that the sight of Florestan's luxury was capable of turning my head and disgust me with my poor condition. The suspicion I knew would grieve you, and I therefore resolved to conceal the fact that once in my life I had breakfasted in the style of a Sardanapalus or a Lucullus!" "I understand the delicacy of your conduct, and am deeply touched by it, my boy," said the old man, with emotion; "it is another proof of your goodness and generosity of heart. But listen to me, my son, for it is to your kind heart and affection for me that I address myself." "What is it?" "It is something very grave and serious; not only for you, but for me also." The old man's expression was so solemn as he uttered the last words, that the son looked up in surprise. There was a knock at the door at that moment, and the concierge entered, saying, "Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Louis." "Very well," said the young man, taking the letter absent-mindedly, his whole attention centered on the grave subject just announced by his father. "If you should go out this evening, Monsieur Louis," added the man, as he moved away, "don't forget to stop at my lodge; I have something to say to you." "Very well," replied Louis carelessly, as the man vanished. Old Richard had recognized Mariette's letter at a first glance, and for a moment he was tempted to allow Louis to read it at once; but on further reflection he resolved to delay the blow. "My dear boy," he remarked, "you will have plenty of time to read your letter later, and I want you to listen to me just now, for the subject is of the highest importance to us both." "I am at your service, father," replied Louis, laying the letter on the table. CHAPTER VI. "As I have already said," observed old Richard, after a moment of silence, "I shall appeal to your kind heart and affection for me. "You have but to speak, then, my father," rejoined the young man dutifully. "You declared a few moments ago that if you sometimes dreamed of a more luxurious existence, it was not for yourself, being entirely satisfied with your humble condition, but for me." "And I repeat it!" "Well, my child, the realization of your wish depends on yourself only." "What do you mean?" "Listen to me. Reverses of fortune, which closely followed your mother's death, while you were still a child, robbed me of nearly all I possessed, leaving me barely enough to provide for your education. When this was all spent I was forced to open a bureau as public scribe--" "True, my good, kind father," said the young man, with emotion; "and seeing with what courage and resignation you endured ill-fortune, my affection and veneration for you augmented to a degree that falls little short of worship." "This ill-fortune may pursue us, my child; I am growing old, my sight is dimmed, and I foresee the sad day when it shall become impossible for me to earn our daily bread." "My father, rely on--" "On you? You will do your best, I know, but your own future is precarious. You shall never be more than first or second clerk, for it requires money to buy out a notary's office, and I am poor." "Don't be alarmed, I shall always earn enough for both." "You are counting without illness or the force of events. How many unexpected circumstances may reduce you to idleness for months! And then how should we live?" "But, my dear father, if we poor people anticipated all the trouble we may be threatened with, we should certainly lose courage. Let us close our eyes to the future, and think of the present only. Thank God! there is nothing to frighten us in that." "When the future is threatening, it is assuredly wiser to turn the eyes away; but when it may be happy and smiling, it is better to face it!" "I don't deny that." "Well, I repeat it, our future lies in your hands; it depends entirely on you to make it happy and assured." "Then it is done. Only tell me how?" "I shall astonish you greatly. That poor M. Ramon, with whom you have just spent a few days and whom you judge so harshly, is an old friend of mine." "He, your friend?" "Your visit to Dreux was arranged beforehand between us." "But those deeds--" "Your employer obligingly consented to aid us in our little ruse, by entrusting you with valueless papers." "But what was your purpose?" "Ramon wanted to observe and study your character without your knowledge, and he assures me he is quite enchanted with you. I received a long letter from him this morning, in which he speaks of you is the highest terms." "I regret my inability to return the compliment; but why should it matter to me whether he thinks well or ill of me?" "It matters very much, indeed, my boy; for the happy future of which I spoke depends entirely on Ramon's opinion of you." "This is an enigma to me." "Although not exactly rich, Ramon possesses a modest fortune, augmented each day by his economies." "Humph! I believe that. But what you charitably term economy is sordid avarice, and nothing else." "Call it what you will; we shall not bandy words about it. Owing to this avarice, however, Ramon will leave a snug fortune after him--I say after him, because he gives nothing away during his life-time." "I am not surprised at that. But I really cannot understand what you are leading to, father!" "I feel some hesitation in pursuing; for however false and unjust first impressions may be, they are exceedingly tenacious--and you judged Mademoiselle Ramon so severely--" "_Red-nose_! Say rather that I was very indulgent!" "You will overcome these prejudices, I am sure. Believe me, Mademoiselle Ramon is one of those persons who improve on better acquaintance. She is a woman of firm character and exemplary virtues. What more can be desired in the mother of a family?" "The mother of a family!" gasped Louis, who until now had not suspected the danger that threatened him, but was beginning to conceive a vague fear. "The mother of a family!" he repeated in dismay, "and what matters it to me whether Mademoiselle Ramon is or is not fitted to become a good mother?" "It matters more to you than to anyone else." "To me?" "Certainly." "And why, pray?" "Because my most cherished, and only desire is, to see you marry Mademoiselle Ramon," declared the old man, resolutely. "Marry--Mademoiselle Ramon!" cried Louis, aghast, shrinking back in his chair as if the red-nosed spinster had suddenly appeared before him. "I--marry?--" "Yes, my child," rejoined old Richard, in his most affectionate tone, "marry Mademoiselle Ramon, and our future is assured. We shall live at Dreux; Ramon's house is sufficiently large for us all. He gives his daughter no dowry; but we shall live in his home, and his influence will obtain a position for you. At the death of your father-in-law, you will inherit a snug fortune--Louis, my beloved son," concluded the old man, beseechingly, grasping the young man's hands in his, "consent to this marriage and you will make me the happiest man in the world; for I can then die without anxiety for your future." "Ah! my father, you don't realize what you ask!" rejoined Louis reproachfully. "You may say that you feel no love for Mademoiselle Ramon, but mutual esteem is sufficient in marriage; and you must admit that she is deserving of that esteem. As to her father, I can understand that you may have been shocked at what you term _his avarice_; but this will seem less odious to you when you reflect that you shall one day enjoy the benefits of this economy. At heart, Ramon is an excellent man. His only ambition is to leave a small fortune to his daughter and her husband; and to attain this aim, he practices the strictest economy. Do you call that a crime? Come, my child, give me one word of hope!" "Father," said the young man, in a constrained voice, "it grieves me to disappoint you in your projects, but what you ask is impossible." "Louis, can you really answer thus, when I appeal to your affection for me?" "To begin with, this marriage will bring you no personal advantage; you think of me only." "What! do you call it no advantage to live in his house without spending a sou? I tell you it is all arranged; he is to board us gratuitously, instead of giving his daughter a dowry." "Father, as long as there remains a drop of blood in my veins, you shall receive charity from no one! I have already begged you many times to give up your occupation, pledging myself to provide for both--" "But, if you were taken ill, my child, I should be forced to seek admittance into the alms-house!" "I shall not be ill, and you will want for nothing; but if I had the misfortune to be that detestable creature's husband, I should die of grief." "Yon cannot be serious, my son." "Perfectly serious, father. In your blind affection for me you sought to contract an advantageous union, and I am deeply grateful for your kind solicitude--but let us dismiss the subject; as I have already said, this marriage is impossible." "Louis!" "I shall always feel an invincible aversion toward Mademoiselle Ramon, and besides, I love a young girl, and she alone shall be my wife." "Ah! my son, I believed I enjoyed your full confidence, and yet you formed this grave resolution without consulting me!" "I was silent on the subject because the young girl and myself agreed to wait a whole year before speaking of marriage, that we might be sure we had not mistaken a passing fancy for a real passion. Thank heaven! our love has resisted all trials. The time of probation expires this very day, and to-morrow we shall fix the wedding day. The young girl I love is as poor as ourselves, but she possesses the noblest heart in the world. Never will you find a more devoted daughter, and I shall double in zeal and energy to make life agreeable to you. Believe me, nothing is more painful to me than to disagree with you, and I beg you to spare me the pain of another refusal. Do not insist on this union, for I shall never resign myself to it, and I swear by my affection for you that I shall have no other wife than Mariette Moreau." The young man uttered these last words so firmly that the father decided not to insist at that moment, but merely said in a grieved tone: "I cannot believe, Louis, that all the reasons I have pleaded in favor of this marriage can be without value in your eyes. I have more confidence in your heart than you seem to have yourself, and I am sure that reflection will bring you to a wiser decision." "I shall not change my mind." "I shall insist no further on the subject, but leave you to your reflections. I give you twenty-four hours to come to a definite resolution. Until then, I shall not say a word of this marriage, and I beg of you, on your side, not to trouble me with your love affairs." "Very well, father; but I assure you that delay--" "Not a word more on the subject," interrupted the old man, rising. As he silently paced the room, he cast furtive glances on his son, who was thoughtfully gazing at the letter before him, with his head leaning on his hands, and his elbows supported by the table. CHAPTER VII. Having contemplated the letter in silence for some time, without recognizing the writing, Louis mechanically tore it open, while old Richard still continued his tireless pacing, closely observing his every movement. Suddenly he saw him turn ghastly pale, brush his hand over his brow, as if to assure himself he was not the victim of an illusion, then read the letter once more, with ever-growing anguish expressed on his features. The letter, written that morning by old Richard, in a disguised hand, ran as follows: "Monsieur Louis: "I take advantage of your absence to make a confession which I have postponed for two whole months, because I feared to cause you grief. We must renounce our projects of marriage and never see each other again. "I cannot explain the cause of this change; but, believe me, my resolution is well taken. If I have waited until this day, the _sixth of May_, to tell you this, it was because I wanted ample time for reflection before announcing my determination. "Farewell, Monsieur Louis; do not try to see me; it would be useless and cause us needless pain. If, on the contrary, you forget me entirely and make no attempt to see me, my happiness, as well as that of my god-mother will be assured. "It is therefore in the name of our happiness and tranquillity that I ask you not to seek me. "You possess such a kind heart that I am sure you will make no attempt to grieve me, by insisting on an explanation. I swear that all is over between us and that I love you as a friend only. MARIETTE MOREAU." "P. S. Instead of sending this letter to Dreux, as you instructed me to do, I address it to Paris, that you may find it on your return. Augustine has gone to the country, so another person writes this for me. "I have forgotten to say that my godmother's condition is still the same." The reading of this letter plunged Louis into a hopeless stupor. The ingenuity of the style, the correctness of details, the emphasis on the date, all convinced him that the lines must have been dictated by Mariette. Having vainly tried to understand the cause of this abrupt rupture, he felt his heart invaded with mingled grief, anger, resentment, and a deep sentiment of wounded pride. "Indeed, I shall never attempt to see her again," he murmured, unconscious that he spoke aloud. "She has no need to insist on that point with so much obstinacy!" These words were a relief to the old man, who was closely watching the effects of his stratagem, while apparently absorbed in his own reflections. But grief soon took the ascendancy over anger in the young man's heart, and his love re-awakened more tender and more passionate than ever; he tried to recall the most trifling details of his last interview with Mariette, questioned his memory in regard to the last few months of their friendship, but could find no trace of growing coldness in their relations. The young girl, on the contrary had never seemed more loving, more devoted, or more impatient to unite her life to his. And all these appearances had lied; Mariette was a monster of deceit--she whom he had always believed so pure and candid! No, he could not accept this in silence! He could no longer endure such anguish, without making one effort to unveil the mystery that surrounded Mariette's conduct! The atmosphere of the room stifled him, and he resolved to seek the girl at once and force an explanation from her lips, even at the risk of prejudicing his cause with Mariette's godmother, who was also in ignorance of their love. Alarmed at the varied emotions reflected on his son's face, old Richard thought it time to interfere. "My dear Louis," he said, closely scrutinizing the young man's troubled face, "I believe we had better start for Dreux early tomorrow morning, thereby anticipating Ramon's visit to us by twenty-four hours." "Father!" began Louis, in protestation. "It will not compromise you, in the least, my son, and if you are resolved to deny me the dearest wish of my life, all I ask, as a last satisfaction, is to spend a few days with Ramon and his daughter. You shall then be free to act as you please." Then seeing Louis take up his hat, he asked anxiously: "Where are you going?" "My head aches, and I am going out for a whiff of fresh air," replied the young man. "In mercy don't go out, my boy!" cried the old man, with growing alarm. "You look gloomy and out of sorts since you read that letter. Really, you frighten me!" "You are mistaken. The letter was absolutely insignificant, I assure you," returned Louis, closing the door behind him. As he was rushing out, however, the concierge hailed him and invited him to enter the lodge. "What is it?" asked Louis, struck by the man's mysterious air. "Here is a card left for you by a decorated gentleman," explained the concierge. "He came in an elegant carriage, and said this was urgent." Taking the card, Louis approached the light and read: "_Commander de La Miraudière_, "_17 Rue du Mont-Blanc_. "_Will expect M. Louis Richard at my home, between nine and ten o'clock to-morrow morning, to communicate something of grave importance, which admits of no delay._" "Commander de La Miraudière? I never heard the name," said Louis, gazing curiously at the card; then, as he mechanically turned it over, his eyes caught sight of these words in pencil: "_Mariette Moreau, with Madame Lacombe, Rue des Prêtres-Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois._" The commander had noted Mariette's address on the back of his card, and unconsciously used the same in writing to Louis to request an interview. Much astonished and perplexed, the young man vainly asked himself what relation could exist between this stranger, whose card he held, and Mariette. "Did the gentleman leave any other message?" he asked the concierge. "Did he say anything?" "Nothing, except that I was to give you the card without your father's knowledge." "Strange," murmured the young man. "He even gave me forty sous, to make sure I would do the errand." "Was he young or old?" "A very handsome man, wearing the ribbon, with a mustache and side-whiskers black as ink, and dressed like a prince, not counting his elegant cabriolet." Louis went out more perplexed than ever. This new incident redoubled his anguish; by dint of seeking Mariette's motive for this abrupt rupture, he was beginning to feel the sharp pangs of jealousy. Once under this influence, the wildest suspicions and most chimerical fears assumed the appearance of reality to his eyes; and he finally asked himself if this stranger might not be a rival. How else was he to explain Mariette's relations with a young and handsome young man? In her letter to him, Mariette begged him not to seek her, as it might compromise her own and her god-mother's happiness. He well knew the wretched position of the two women, and Mariette had often confided to him the trials she was forced to endure through her god-mother's gloomy and harsh character. A horrible thought now flashed through his head. Had not Mariette, perhaps, been driven by misery and the threats of her god-mother to listen to the brilliant propositions of this man, whose card he now held in his hand? But, in that case, why should this stranger request an interview? The mystery seemed as impenetrable as ever. Once launched in the dizzy path of jealousy, lovers invariably give full sway to their imaginations and entertain the wildest ideas. Louis was no exception to the rule. In supposing himself supplanted by a rival, he found the key to what seemed inexplicable in Mariette's letter and in her conduct. He therefore tenaciously clung to the belief of her infidelity, longing for the moment when he might demand an explanation from this audacious commander. He now abandoned his first resolution of seeing Mariette, and retraced his steps homeward in a state of deep agitation and painful excitement. It was midnight when he again entered their dreary room. His father was anxiously waiting for him; but one glance at his son's gloomy countenance reassured the old man. Feeling certain that the lovers had not met and that his stratagem was still undiscovered, he again proposed a visit to Dreux on the following day; but Louis threw himself dejectedly on his bed, declaring he must have time for reflection before taking such a grave step. After a night of sleepless agony, the young man rose at dawn and quietly slipped out of the room, glad to escape his father's questioning for a few hours. With his mind tortured by anxiety and misgivings, he turned toward the boulevard to await the hour fixed for his interview with Commander de La Miraudière. CHAPTER VIII. Enveloped in a magnificent dressing gown, his feet encased in embroidered slippers, and a fragrant cigar between his lips, Commander de La Miraudière was quietly seated at his desk, with a stack of notes and papers before him, when a servant entered and announced: "M. Richard." "Usher M. Richard into the drawing-room, and beg him to wait a moment," he said, rising quickly. "You may bring him in when I ring." The servant withdrew, while his master opened a drawer in the safe near by, took out twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each, and, placing them beside a sheet of stamped paper used in making out deeds, rang the bell. Louis Richard entered, looking gloomy and confused. His heart throbbed violently at the thought that he was perhaps standing in the presence of a happy rival, and like all sincere and candid lovers, he greatly exaggerated the advantages possessed by the man whom he believed had supplanted him in the heart of the woman he loved. This Commander de La Miraudière, draped in his superb damask gown, and occupying magnificent apartments, seemed a most formidable rival, indeed, to poor, modest Louis Richard. "Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Louis Richard?" said M. de La Miraudière, with his most gracious smile. "Yes, monsieur," replied Louis, simply. "Only son of M. Richard, public scribe?" "My father is a public scribe," returned the young man dryly, believing he detected a slight tone of sarcasm in the last words. "Pardon me for disturbing you," continued the commander, "but it was necessary that I should see you alone. As a private interview seemed impossible in your own home, I requested you to come to me." "And now that I am here, may I inquire what your wishes are?" "My only wish is to serve you, my dear sir, for I would be only too happy to class you as my client." "I!--your client? But who are you, monsieur?" "An old soldier, retired commander, twenty campaigns, ten wounds, and a business man, to while away the hours. I hob-nob with the big capitalists, and frequently serve as intermediary between them and the sons of good families." "Really, I fail to see what service you can render me." "What service, my young friend!--permit an old trooper to give you that title--you ask what service I can render you, a poor notary clerk! You vegetate, you share a wretched attic room with your father, and you are dressed--heaven knows how!" "Monsieur!" cried Louis, flushing with indignation. "My dear young friend, these are facts which I state with regret, with indignation, almost. The devil! a young man like you should spend twenty-five to thirty thousand francs per annum, have horses and mistresses, and enjoy the luxuries of life!" "Is this a jest, monsieur?" asked Louis, haughtily. "If so, I warn you that I am not in the humor to endure it." "Being an old soldier, my young friend, I have already proved my bravery and valor on scores of occasions," remarked M. de La Miraudière, boastfully, "and I can therefore allow your hasty words to pass unnoticed. Moreover, I admit that what I have said must sound very extraordinary to you." "Most extraordinary, indeed!" "Here is something that will convince you that I am speaking seriously, my young friend," went on the braggart, designating the bills before him. "Here are twenty-five thousand francs, which I will be most happy to place at your disposition, that you may establish yourself as a young man of good family; furthermore, you may draw on me for two thousand five hundred francs each month. I offer you these advances for five years; we shall count up later." Louis was gazing at him in consternation, unable to believe his senses. "You make that offer to me?" he queried, rousing himself from his stupefaction. "Yes, and I am most happy to make it." "To me?--Louis Richard?" "To you, Louis Richard." "Richard is a common name, monsieur; you must take me for some one else." "Not at all! I know whom I am addressing; Louis Desiré Richard, only son of Alexander Timoleon Benedict Richard, aged sixty-seven years, born at Brie-Comte-Robert; domiciled at 23 Rue de Grenelle, public scribe by profession. As you see, there is no error, my young friend." "If you know my family so well, monsieur, you must be aware that my poverty does not permit me to contract such a loan." "Your poverty?--poor boy!" "But--" "This is abominable, a veritable outrage!" cried the business man in a tone of righteous indignation; "to bring up a young man in such error! to condemn him to spend the brightest years of his life in slavery! to reduce him to a shabby coat, blue stockings and laced shoes! But, happily--there is a Providence, and that Providence you see in me, my young friend. It appears to you under the features of Commander de La Miraudière!" "I am weary of this by-play, monsieur," returned Louis, impatiently. "Pray explain yourself clearly, or I shall go." "Very well!--You believe your father to be almost in want, do you not?" "I am not ashamed of our poverty--" "Oh! candid young man!" "What do you mean?" "Listen, and you will then bless me as your saviour forever after." Opening a voluminous register, he read the following statement: "Record of personal property of Alexandre Timoleon Benedict Richard (information taken by Credit Committee of the Bank of France, May 1, 18--.) Three thousand, nine hundred and twenty shares in the Bank of France (actual value) .. 924,300 frs. Bonds of the Mont-de-Piété ..................... 875,250 frs. Deposit in Bank of France ...................... 259,130 frs. Total ................................... 2,058,680 frs." "As you see, my innocent young friend," continued the pompous commander, "the known personal property of your esteemed and honorable father amounts to two millions, fifty-eight thousand, six hundred and eighty francs, according to official statistics. But everything leads us to believe that, like all misers, your worthy father has a good round lump of gold hidden somewhere. But even placing things at their lowest, you see that the author of your being possesses over two millions, at least. As his income is about a hundred thousand _livres per annum_, and he does not spend twelve hundred francs, you shall enjoy a very large fortune some day; you can, therefore, feel no astonishment at my offer." This revelation paralyzed the young man with amazement. A thousand confused thoughts struggled in his mind, and he stared at his companion stupidly, unable to utter a word. "You are quite dazed, my young friend," pursued the commander. "I suppose you imagine you must be dreaming!" "Indeed, I scarcely know whether to believe you or not," said Louis, still sadly bewildered. "Do as Saint Thomas did, my young friend: touch these twenty-five thousand franc notes; it will give you faith. The capitalists whom I represent, are not men who throw away money; and here, I may add, that they make these advances at the rate of _eight per cent._ the commission for my obliging services being _seven per cent._ more. You are too much of a gentleman to bargain over such trifles; besides, both capital and interest will barely reach half your father's yearly income. Even while spending at the rate of fifty thousand francs per annum, you will be economizing; yet, it will enable you to await the supreme hour patiently--I mean the hour when the old man--you understand! Moreover, as the said old man might be astonished at your high way of living, I have thought of a most ingenious explanation. You will hold a ticket in a lottery and presumably draw the capital prize, a diamond which you will sell for eight or nine thousand francs. This you will be supposed to have entrusted to a friend who, in his turn, invested the money in a magnificent enterprise, paying three hundred per cent. per annum. Thanks to this stratagem, you can spend your twenty-five to thirty thousand francs right under the paternal nose without awakening any suspicions. Now, young man, was I presumptuous in affecting providential airs toward you? But why this gloom and silence? I, who expected you to burst with delight, to shout with joy, to cut capers, and give vent to many other manifestations totally excusable in the first moments of rejoicing over your sudden transformation from a poor notary clerk into a millionaire! Why don't you answer me? Heavens! I fear his sudden happiness has bereft him of his senses!" This revelation, which would doubtless have thrown anyone else into a state of delirious joy, caused the most painful emotion to Louis Richard. To begin with, the long dissimulation and distrust shown by his father in leaving him in ignorance of his wealth, wounded him to the heart; and then--this was the most cruel thought to him--he remembered that he could never share these riches with Mariette; that by her heartless desertion she had deprived him of the pleasure of changing her wretched, joyless existence into a life of luxury and happiness. This reflection revived his bitter grief; and, forgetting everything but the explanation he had sworn to demand from this man before him, he drew the offending visiting card from his pocket, saying haughtily: "You left this card for me at my home, monsieur?" "Certainly, my young friend, but--" "Can you explain, monsieur, how the name and address of Mademoiselle Mariette Moreau came to be scribbled on it?" continued Louis, glaring at him. "What!" exclaimed the amazed commander. "I wish to know how Mademoiselle Mariette Moreau's address comes to be on this card!" repeated Louis coldly. "The devil! he must have lost his senses!" said the usurer. "My dear young fellow, I speak to you of millions, of thirty thousand francs yearly, and you answer by speaking of--grisettes!" "When I ask a question, monsieur," thundered Louis, "I expect a reply!" "And you assume such a tone with me, my young friend!" "If my tone does not suit you, I cannot help it." "The deuce, my young fellow!" cried the usurer, fiercely. "But, bah!" he added, twirling his black moustache caressingly between his fingers, "I have proved my bravery scores of times--I, an old soldier, perforated with bullets, can pass such words unnoticed. My dear client, the name and address of that little girl were found on my card, because I wrote them down that I might not forget where to find her." "You know Mademoiselle Mariette then?" "Most assuredly!" "You court her?" "Once in a while." "And you hope?--" "Much." "Monsieur, I forbid you to ever set foot in her home again!" "So I have found a rival!" said the usurer to himself. "Ah! I now understand the girl's refusal. I must sound him, drive him to jealousy, push him into a trap. The girl is worth having, and I must check this passionate youth." "My dear sir," he asked aloud, "when I am forbidden to do a thing, I consider it my first duty to do that very thing." "That remains to be seen!" "Listen, young man; I have fought fifty-seven duels, and can therefore dispense with the fifty-eighth. I prefer to reason with you. Allow me one question: You have just returned from a journey?" "I have." "You were absent several days, and have not seen Mariette since your return?" "But--" "My dear young friend, you only share the lot of many others. Mariette knows nothing of your wealth; so when I offered her enough to turn the head of any starved working girl, she accepted with delight. Her godmother, who is also half starved, has a natural inclination for the luxuries of this life, and as the absent ones are always in the wrong--you understand--" "Oh, my God! is it true then!" moaned Louis piteously, his wrath giving way to hopeless despair. "Had I known I was entering in competition with a future client I would have abandoned the game," resumed the usurer; "but it is too late now. Besides, my young friend, there is nothing to cry about. This girl was much too inexperienced for you; you would have had to form her, while there are many charming women ready to drop in your arms. I would particularly recommend a certain Madame de Saint-Hildebrande--" "Wretch!" cried Louis indignantly, grasping him by the collar and shaking him vigorously. "You miserable scoundrel!" "Sir, you will give me satisfaction for this--!" gasped the enraged commander. The door opened abruptly and the two adversaries turned their heads simultaneously as a gay burst of laughter rang through the room. "Saint-Herem!" exclaimed Louis, recognizing his old friend. "You here!" cried Florestan de Saint-Herem, grasping the young man's hand and gazing curiously into his pale face. "May the devil take him for coming in at this moment!" muttered the usurer between his clenched teeth, as he readjusted the collar of his dressing-gown. CHAPTER IX. Florestan de Saint-Herem was a man of thirty, at the most, with handsome features and a commanding, elegant figure. His physiognomy expressed both intelligence and wit, but often wore a mask of supercilious impertinence when addressing persons of the same stamp as the usurer. The first moment of surprise and greeting over, the actors in the foregoing scene resumed their antagonistic attitude toward each other. Louis, still pale with indignation, glared at his adversary fiercely, while the latter faced him defiantly. "To dare raise a hand on me!--an old soldier!" cried the commander, advancing threateningly toward Louis. "This will not pass unpunished, Monsieur Richard!" "As you wish, Monsieur de La Miraudière," returned Louis. "Monsieur de La Miraudière!" repeated Florestan, with a sarcastic laugh. "What! do you take this fellow seriously, my good Louis? Do you believe in his military title, his cross, his campaigns, his wounds, his duels, and his sonorous name of de La Miraudière?" "Your jests are entirely out of place!" cried the usurer, flushing angrily, "and I will not endure them in my own house, Monsieur de Saint-Herem!--Indeed I will not, my dear fellow." "His name is Jerome Porquin, my dear Louis," sneered Saint-Herem, "and it seems admirably chosen, does it not?" Then, turning to the crushed usurer, he added in a tone that admitted of no retort: "Monsieur Porquin, this is the second time I am forced to forbid you to address me as "_your dear fellow_." With me it is a different matter; I have bought and paid for the right of calling you my _dear_, my enormously _dear_, my too _dear_ Monsieur Porquin, for you have swindled me outrageously and cost me a good round sum!" "Sir, I will not suffer this!" cried the wrathful usurer. "Whence comes this timid sensitiveness on the part of M. Porquin?" asked Florestan, derisively. "What has happened? Ah! I see. This _dear_ M. Porquin does not enjoy having his lies and vain pretentious unmasked in your presence, Louis. Well, I will tell you who M. de La Miraudière really is. He once served the rations in the army, and in that capacity went to Madrid during the last war. This is the only service he has ever seen, and he was discharged from that for dishonesty. He has never fought a duel for, to begin with, he is too cowardly, and then he knows well that a gentleman would receive a challenge from him with contempt; and if driven to extremities by his insolence, he would simply teach him a lesson with his walking-stick." "When you stand in need of me you treat me with more delicacy!" sneered the usurer. "When I need your services I pay for them; and as I know your unscrupulous character, it is my duty to warn M. Richard, whose friend I have the honor to be. You are doubtless trying to entice him into your net." "Ah! this is the reward I get for my services!" cried M. Porquin, bitterly. "I reveal a secret of the highest importance to your friend, and--" "I now understand your object in coming to me," interrupted Louis, dryly. "I owe you no thanks for the service you have rendered me--if it is a service," he concluded sadly. The usurer had no intention of giving up his prey without a struggle, however, and turning to Florestan, with the same ease as if they had been on the most friendly terms, he said conciliatingly: "M. Louis Richard can tell you what conditions I proposed and under what circumstances I made him this offer; you will then be better able to judge if my demands were exorbitant. Furthermore, if I disturb you in your conversation, gentlemen, you may enter the drawing-room. If M. Richard wishes to consult you on the subject, I shall await his decision here." "This is the most intelligent phrase you have uttered yet," returned Saint-Herem, taking Louis' arm to lead him into the adjoining room. "And when we get through, I shall tell you the object of my visit. Or, rather, I will tell you now. I must have two hundred louis this evening. Here are the securities; examine them at your leisure." Drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he tossed them carelessly toward the usurer and left the room with his friend. The haughty brutality with which Florestan had unmasked Porquin had proved a new blow to Louis Richard. The thought that Mariette had sacrificed him for such a wretch, filled his heart with bitterness and resentment, and, unable to control his emotion longer, he burst into tears the moment he found himself alone with his friend. "Ah! Florestan, I am unhappy!" he sobbed, as he clasped his companion's hand. "I have no doubt of it, my poor Louis," said Saint-Herem sympathizingly, "for to place yourself in the clutches of such a rascal as Porquin, is to sell yourself to the devil! But tell me what has happened? You have always been good and industrious, I know, but you may have contracted some debt or committed some slight folly. What may seem enormous to you, may be only a trifle to me. I shall receive two hundred louis from this Arab to-night; you have but to say the word and they are yours. I can turn to someone else! Two hundred louis ought to cover the debts of a notary clerk---come, must you have more? Then we shall raise more; but in heaven's name don't put yourself in the toils of this scoundrel!" This generous offer filled Louis' heart with such sweet consolation that for the moment he forgot his sorrows. "My dear Florestan," he said gratefully, "you cannot imagine how this proof of friendship on your part comforts and consoles me." "You accept, then?" "No." "What?" "I have no need of your good services. This usurer, who was a total stranger to me, wrote to me requesting an interview; and he offers to lend me more money in one year than I have spent in all my life." "He offers you that! Why, the rascal never advances a sou without the best securities. People of his stamp consider neither honor, probity, nor industry; and I was not aware that you had expectations." "You are mistaken, Florestan; my father is worth over two millions." "Your father!" exclaimed Saint-Herem in amazement. "Your father rich!" "This usurer discovered his secret; how, I cannot say." "And so he offered his services. Well, you may be sure his information is correct, for he advances nothing on doubtful security." "I believe it," rejoined Louis sadly. "My dear Louis, one might think you had made some unfortunate discovery. What is it? Are you unhappy?--and why, pray?" "Ah! my friend, don't scoff at me. I love, and have been deceived." "You have a rival?" "And that rival is this wretch!" "Porquin?--nonsense; what makes you imagine such an absurdity?" "I had some suspicions, and then he assured me he had been accepted." "A fine authority, upon my word! He lies, I am sure of it." "He is rich, Florestan; and the woman I loved and still love in spite of myself, is poor. She has endured the most cruel misery for years." "The devil!" "Besides this, she is the only support of a crippled old woman. This man's offers dazzled the poor child; and like so many others, she succumbed through misery. What good is a fortune now, when my only desire was to share it with Mariette?" "My dear Louis, I know you too well to believe you could have loved a woman unworthy of your affections." "For a whole year Mariette gave me abundant proofs of a sincere affection; then yesterday, without warning, a letter came announcing the sudden rupture--" "A woman who loved a poor man like you for a whole year, does not yield to an old rascal like Porquin in one day. I tell you he lies!" And to Louis' great astonishment, Saint-Herem called aloud, "Hi, there! de la Miraudière!" "Florestan! what are you doing?" remonstrated Louis, as the usurer appeared. "Monsieur de La Miraudière," observed Saint-Herem, with his habitual supercilious air, "there seems to exist some slight confusion in your mind in regard to a respectable young girl, who, according to you, has been seduced by your wit, your personal charms and excellent manners, still more enchanced by that gold which you so honorably grasp. Now, my worthy commander, will you do me the pleasure to speak the truth? If not, I shall know how to deal with you." "I deeply regret having jested on a subject which seems to annoy M. Richard," responded Porquin, deeming it better policy to sacrifice a fancy which stood little chance of being gratified, than to run the risk of losing so promising a client as Louis. "You may perhaps be able to explain how the idea of this jest--which, by the way, I should call a base calumny--entered your head?" pursued Florestan. "Nothing more simple, monsieur: I saw Mademoiselle Mariette Moreau in the workshop, and was struck with her beauty. I then procured her address, visited her home, where I found her godmother, and proposed--" "Enough, sir! enough!" cried Louis indignantly. "Permit me to add, my dear client," resumed Porquin, imperturbably, "that the said godmother refused my offers point-blank, and that Mademoiselle Mariette indignantly showed me the door. As you see, I am perfectly frank, and hope this sincere avowal will win me the confidence of M. Richard, who will not fail to accept my services. As for you, Monsieur de Saint-Herem, I have examined your securities and will place the two hundred _louis_ in your hands this evening--and now that you have learned the conditions I have proposed to your friend, I am sure you must consider them reasonable." "I don't want your money," cried Louis. "Do you believe me capable of discounting my father's death?" "But, my dear client, allow me--" "Come, Florestan, let us go," interrupted Louis, "this room stifles me." "My dear Porquin," remarked Saint-Herem, as he followed his friend to the door, "as you see, there are still honest sons and daughters living. I will not say: 'May this serve you as a lesson or an example,' for you are too old a sinner to reform; but I sincerely hope this double disappointment will prove a most disagreeable pill to swallow." "Ah! my dear friend, you have relieved me of a cruel doubt," said Louis, gratefully, when they had reached the street. "I am now certain that Mariette never lowered herself to this wretch--but the fact still remains that she has broken our engagement." "Did she tell you so?" "She has written or, rather, made someone else write." "Made someone else write?" "Ah! you will laugh at me--the poor girl I love can neither read nor write." "What a happy mortal you are! You are spared the lengthy epistles I am forced to endure from a little shop girl whom I have robbed from a jealous banker. I amuse myself by making her the rage, and enjoy the poor creature's ecstasies immensely! It is so delightful to make others happy. Her grammar is outrageous, however. Ah! my friend, what orthography! it is of the antediluvian, innocent style; such as Mother Eve must have used--but if your Mariette cannot write, who knows but her secretary may have misinterpreted her thoughts?" "With what object?" "I don't know. But why not have an explanation with her?" "She has begged me, in the name of her future happiness, not to see her again." "Well, now that you are a prospective millionaire, I would advise you to see her in the name of that very future happiness." "You are right, Florestan; I shall see her, and if this cruel mystery can be explained, if I find her as in the past, affectionate and devoted, what bliss shall be mine! Poor child, her life has been one of work and misery; but she will now find comfort and rest, for my father shall consent, and--Ah! my God!--" "What is it?" asked Florestan, anxiously. "I have forgotten to tell you that my father wishes me to marry your cousin." "What cousin?" "Mademoiselle Ramon." "You don't mean it?" "I have just returned from Dreux, where I met her; and I must admit that, even if I were not in love with Mariette, I could never marry such a woman--" "My uncle must be still wealthy, then, though he announced his ruin many years ago," interrupted Saint-Herem. "It is evident that a marriage with my cousin would be advantageous to you, or your father would never propose it, believe me." "My father explained our poverty in the same way; he pretended to have lost his money many years ago." "Ah, my worthy uncle, I knew you to be disagreeable and unendurable!" resumed Florestan; "but I did not believe you capable of such superiority of conception; from this day I esteem and venerate you. I am not your heir, it is true; but the thought of a millionaire uncle is a pleasant one, nevertheless. In moments of trouble we dream of him, we form all sorts of affectionate hypotheses, even revel in thoughts of apoplexy and long for cholera, that Providence of impecunious heirs, which appears like a good fairy, robed in rosy hues." "My dear Florestan," laughed Louis, "though I wish no one harm, I admit that I would be glad to see your uncle's fortune fall into your hands instead of going to his detestable daughter. You would know how to enjoy the money at least; and, with such wealth, I am sure you would--" "Contract debts, my dear fellow," interrupted his friend, majestically. "What! with that immense fortune--" "I would most assuredly contract debts, I tell you." "With two or three millions?" "With ten, or twenty millions! My system is similar to that of the State: the higher the debt of a country, the higher stands her credit; therefore, what is credit?--wealth! This is elementary, not counting that it involves a high question of moral philosophy. But I shall explain my financial and philosophical ideas on a more favorable occasion. Go to Mariette, and report to me later. As for me, I have promised to take my little shop-girl out on a new saddle-horse which, by the way, cost me an outrageous price. Now don't fail to come or write to me; whatever happens, I want to share your joy or sorrow. But jump in and let me take you there." "Thank you, I prefer to walk; it will give me time to think over all that has happened and what attitude I should assume toward my father, in view of this singular revelation." "Good-bye, then, my dear Louis; don't forget that I shall expect you before the day is over," said Saint-Herem, jumping into his brougham, while Louis turned toward Mariette's home. CHAPTER X. A sad picture met the young man's eyes, as he paused for a moment on the threshold of the room occupied by Mariette and her godmother. Lying on a thin mattress in a corner of the room was the young girl, seemingly unconscious; her features were of a deathly pallor and painfully contracted, and traces of abundant tears stained her marble cheeks; one hand lay listlessly at her side, while in the other she convulsively clutched the envelope containing the debris of Louis' letter. Kneeling by the bedside, her harsh, sarcastic features softened by an expression of touching grief and cruel anxiety, Mme. Lacombe was supporting Mariette's head with her mutilated arm, while with the other hand she was endeavoring to force a few drops of water through the livid lips. At the sight of a stranger standing in the doorway, however, her features resumed the habitual expression of harshness and moroseness. "What do you want?" she asked roughly. "Why do you come in without rapping at the door?--I don't know you!--who are you?" Taking no notice of these many questions, Louis rushed to the bedside and threw himself on his knees beside the unconscious girl, crying: "My God! what has happened?--Mariette, Mariette, speak to me!" "So you are Louis Richard?" exclaimed the old woman, her eyes flashing angrily as she gazed at the young man. "Yes; but in heaven's name, tell me what has happened to Mariette!" "You have killed her!" "I--great heavens!" "And when she is dead, you will provide for me, I suppose?" sneered Mme. Lacombe. "Dead!--Mariette dead!" gasped Louis. "It is impossible!--But we must summon a physician, do something--her hands are icy--Mariette! Mariette!" he called wildly. "My God! my God! she does not hear me!" "And this is all the fault of that letter of yours, you impudent scoundrel!" interposed the old woman fiercely. "My letter?--what letter?" he asked in astonishment. "Ah, yes; you will lie about it and deny the whole thing now, of course! But last night the poor child broke down in despair and confessed the whole thing to me." "But what did she have to confess?" "That she loved you and you had deserted her for another--" "But on the contrary I wrote to Mariette that--" "You lie!" cried the old woman vehemently. "I tell you she read your letter; there it is now, clutched in her fingers! Heavens! what a flood of tears she shed over that rag! Go out of my sight, you worthless rake! We were very stupid indeed to refuse the good offer made to us. Yet, I told Mariette virtue brought little reward in this world. And now she is dying, and I am out into the street, without fire or shelter, without bread or anything, for everything will go for back rent. Happily," she added, with a grim smile, "I have still a small measure of charcoal left--and charcoal is the deliverance of poor people from misery." "My God! this is horrible!" moaned Louis, unable to restrain his tears. "I swear that we are the victims of some terrible mistake, madame--Mariette! Mariette! speak to me!--It is I--Louis!" "Do you want to kill her on the spot?" cried the exasperated woman, trying to push him away. "If she recovers consciousness, the sight of you will finish her." "Heaven be praised!" murmured Louis, resisting the woman's efforts and bending over the girl. "See, her hands are relaxing and her eyes opening--Mariette! it is I, Louis! do you hear me?" The girl's eyes roamed around the room for a moment, then slowly turned on the young man, who still leaned anxiously over her. Soon an expression of joyful surprise spread itself over her pale features and she attempted to raise her head, supporting herself on her elbow. "Louis!" she murmured, feebly. "Ah! I thought I would never see you again--" Then as the sad reality returned to her mind, she threw herself in Mme. Lacombe's arms and burst into tears. "Ah! godmother," she sobbed, "he comes to say farewell--it is all over!" "There now, didn't I tell you this would finish her!" cried Mme. Lacombe, fiercely. "Go, I say! and never let me see your face again!" "Mariette! in mercy listen to me!" pleaded Louis. "I did not come to say farewell, but to tell you that I love you more than ever." "Heavens! can it be true?" murmured the girl, starting up. "We have been the victims of some error, Mariette," continued the young man. "I have never ceased to love you for a single moment; no, never. During my absence, I had but one thought, one desire; it was to see you again and fix the day of our marriage, as I told you in my letter--" "Your letter!" interrupted the girl, sadly. "Have you already forgotten what you wrote, Louis? Here--read it." "He can deny his own writing, of course," growled Mme. Lacombe, as the young man hastily placed the torn pieces together; "and you'll be stupid enough to believe him." "This is what I wrote, Mariette," said Louis, when he had succeeded in his difficult task. "My Dear Mariette: "I shall be with you the day following the receipt of this letter. What I have suffered during this short separation proves that I cannot live without you. Thank God, the day of our union is fast approaching. Tomorrow is the _sixth of May_, remember. I shall speak to my father the moment I reach home, and I am sure he will not refuse his consent. "Farewell, then, until day after to-morrow, my darling Mariette. I love you madly, or wisely, rather; for I was wise to seek and find happiness in a heart like yours. "Yours forever and ever. LOUIS." "I write these few lines only, because I shall be in Paris almost as soon as my letter; and then, it is always painful to think that other eyes see what I write for you only. Were it not for this, how many things might I not say!" Mariette was so astounded that she could find no word to say. "I cannot understand how this letter could have produced such a sad effect on you?" said Louis, much perplexed. "Is that really what the letter says?" asked the amazed girl. "Certainly. Here, Madame Lacombe, read it," suggested Louis, placing the fragments before her. "You know very well that I can't read," replied the old woman, roughly. "How is it that the contrary was told Mariette?" "Who read it for you, Mariette?" asked Louis. "The public scribe," she informed him. "A public scribe!" exclaimed the young man, a fearful suspicion flashing through his mind. "In mercy, explain yourself!" "There is very little to explain, my dear Louis. I went in search of a public scribe, at the _Charnier des Innocents_, and dictated a letter for you to a very kind old gentleman. He was so kind, indeed, that he only charged me ten sous, although he was obliged to write it twice, having spilt the bottle of ink on the first copy as he was preparing to address it to Dreux. When I reached home again, I found this letter from you; then I went back to the public scribe--for he had shown much interest in me--and he read it for me. According to him, the letter said that we should never meet again; that your father's future happiness and your own depended on our separation, and that--" But she could say no more, and burst into tears. Louis understood it all, however, from the chance meeting of Mariette with his father, to the stratagem of the latter to deceive them both. This abuse of confidence overwhelmed him with such grief and shame, that he dared not admit the tie of relationship existing between himself and the public scribe, but sought another plausible explanation of this deceit and treachery. "Notwithstanding his apparent good nature and benevolence, this old rascal must have been trying to amuse himself at your expense, my poor Mariette," said the young man. "He read you just the contrary of what I had written." "Oh! how could he be so cruel!" cried the girl, clasping her two hands together. "He appeared so good, and expressed his sympathy so kindly for poor creatures like me, who can neither read nor write." "One thing is evident, my dear Mariette, he certainly deceived you." "But did you receive my letter at Dreux?" "It must have reached that city after I had left it," he said, unwilling to admit that it had been addressed to Paris. "But never mind it now," he added, anxious to drop a conversation which pained him so deeply; "we are happy and--" "Yes, you are happy enough," put in Mme. Lacombe, "but what about me?" "What do you mean, godmother?" asked Mariette. "I mean that I will never consent to such a marriage," she said harshly. "But my dear madame--" began Louis. "Tut, tut, tut, soft words won't blind me, young man;" she interrupted roughly. "If you are the son of a public writer, you are as penniless as Mariette; and two miseries united in marriage are worth three single ones. My goddaughter has enough of me to support, without a troop of famished children." "But, my dear godmother--" protested the girl. "Don't bother me!" she retorted angrily. "I know your plans; you simply want to rid yourself of me and leave me in the gutter to starve." "How can you believe such a thing!" cried Mariette, reproachfully, her eyes full of tears. "Your fears are groundless, I assure you," Louis hastened to say. "I have just discovered that my father is immensely wealthy, but for reasons of his own, he has kept the matter a secret until now." Mariette gazed at Louis with an air of mingled astonishment and delight at this unexpected information. Then she smiled through her tears and said, with a shade of defiance in her gentle voice: "You see, godmother, that the picture is not as dark as you painted it, we are quite able to take care of you as well as ourselves." "You are quite ready to fall into the trap, of course," rejoined the old woman, with a sarcastic laugh. "But, godmother--" "Don't you see that he is inventing those lies to obtain my consent to your marriage--" "Madame, I swear--" "And I tell you there is no truth in it; or, if you are rich, you don't want Mariette. A rich man would never be stupid enough to marry a poor girl who can neither read nor write." "You are mistaken," said Louis, with dignity; "the son of a rich man does not break the word given in his days of poverty, when his life's happiness depends on that word--" "Bah! mere phrases and words!" interrupted the woman sharply. "Rich or poor, you shall never have Mariette, until you have assured me a living. I don't ask much; only six hundred francs a year; but I must have it in money, with a contract deposited in the hands of a reliable notary." "Ah! godmother, why should you distrust Louis so?" protested Mariette tearfully. "My dear child, I know all about these fine promises," declared Mme. Lacombe. "He will promise anything beforehand; then, when he is sure of you, out goes the old cripple. With you, Mariette, I have nothing to fret about. I may be a heavy burden, but you are a good girl and stand in awe of me. Once married, however, you will both defy me and throw me out of the house. What will become of me, then? Is it my fault if I am a cripple? No! no! I tell you there shall be no marriage unless an income of six hundred francs is placed in the hands of a notary!" While giving away to these bitter recriminations, the poor creature rocked to and fro, looking furtively at the two young people and watching the effect of her words. "Poor Mariette," thought Louis, "how she must have suffered! To think of so much affection and devotion rewarded with so much ingratitude!" "Madame," he said aloud, when she had ceased speaking, "you may rest assured that neither Mariette nor myself will ever forget that you have been as a mother to her; and you shall always be treated with the consideration that you deserve--I swear it." "Thank you, Louis!" cried the girl gratefully, "I am glad to see that you share my sentiments for my poor godmother, who has indeed been as a mother to me." "Don't you see that he is laughing at us!" exclaimed the old woman harshly. "He has no intention of marrying you and giving me a pension, I can tell you. If he is really rich, he will cajole you and entice you into a trap; then some fine morning, you will hear of his marriage with another woman--go, I say, and never set foot in this house again!" "Madame," said Louis, "I shall come with my father to beg the honor of Mariette's hand in marriage, and will at the same time inform you of the advantages I shall be able to give you." "Yes, yes, those fine propositions will come when I am in my grave," she muttered, as she climbed into her bed and turned her face to the wall. "It shall be no later than to-morrow," declared Louis. "Good-bye, Mariette. I shall call with my father to-morrow." "Can it really be true that, after so much sorrow, we should at last know happiness--happiness forever," murmured the young girl, as Louis clasped her hand tenderly in his. "Will you ever get done? you are driving me wild with your happiness!" came sharply from the bed. "Go, and leave me in peace!--and don't you dare to move from the room, Mariette! You are dying to go down with that gay deceiver, I know; but when I say _no_, I mean _no_!" The young couple exchanged one last loving glance and, with a whispered: "Good-bye, my darling," Louis was gone, while Mariette returned slowly to the bedside of her godmother. CHAPTER XI. Louis at once proceeded to his father's business place, anxious to get over the inevitable explanation which had become necessary between them. But to his great astonishment and alarm, he found the door and shutters still closed, and was informed by the neighbors that the old man had not made his appearance that day. This break in his regular habits seemed so unusual and inexplicable, that the young man felt a vague uneasiness invading him as he hurried toward home, and all sorts of wild conjectures flashed through his mind. He soon reached the Rue de Grenelle, however, and was running up the first flight of stairs when the concierge called him from his door. "Monsieur Louis," he said, "your father went out a couple of hours ago and left a letter for you. I was to take it to your office if you did not return before two o'clock." The young man grasped the letter and tore it open. It ran thus: "My dear child: "I have just received a few lines from my friend Ramon, informing me that he and his daughter will arrive in Paris to-day. "As he has never traveled in a railway train and anticipates much pleasure in that mode of conveyance, he will stop at Versailles, where he begs us to meet him. We shall visit the palace, and return together by the last train. "I shall wait for you at the Hotel du Reservoir; but if you are late, you can join us at the palace. Remember, that this interview with Mademoiselle Ramon will compromise you in no way. My only desire is that you should take advantage of this opportunity to study that young person's character and see the injustice of your groundless prejudices. You will moreover understand that, whatever may be your projects, it would be most ungracious on your part to fail at a rendezvous given by one of my oldest and dearest friends. "Your father, who loves you deeply, and whose sole desire is your happiness. "A. RICHARD." Notwithstanding his habitual deference to the wishes of his father, Louis thought it unnecessary to go to Versailles and face Mademoiselle Ramon a second time; so he hastened to his employer's office instead, and resumed his usual work, undeterred by the astounding revelation of his father's wealth. Owing to the numerous distractions caused by the various events of the day, however, it was late when he finished his day's task and put away his papers. He had just closed his desk and was taking his hat from its accustomed peg, when one of his comrades burst into the room and cried excitedly: "My God! what a terrible thing!" "What is it," asked the clerks in chorus. "I have just met a friend on his way back from the Versailles station--" "Versailles station!" echoed Louis, with a sudden start. "Well, what has happened?" "A frightful accident!" "Great Heavens!" cried Louis, turning deathly pale. "But go on." "The return train to Paris ran off the track, throwing the cars in a heap; and it is reported that all the passengers have either been crushed or burnt to death, and--" But Louis stopped to hear no more. Rushing out, bareheaded as he was, he dashed down the street to the first corner, where he leaped into a cab, crying: "Twenty francs if you take me to the Versailles station at breakneck speed--and from there somewhere else--I don't know where; but in mercy, go!" "Which side of the river, monsieur," asked the coachman, as he lashed his horse. "What do you mean?" "There are two stations. One on the right, the other on the left bank." "I want to go where that terrible accident occurred." "This is the first I hear of it, monsieur." Louis was forced to return to the office for information; but he found the place already deserted, and returned to the cab in despair. "I have just learned it was on the left bank," the coachman informed him from his seat. "To the left bank then!" he ordered, sinking back on the cushions with a moan. There he learned that the sad news was unfortunately but too true, and was directed how to reach the scene of the accident. It was nightfall when he finally reached Bas-Meudon; and, guided by the flames of the burning debris, he soon found himself on the sinister spot, where he spent the night in a fruitless search for the charred remains of his father among the mass of crushed and burnt flesh piled on the roadside or pinioned in the wreck. Worn out in body and spirits, he returned to Paris at dawn, hoping his father might have been one of the small number that had escaped with slight injuries. "Has my father returned?" were his first words to the concierge. "No, monsieur Louis," replied the man. "There is no doubt possible then--he perished in the accident," he moaned, sinking into a chair and bursting into sobs. In a few moments he had recovered his self-possession however; and, without stopping to hear the concierge's words of condolence, he slowly ascended to the fifth landing and entered the dreary room. At sight of this gloomy home, so long shared with his beloved father, the young man's grief again became uncontrollable; and, throwing himself on the bed, he buried his face in his hands and gave free scope to his overwhelming sorrow. He had sobbed thus for half an hour, absorbed wholly in his bitter despair, when he was startled by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of some one into the room. "What is it?" asked Louis, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I am sorry to disturb you at such a time, Monsieur Louis," said the concierge timidly, "but the coachman--" "What coachman?" questioned the young man in surprise, having entirely forgotten the cab in his grief. "Why, the coachman you retained all night. It seems you promised him twenty extra francs if he would lash his horse to the utmost speed. This, with his night's run, comes to forty-nine francs, and he claims his money." "Well, give him the money and tell him to go!" rejoined Louis impatiently. "But, forty-nine francs is an enormous sum, Monsieur Louis; and I can't pay it." "My God! what shall I do!" cried the young man, recalled to the material interests of life by this request. "I have no money!" "Then why in the deuce do you hire cabs by the hour and in the night, too, besides promising twenty extra francs for speed? You must have taken leave of your senses!" cried the astounded man. "What will you do now? See if you can't find a little money in your father's chest." These last words recalled what he had forgotten in his paroxysm of grief. His father was rich, and there must surely be some money about the place. Not wishing to prosecute his search in the presence of a stranger, however, he said carelessly: "Tell the man to wait, as may need the cab again this morning. If I am not down in half an hour, come up and I shall give you the money." "But this will increase the bill, and if you cannot pay--" the man began to remonstrate. "I know what I am doing," interrupted Louis, coldly; "you may go." Once alone, he shrank from the task imposed upon him; this investigation, at such a moment, seemed almost a sacrilege. But necessity forced him to resign himself to it, and he stifled his scruples as best he might. The furniture of the room Was composed of a writing table, a dresser, and an old black-walnut chest divided into two compartments, such as we find in the houses of well-to-do peasants. After a fruitless search of the table and dresser, Louis turned to the old chest. A few pieces of worn clothes lay scattered about, but nothing else; and in the long drawer that separated the compartments, he found a bundle of unimportant papers only. Thinking this drawer might contain a secret hiding place, however, he drew it out completely, and was rewarded for his trouble by finding a small brass button beneath it. As he pressed this button, he was astonished to see the bottom of the first compartment drop slowly down, revealing a space of about six inches in depth, with diverging shelves lined in garnet velvet. Symmetrically arranged between these shelves were innumerable piles of gold pieces, representing all countries and epochs. Each piece had evidently been frequently and vigorously rubbed and cleaned, for the whole glittered with almost dazzling brilliancy. Notwithstanding his overwhelming grief, Louis was completely dazzled for a moment at sight of this treasure, the value of which he knew must be considerable; and it was not until the first impression had passed over, that he remarked a piece of folded paper almost beneath his fingers. Recognizing his father's hand-writing, he picked it up eagerly and read these words: "This collection of gold coins was begun September 7, 1803; its actual value is 287,634 francs. (See paragraph IV. in my last will and testament, confided to M. Marainville, notary, Rue Sainte-Anne, No. 28, who also has all papers, deeds and titles. See also sealed envelope, behind Spanish coin, fifth shelf.)" Removing several piles of the large, heavy coins, Louis at last found an envelope, sealed in black and bearing these words in big letters: "TO MY WELL-BELOVED SON." Before he could open it, however, there was a knock on the door; and, remembering that he had told the _concierge_ to return in half an hour, he grasped one of the Spanish coins under his hand and quickly pressed the button that closed the treasure box. "What a fine gold piece!" exclaimed the amazed _concierge_, when the young man handed him the coin. "It looks like new, and I never saw one like it! How much is it worth?" "More than the sum I owe," replied Louis, impatiently; "take it to a money broker and pay the coachman." "Did your father leave you many of these pretty coins, Monsieur Louis?" queried the man in a mysterious whisper. "Who would have believed that the poor old man--" "Go!" cried Louis, irritated at the cynicism of this question. "Pay the coachman, and don't let me see you again." The man withdrew without another word; and, having bolted the door to save himself from further intrusion, the miser's son returned to the chest. For a moment he stood contemplating the dazzling treasure before him, and though he reproached himself for thinking of his own happiness in that terrible hour, he could not help feeling a thrill of delight at the thought that one-fourth that sum would insure comfort and independence to his Mariette for a whole lifetime. Then he tried to forget the cruel stratagem employed by his father toward the poor girl, and even succeeded in convincing himself that he would have obtained his consent to their union; and that, though he might not have admitted his wealth, he would at least have amply provided for them. The discovery of these riches did not inspire him with that covetous, revengeful joy usually experienced by the heirs of a miser, when they remember the cruel privations to which they were subjected through the avarice of the owner; it was, on the contrary, with a feeling of touching pious respect, and with a hand trembling with emotion, that he unfolded the sheet containing the last wishes of his beloved father. CHAPTER XII. The testament had been written two months previous and was in these terms: "MY BELOVED SON:" "When you read these lines I shall have ceased to live." "You have always believed me poor; but I leave you an immense fortune accumulated by my _avarice_. "I have been _miserly_, and do not attempt to excuse my fault; far from it, I am proud of it and glory in it. "And this is why: "Until the day of your birth, which robbed me of your mother, I was unmindful of augmenting my patrimony and the dowry brought me by my wife; the moment I had a son, however, that sentiment of foresight, which becomes a sacred duty to a father, took possession of me, developing slowly into a love of economy, then into parsimony, and finally into avarice. "Moreover, you never suffered through the privations I imposed upon myself. Born sound and robust, the virile simplicity of your education has, I believe, aided the development of your excellent constitution. "When you reached the age of instruction, I sent you to a school opened to the children of poor parents; to begin with, it was a means of economy; and besides, this mode of education was calculated to form and develop habits of a modest, laborious life. The success of this plan surpassed my expectations. Raised among poor children, you never acquired those factitious, expensive tastes; never experienced those bitter envies or vain jealousies which often influence our fate fatally. "I also spared you many griefs which, though childish, are none the less cruel. "You have never had to compare your condition to others more elevated or more opulent than your own. "You have never felt the pangs of that envious hatred inspired by comrades in speaking of the splendor of their homes, boasting of the antique nobility of their race, or the wealth they would enjoy some day. "It is generally believed that because children of dissimilar conditions wear the same uniform, eat at the same table, and follow the same course of study, a sentiment of equality exists between them. "This is a deep error. "Social inequality is as well understood among children as it is among their elders. "The son of a rich bourgeois or of a nobleman, almost invariably betrays at the age of ten the arrogance, or haughtiness he will display in fifteen years later. "Whether children are _little men_, or men are _grown children_ matters little; all have the consciousness of their condition. "As for you, surrounded as you were by children of the poor, you heard them continually speak of the hard labors of their parents; the indispensable necessity of work was therefore early impressed on your mind. "Others of your companions dwelt on the privations and miseries endured by their families; you thus became accustomed to the idea of our poverty. "Lastly, you saw the greater number of these children resigned and courageous--two of the greatest virtues in the world--and until now, my beloved son, courage and resignation have never failed you. "At fifteen you competed for a scholarship in one of the high schools, where you finished your studies. Your first education had already borne excellent fruits; for, although many of your new companions belonged to the aristocratic world, their contact never altered your precious qualities, and you never knew the meaning of either jealousy or envy. "Later, you entered as junior clerk in a notary's office, with a man who has long been my friend, and who alone holds the secret and administers my fortune. Until now, the discretion of this friend has equaled his devotion. Near him, you have acquired a perfect knowledge of business; and, thanks to my foresight, you shall be in a position to skilfully and advantageously administer the considerable wealth I have amassed. "My conscience does not reproach me; and yet, I admit that I sometimes fear you will address this reproach to my memory: "_While you accumulated these riches, my father, you condemned me without mercy to the most cruel privations_. "Reflection drives this fear from my heart, however; I remember how frequently you have assured me that you were satisfied with your condition, and that if you desired luxuries it was only for my sake. "In fact, your inexhaustible humor and gentleness, your natural gaiety of spirits and tender affection for me sufficiently prove that you are contented. Moreover, do I not share your privations? Your own economies, added to my earnings as a public scribe, have permitted us to live without touching my revenues. The capital has thus been growing for twenty years in the hands of my prudent administrator. "On the day on which I pen these lines, my fortune amounts to about two millions and a half. "I know not how many years of life may still be allotted to me, but in ten years I shall have attained the average length of human life; you shall then be thirty-five years of age; and since a capital doubles itself in ten years, my wealth shall have attained the enormous sum of four or five millions. "Unless I am stricken down suddenly, you shall therefore, in all probability, attain your complete maturity before entering into possession of these riches. Your sober, modest, industrious habits, contracted in childhood, shall be as a second nature to you; and your knowledge of business will be still more developed by practice. Add to these advantages your uprightness of mind, your strong physical constitution--unimpaired by early excesses--and you will find yourself in the best possible condition to inherit the wealth I have amassed, as well as to enjoy it according to your own tastes which, I am sure, can be nothing but generous and honorable. "You may, perhaps, ask why I simply left my capital to multiply by itself, instead of attempting some great financial operation or enjoying the delights of luxury? "I shall tell you why, my dear child. "Although my avarice had its origin in a sentiment of paternal foresight, it has now assumed all the inherent characteristics of a violent passion. "I could, and can still, deprive myself of everything to accumulate riches upon riches, happy in the thought that it is all for you, and that you will enjoy this gold some day; but to release my hold on any part of my belongings, for any object whatever, or risk anything in financial operations is impossible--no! not while I live! It would be tearing my heart out by the core; for the possession of his treasure is life itself to a miser. Without spending or risking one farthing, I can give myself up in imagination to the most hazardous or magnificent operations. And this is neither a vain desire nor an empty dream. No! no! with what I possess, those magnificences and splendors are realizable to-day, to-morrow, this very hour, if I choose. "How then can you expect that a miser should have the courage or will to release his hold on such a talisman? What! for one project, one realized dream, would I sacrifice a thousand projects, a thousand realizable dreams? Besides, is not my son happy as he is? Would he not be the pride of the proudest of fathers? And is it not for him, _for him only_, that I hoard up these treasures? "Had I acted differently, what would have been the result? "Had I been lavish, my prodigality would have left you in misery; and had I spent my income only, we would doubtless have lived in idleness and enjoyed a few physical joys or vain satisfactions, but what would we have gained? "Should we have become better? I know not. But at my death I would have left you a reasonable income only, and not sufficient to realize any large and generous undertaking. "One last word, my dear son, in answer to a reproach you may address my memory. "Believe me, if you have been left in ignorance of my riches, it was not through a sentiment of dissimulation or distrust of you. "These were my reasons: "Had you known of my riches, though you might perhaps have accepted the humble existence I imposed on you without a murmur, you would have accused me in your heart of harshness and egotism; and, who knows, the certainty of future riches might perhaps also have impaired your precious qualities. "This is not all---forgive me this foolish fear, this apprehension which is so unjust to your excellent heart--but to enjoy your filial affection in all its purity and disinterestedness during my life, it was necessary that you should have no thought of an opulent inheritance after my death. "Another reason, the gravest of all, perhaps, has led me to conceal my riches--I love you so tenderly, that it would have been impossible for me to see you undergo any privation if you had known that I could provide the most sumptuous existence for you. "Notwithstanding the apparent contradiction that seems to exist between this sentiment and my avaricious conduct toward you, I hope, my dear child, that you will understand my thought. "And now, I place myself in spirit face to face with death, which may strike me to-day, to-morrow, or this very hour; and I declare, in this supreme and solemn moment, that I bless you from the depth of my soul, my dear beloved child, you who have given me joy and happiness only in this world. "Be a hundred times blessed, Louis, my good, affectionate son; be happy according to your merits, and my last wishes will be accomplished. "Your father, A. RICHARD. "Written and copied in Paris, February 25, 18--" CHAPTER XIII. Louis was deeply moved by the reading of this singular testament, and wept long as he reflected on the eccentricities of his beloved father. The day was drawing to a close, when he was finally aroused from his grief by a knock at his door and the well known voice of Florestan de Saint-Herem. Quickly unbolting the door of the gloomy attic chamber, he found himself in his friend's arms, who cried sympathetically: "Louis! my poor Louis! I know all. The _concierge_ has just told me of your father's death. Ah! what a cruel, frightful accident!" "Bead this, Florestan," said Louis, with tears in his eyes, giving his friend the testament left by his father, "and you will understand my bitter grief." Saint-Herem took the paper and, seating himself by the window, read it to the end. "Do you think I can now blame his avarice?" asked Louis, when his friend had finished. "Was not his only aim to enrich me, to place me in a position to gain more wealth, or to make a generous use of the possessions he left me? He imposed the hardest privations on himself that he might hoard up treasures for me!" "Nothing surprises me on the part of a miser," returned Florestan. "They are capable of great things--and this applies to all who are a prey to that powerful and prolific passion." "Don't exaggerate, Florestan." "This may seem a paradox to you, but there is nothing more true. We have always been stupidly unjust to misers," went on Florestan, with growing enthusiasm. "The genius and zeal they display in inventing inconceivable, impossible economies is prodigious. Altars should be raised in their honor! Thanks to their wise, obstinate parsimony, they possess a wonderful knack of turning everything into gold; careful saving of matches, picking up stray pins, a centime carefully invested; in fact, the most trifling of economies bring in returns. And yet, the world denies the existence of alchemists, the inventors of the philosophical stone! Once more, I repeat it, do they not turn into gold what is nothing in other hands!" "You are right enough on that score," laughed Louis. "On that and on all other scores," rejoined Florestan, seriously. "Now, my dear fellow, follow well my comparison; it is worthy of my most brilliant days of rhetoric! Take a dry, sterile land, and dig a well into it; what happens? The smallest springs, the thinnest stream of subterranean water, the invisible tears of the earth, evaporated or lost until then without profit to anyone, will concentrate, drop by drop, into the bottom of this well; little by little the water will increase and rise, the reservoir will fill; then, if a beneficent hand spreads this salutary spray liberally, verdure and blossoms will appear as if by enchantment on that hitherto unfruitful, desolate soil. Now, Louis, is not my comparison good? Is not the miser's hidden treasure like this deep well, where, thanks to his obstinate and courageous savings, riches accumulate drop by drop, forming a reservoir from which may spring luxury, splendors, magnificence and prodigalities of all sorts?" "My dear Florestan," said Louis, drawn from his grief by his friend's enthusiasm, "though my judgment of my father's conduct may have been influenced by filial affection, your course of reasoning on the subject of economy proves that I was not far wrong, at least." "You are indeed right, Louis; for if we take a philosophical view of avarice, the miser is still more admirable." "This appears less just." "Do you not admit that, sooner or later, these riches, so laboriously amassed by the miser, will almost inevitably shower magnificences of all sorts; for the proverb says: _A miserly father makes a prodigal son_." "I admit that prodigality is the usual dispenser of these long-hoarded treasures; but where do you see philanthropy in that?" "Where do I see it? Why, in everything! Do not the consequences of luxury and magnificence bring ease and comfort to the hundreds of families that weave silks and laces, chisel gold and silver, carve precious stones, build palaces, sculpture the ebony of furniture, varnish carriages, breed thoroughbred horses, and cultivate rare flowers? Have not artists, architects, musicians, singers, _danseuses_, all that is art, pleasure, poetry, enchantment, a large share of the gold shower that produces these wonders? And does not this gold shower spring from that magical reservoir so slowly and perseveringly filled by the miser? Therefore, without the miser, we should have no reservoir, no gold shower, and none of the marvels which this sparkling, beneficent dew alone can produce--Now, let us look at the miser from a catholic point of view--" "Look at the miser from a catholic point of view!" echoed Louis, in astonishment. "That is exactly where he is truly admirable," rejoined Saint-Herem, imperturbably. "I confess that this theory seems to me difficult to sustain." "On the contrary, it is most simple. Is not abnegation one of the greatest virtues known?" "Undoubtedly." "Well, my dear Louis, I defy you to cite me a monastic order whose members practice the renouncement of worldly pleasures more absolutely and sincerely than the miser. And his renouncement is truly the more heroic, because he has within his grasp all the delights and enchantments of soul, mind and senses, and possesses the incredible courage to refuse them all. There is strength, there is the triumph of an energetic will." "But you must take into consideration that avarice almost invariably stifles all other passions, and the renunciation is less difficult to a miser than to another. In depriving himself, he satisfies his predominant passion." "Just so! And is not a power a great passion that will lead to such renunciation? But where the miser is truly sublime, is in his disinterestedness." "The miser's disinterestedness? You must be jesting, Florestan!" "Yes, I repeat it, he is truly sublime in his disinterestedness! The miser is perfectly aware that he is despised and execrated during life, and that his death will be greeted with delight by his heirs; yet, you cannot name a single one who has tried to make his treasure disappear with him, with a view of avenging his wrongs. Two millions in bank notes may be turned to ashes in five minutes, and leave no trace; but no, these good-natured misers, full of magnanimity and forgiveness, forget their injuries and enrich their heirs. I know of nothing comparable to the martyrdom of a miser; and it is not the torture of an hour, but of a lifetime. He knows that the treasure, amassed so painfully and with so many privations, will never be enjoyed by himself; that the fatal hour will come when this gold, which he loves more than life, shall be dissipated in riotous living, in foolish orgies, in the midst of which his name and memory shall, perhaps, be scoffed and insulted--and by his own son, alas! And yet he has no thought of punishing such insolent cupidity by destroying his treasure! Ah! believe me, Louis, avarice is a strong, mighty passion; and nothing that is strong and great can be useless. God, in His infinite wisdom, did not create passions without an aim--that is, a power without its use. If he endowed misers with incredible concentration of will, it is because they have some mysterious purpose to achieve. I repeat it, all forces have and must have their expansion, all well-directed passions their fruitful issues. Let us suppose, for instance, that a minister of finance should bring to the management and economy of public affairs that inflexibility which characterizes the miser; would not many wonders result from such avarice? Though Fouquet ruined the finances of France, never was the country more flourishing than under Colbert; without this avaricious minister, the prodigalities of Louis XIV would have been impossible; and all those marvels of magnificence, of art and poetry, would have remained unknown. As you see, all is linked, enchained together; each cause produces its effect; the prodigality of Louis XIV is the consequence of the avarice of Colbert." "Remember, Florestan," said Louis, sadly, "that while this _great king_, whose memory I have always abhorred, was ruining the country by his insolent prodigalities, the heavily-taxed people were living in atrocious servitude to provide for the bold ostentations of Louis XIV, his mistresses and their children. And what misery still exists in our days! Ah! if you knew what a life of wretchedness Mariette has endured! Although the poor child is strong and courageous, the sight of such frightful destitution would fill your heart with bitter resentment." "What will you, I am a philanthropist in my own way; I take things as they come, and, as I cannot do better, I spend to my last farthing. None can accuse me of encouraging the idleness of luxurious industries." "I do not accuse your generous heart, my friend; the man who spends his money liberally or foolishly, provides work for the poor, and work is bread--yet, you laud avarice." "My dear fellow, who would appreciate the excellence of arms, if not the warrior? The excellence of a horse, if not the cavalier? The excellence of a lute, if not the player? Paganini, as pope, would have canonized Stradivarius, the maker of those wonderful violins, which the great artist plays so admirably. Therefore, as I have the presumption of playing admirably with millions, I would canonize my uncle, that heroic martyr of avarice, if distributive justice would only place in my hands the wonderful instruments of prodigality he is manufacturing by hoarding his money." "Ah! heavens!" cried Louis, suddenly gazing at his friend with a horrified expression. "What is it?" asked Saint-Herem, quietly. "Don't you know?" "Know what?" "True enough, M. Ramon decided to come to Paris very suddenly." "Is my uncle in Paris?" "Ah! Florestan, what strange things happen in this world--" "What do you mean?" "And to think that I should be the one to announce it, after the conversation we have just had together!--It is, indeed, most strange!" "But what in the deuce have you to announce? And what is there so strange about it?" "I have told you that my father had arranged a marriage between your cousin and myself." "Yes, what then?" "Being in ignorance of my refusal, and wishing to hasten a marriage he desired as ardently as my father, your uncle and his daughter left Dreux yesterday and arrived this morning--" "In Paris. Well, what of it? Why this hesitation and embarrassment on your part, my dear Louis?" "They did not come directly to Paris, but stopped at Versailles--at Versailles--where my poor father went--" At this thought, which revived all his grief for his father's terrible death, Louis again broke into sobs. "My dear friend, I understand your bitter grief," said Florestan, moved by his friend's emotion, "but try to be more courageous." "If I hesitate in speaking more clearly," resumed the young man, when he had wiped away his tears, "it is because, in this hour of sorrow and mourning, I feel to be painfully affected in seeing the satisfaction--very excusable perhaps--which the announcement I have to make will no doubt cause you." "In heaven's name, Louis, explain yourself!" entreated Saint-Herem, in alarm. "As I have already told you, my father went to Versailles to meet your uncle and his daughter." "And then?" "They must have taken the train together, entered the same compartment--and--" "My God!--it would be too horrible!" cried Florestan, burying his face in his hands. The cry of horror and compassion was so spontaneous and sincere, that Louis was touched by this proof of kindness of heart on the part of his friend, whose first impulse had been a sentiment of generous commiseration, and not of cynical, covetous joy. CHAPTER XIV. A long interval of silence followed, which Louis was the first to break. "I cannot tell you how your grief touches me, Florestan," he said, with effusion, "it is so much in sympathy with what I feel at this sad moment." "What will you, my friend; as you are aware, I had but little affection for my uncle, and could jest concerning his inheritance when I believed him in perfect health. But it would require a heart of stone and an outrageous cupidity to feel no sorrow at the terrible fate which my uncle and his daughter may have met. As to what I have said of avarice, that passion whose consequences are so fruitful, I retract nothing; only I might have treated the subject more seriously had I known it to be a personal question. But I have, at least, proved that I am not of those who receive an inheritance with cynical joy. Now, my dear Louis, forgive me if I ask a question which may revive your grief. In the painful researches made by you to recover your father's remains, did anything lead you to hope that my uncle and his daughter might have escaped?" "All I can say, Florestan, is, that I did not see them among the injured or dying. As to the victims whose fate they and my father must have shared, their features are unrecognizable." "As they must have been with your father, they probably shared his fate. However, I shall write to Dreux and make active researches. If you hear of anything new, let me know--But, in the midst of all these sad incidents, I am forgetting Mariette--" "It was only a cruel misunderstanding, as you suspected. I found her more affectionate and devoted than ever." "Her love will be a precious consolation in your sorrow--Now, good-bye, my poor Louis. Remember that you may always trust in my affection and friendship for you." "Ah! Florestan, were it not for your friendship and Mariette's love, I know not how I could bear this crushing blow. Good-bye, my friend, and let me know all you can discover concerning your uncle." Once alone, Louis pondered long over what he should do. Finally, coming to a determination, he placed the gold he had discovered into a traveling bag, thrust the will into his pocket, and at once proceeded to the office of his employer, the notary and friend mentioned by his father. The notary was much affected by the details of the probable death of his client and, having expressed his sympathy to Louis, promised to fulfill all the legal formalities necessary to establish the death of the old miser. "There remains one question I wish to ask," said Louis, when all the arrangements had been agreed upon. "When all these sad formalities have been gone through, can I dispose of my father's possessions?" "Most assuredly, my dear Louis," replied the notary. "These, then, are my intentions. I have brought you a sum of money amounting to over two hundred thousand francs, which I found hidden in a drawer; with this gold I wish to assure a pension of twelve hundred francs to the godmother of my fiance." "But is the young girl in a position that--" interrupted the notary. "The young girl in question earns her own bread," broke in Louis in his turn. "But I love her, and no power on earth can prevent me from marrying her," he concluded, in a firm, resolute tone. "Very well," assented the notary, realizing the uselessness of his observations; "the pension shall be paid to the person indicated by you." "Besides, I will take about fifteen thousand francs to fit up a suitable home," added Louis. "Only fifteen thousand francs!" exclaimed the notary, astonished at the modest request. "Will it be sufficient?" "My fiance and myself have been accustomed to a life of labor and poverty, and our ambitions have never gone beyond an existence of modest comfort. An income of a thousand crowns per annum, joined to our own earnings, will therefore amply suffice for our wants." "Joined to your earnings! What do you mean to do?" "Remain in your office, if I have not derogated in your estimation." "What! Work, with an income of over a hundred thousand livres?" "I cannot yet believe that this large fortune is mine, my dear friend; and even though my poor father's death may be established according to legal formalities, I shall always retain a hope that I may again see him." "My poor Louis, your hope is an illusion." "It is an illusion I shall retain as long as possible, monsieur; and while it lasts I shall never feel free to dispose of my father's money, save within the limits I have mentioned." "No son could act with more perfect, and honorable reserve, my dear Louis. But what will you do with the rest of the inheritance?" "So long as there remains the slightest hope of finding my father among the living, you will remain the trustee of his possessions." "I can only express my admiration for you, my dear Louis. You could not better honor the memory of your father than in acting thus. Everything shall be as you desire; I accept your trust, and will manage the estate as in the past; and I shall this very day make out the contract for the life pension you have mentioned." "Speaking of that subject, my dear friend, I must enter into details that will seem trifling to you, but which, nevertheless, have their painful side." "Well?" "The poor woman to whom this pension is to be given has been so cruelly tried during her long existence, that her character, though naturally generous, has become embittered and distrustful; a promise of happiness would be vain in her eyes, unless accompanied by palpable, material proof--therefore, to convince this unfortunate creature of the reality of the pension promised, I shall take with me the sum of fifteen thousand francs in gold, which represents the capital of her life income. It is the only means of convincing her of my good intentions toward her." "Nothing is more simple, my dear Louis," acquiesced the notary. "Take what you desire, and rest assured that the papers will be drawn this very day." After a cordial pressure of the hand, Louis left the old notary and turned in the direction of Mariette's home. CHAPTER XV. Louis found Mariette working patiently beside her godmother, who was apparently sound asleep in her bed and oblivious of her unfortunate lot for a few moments, at least. The young man's extreme pallor, the alteration of his features and their painful expression, struck Mariette at once and filled her with grave apprehensions. "My God! something has happened, Louis!" she cried, coming quickly toward him. "Yes, something terrible has happened, Mariette," he said sadly. "Have you heard of the terrible accident on the Versailles road?" "Yes, what a frightful thing! They say there was a large number of victims," she rejoined, with a shudder. "My father was of the number," he added, simply. The words had scarcely passed his lips, when he felt two soft arms encircle his neck and hot tears inundating his cheeks, while the young girl sobbed as though her heart would break. The two young people remained thus clasped in each other's arms for several moments without uttering a word. Louis was the first to break the painful silence. "My darling," he said, "you know what deep affection existed between my father and myself--you can understand my despair." "Your loss is terrible, Louis." "Your love is my only consolation, Mariette; and I shall ask a new proof--" "You have but to command--my heart is yours." "We must marry within the shortest possible delay." "Ah! Louis! can you doubt my answer for a moment? Is this the new proof of love that you ask?" she said, half reproachfully. Then, after a moment of reflection, she added sadly: "Yet we cannot marry before the end of your mourning." "My dear Mariette, pray do not let such a scruple stand between us." "I shall do as you wish." "Listen, Mariette," said the young man, earnestly: "true mourning is that of the soul, and with me it will endure long beyond the time limited by society and the world in general. My heart is crushed with sorrow, and I can honor the memory of my father without conforming to customs of propriety. And believe me, my darling, a marriage contracted under the painful impressions caused by my sad loss, will appear more solemn and sacred than if contracted under other circumstances." "You may be right, Louis; yet it is customary to wait," ventured the young girl. "My dear Mariette, shall my father be less deeply regretted because you are my wife, and weep over his death with me, because you are wearing mourning for him and are attached to his memory by a tender link? Besides, my darling, in my grief and isolation, I cannot live without you--I would die." "I am only a poor working girl, ignorant of the ways of the world, and can only express what I feel, Louis," rejoined Mariette, unable to resist his pleadings. "The reasons you plead for an early marriage seem good to me. I may be wrong, or I may, perhaps, be influenced by my longing to be yours; but I know that I can accede to an immediate marriage without regret or remorse. And yet, it seems to me my heart is as tender as others--" "Yes, and more ungrateful, too!" interrupted a harsh voice; and Mme. Lacombe sat bolt upright in her bed, glaring fiercely at the astounded young couple. "Ah! yes," she went on, sarcastically, "you thought the old woman sound asleep, and took advantage of it to talk of your wedding. But I heard every word of it." "There was not a word which you might not hear; madame," observed Louis, gravely. "Mariette and myself retract nothing we have said." "The deuce!--I believe it--you think of nothing but yourself. You can talk of nothing but that accursed marriage. As for me--I might as well be in my grave--" "Allow me to interrupt you, madame," broke in Louis, "and prove that I have not forgotten my promise." As he spoke, he took a small wooden box from the table, where he had laid it on entering, and deposited it on the bed with the key. "Open it," he said; "all it contains is yours." The old woman picked up the key suspiciously, opened the box and peered in. "Great heavens!" she cried in amazement, dazzled by the glittering contents. Then plunging her hand among the shining pieces, she tossed them about, jingling them together and allowing them to slip through her fingers in a golden shower, muttering covetously: "Ah! what gold! what gold!--all good and sound, too!--Heavens! what beautiful pieces! What a big sum they must make!" Turning the box over, she gathered the coins into a dazzling pile and added with a sigh: "That would bring comfort and ease to two poor women like Mariette and me for a lifetime!" "Those fifteen thousand francs are yours, madame," observed Louis. "Mine!" she cried, "mine!" then shaking her head incredulously, she resumed sharply; "That's it, laugh at a poor old woman--why can't you leave me in peace?--I don't see why this should belong to me!" "The money is to be used to provide a pension of twelve hundred francs for you," declared the young man, "that you may be independent after our marriage; for we shall be married as soon as possible." "Ah! yes; so you wish to bribe the old woman, and be rid of her once for all," growled the irritable Mme. Lacombe. "Do you imagine I would sell myself for money?" "Dear godmother," cried Mariette, throwing her arms about the woman's neck, "don't say we want to get rid of you! Louis had no thought of humiliating you with the money, he merely did what you requested." "I know it; but what will you, child," she said, softened in spite of herself. "It was the fear of starving in the streets, the fear of seeing you unhappily married that suggested the idea of a pension to me. I know that I have no right to expect such a thing, but one can never imagine what terror is inspired by the thought of being cast into the streets penniless, old and infirm as I am!--All I want is a poor mattress in a corner, a crust of bread, and the sight of Mariette's sweet face. I am so accustomed to see her come and go in this wretched room, that if she were not there I would think myself shut up in a dark tomb. And besides, she is the only person in the world who could be kind to me--all I ask is to remain with Mariette. That pile of gold dazzled me for a moment, but then it humiliated me too in my heart. One may be but a worm, and yet have some pride--and yet, when that man offered me gold for Mariette the other day, I was not humiliated--I was only furious. But now, here I am weeping; and Mariette knows I have not shed a tear for the last ten years. Bitterness may eat away the heart, but it does not melt it." "These tears will do you good, godmother," said Mariette gently. "Have confidence in the future, madame," added Louis, consolingly. "Mariette will never leave you. We shall not live in luxury, but in modest comfort; and Mariette shall continue to love you as a mother, while I shall love you as a dutiful son." "Are you really in earnest? do you really mean to keep me with you?" she asked, gazing earnestly into their faces, as though she would read their inmost thoughts. At this new proof of invincible distrust, the young people exchanged a look of compassion; then, taking the sick woman's hand in hers, Mariette said tenderly: "Yes, dear godmother, we shall keep you always with us, and nurse you as we would our own mother; you shall see how happy we shall make life to you--" "Yes, we shall make your life a dream of happiness," added Louis, affectionately. The voice, accent, expression and earnestness of the two young people would have convinced the most skeptic; but alas! an absolute, complete belief in sudden happiness could not penetrate this poor soul so long corroded by suffering. "I believe you, my children," she said, with a suppressed sigh, trying to hide her involuntary doubt. "Yes, I believe Monsieur Louis has the money; I believe that you both feel some affection for me, also--but you know, a new broom sweeps clean! People are willing enough at first, but things change with time. Besides, I may be in the way; newly married people love to be alone, and an old grumbler like me spoils the beauty of a cozy house. You will be afraid of my sharp words, grow weary of me, or--" "Ah! godmother, do you still doubt us?" cried Mariette, reproachfully. "You must forgive me, my children, but it is stronger than myself," rejoined the unhappy woman, bursting into sobs. "But then," she added, with a forced smile, "it may be better so; for if I were to suddenly believe in happiness, after more than fifty years of sorrow and misery, I would surely go mad. And upon my word, it would not surprise me," she concluded bitterly, "it would be just my luck." CHAPTER XVI. Five years had glided by since the eventful incidents related in the preceding chapters, and another anniversary of the Versailles disaster had been added to the list. It was about nine o'clock in the evening, and a tall, slender brunette, of elegant form and figure, whose beautiful face expressed intelligence and firmness both, was giving the finishing touches to a dazzling toilette. She was assisted in this serious and important occupation by two skillful maids, one of whom was clasping a necklace of large, sparkling diamonds around the white throat of her charming mistress, while the other adjusted a magnificent diadem of the same precious stones on the raven black hair. The choice of these diamonds had evidently been made after much deliberation, for a number of jewel cases, containing pearls, rubies, and other precious ornaments of enormous value, still lay open on a toilet table near by. One of the maids, being much older than her companion, and having been in the service of her mistress for many years, seemed to enjoy a certain degree of familiarity near the countess--who was a Russian as well as herself--which permitted her many observations not usually tolerated from her class. "Does madame like the diadem as it is now?" she asked in her own tongue. "Well enough," replied Countess Zomaloff, nonchalantly, casting a last glance at the large mirror before her. "Where is my bouquet?" "Here, madame." "Heavens! how frightfully yellow and faded it is!" cried the countess, shrinking back. "The duke has just sent it," ventured the maid. "I recognize his good taste," said the countess sarcastically, as she shrugged her pretty shoulders disdainfully. "I would wager the flowers were ordered yesterday morning by some lover who broke off with his mistress during the day, and consequently did not call for them in the evening. The Duke de Riancourt is the only man in the world capable of discovering such bargains!" "Ah! madame, can you believe he would economize to that point?" protested the maid. "He is so rich!" "That makes it only the more probable." A rap on the door of the boudoir adjoining the dressing-room, interrupted the conversation, and the French maid vanished, returning almost immediately with the information that the duke had arrived and was at madame's orders. "Let him wait," observed the countess carelessly. "Is the princess in the drawing-room?" "Yes, madame." "Very well--here Katinka, clasp this bracelet," resumed the countess, addressing the Russian maid in her own language once more, "and see what time it is." Katinka turned to the clock and was opening her lips to reply, when her mistress forestalled her by saying, with a mocking smile: "After all, why should I make such an inquiry. The duke has just arrived, half-past nine must--" The half-hour stroke from the clock on the chimney interrupted her, and she broke into a merry, rippling laugh. "What did I tell you, Katinka," she laughed, "the duke is a veritable clock in exactitude." "It proves his love and devotion, madame," rejoined the maid. "I would prefer a less well-regulated love, Katinka," retorted the countess. "These persons who worship at fixed hours seem to have a watch where the heart ought to be. There now, I am almost sorry to be so completely dressed and ready, and to have no excuse to make that poor duke wait longer to reward him for his pitiless exactitude." "But, madame," remonstrated the maid, "if you dislike him so, why do you marry him?" "Why?" echoed the countess, absent-mindedly, giving another glance at the mirror; "why do I marry M. de Riancourt? Really, Katinka, you are more inquisitive than I am; does one ever know why one marries?" "Everybody seems to think there exist excellent reasons for this marriage, nevertheless," pursued Katinka. "Although M. de Riancourt has no gold mines in Crimea, silver mines in the Ural Mountains, diamond--" "In mercy, Katinka, don't go over the list of my riches!" cried the countess, impatiently. "Well, madame, although the duke has not your immense possessions, he is one of the wealthiest and greatest noblemen in France; he is young and handsome, has never led a dissipated life, and--" "And he is worthy of wearing a wreath of orange blossoms on our wedding day--a right which I have not; but, in heaven's name, spare me his virtues. My aunt sounds his praises loud enough without assistance." "Yes, the princess is very fond of monsieur le duc, and she is not the only one who--" "Give me a cloak," interrupted her mistress, "the night is chilly." "Has madame given her orders for the twentieth of the month?" went on the persistent maid. "What orders?" "Has madame forgotten that her marriage takes place a week from to-day?" "What! a week from to-day?--so soon!" "Madame fixed the date for May 20, and this is May 12--" "If I said the twentieth, I suppose it must be on the twentieth--give me my fan." The maid brought a collection of magnificent fans and placed them before her mistress to allow her to make a choice. "How singular," murmured the countess, half to herself, as she picked out a veritable Watteau from the rich collection; "I am young and free, and abhor constraint, yet I have chosen a master." "A master!" exclaimed Katinka. "Why, the duke is so good and kind, madame! You will make whatever you wish of him." "I shall never make an agreeable man of him; and yet, I shall marry him. Ah! my good aunt, your advice may cause me to commit a great folly," she added, half laughing, half serious, as she gazed mechanically at the mischievous little god of love on her fan. "I made a blind choice among men equal in rank and riches, all so mediocre and uninteresting that it mattered not which I chose. This was the motive of my preference for M. de Riancourt, Katinka. Besides, although marriage has its inconveniences, widowhood has still greater ones. So, it is the better to marry, after all; it saves the trouble of wondering what we shall do." Having thus summarily settled this question, Countess Zomaloff proceeded to the drawing-room, where she found her aunt and the duke awaiting her. Princess Wileska was a tall, distingué woman, with powdered hair and imposing presence, who presented a striking contrast to the meagre personage engaged in conversation with her. The Duke de Riancourt was a small, nervous man of thirty years or thereabouts, with a sanctimonious, unctuous mien, shifting eyes and long, smooth hair, carefully parted near the middle of the forehead, and a rigidity of movement that showed great empire over himself. As the countess entered, he advanced toward her slowly, bowed low and raised her pretty hand to his lips with respectful courtesy; then, straightening himself up, he gazed at her for a moment as if dazzled, and cried, admiringly: "Ah! countess, I have never seen these diamonds! I don't believe you could find their equal anywhere. Heavens! how beautiful, how magnificent they are!" "Really, my dear duke," rejoined the countess, with well feigned embarrassment, "I am much confused--that is, for the jeweler who sold them to me--one could never be more gallant than you; and since these diamonds cause you so much tender emotion, inspire such gracious compliments, such ingenious flattery, I can do no less than confide to you the charming name of the bewitching lapidary--his name is _Ezechiel Rabotautencraff_, and he resides in Frankfort." While the amazed duke was searching a reply to this sarcastic sally, the princess gave a reproachful glance to her niece; then, turning to the discomfited nobleman with a forced smile, said playfully: "How much Foedora does like to tease you, my dear duke. This is her way of showing her affection to those she loves." "I will humbly confess, my dear princess," said the duke, anxious to repair his awkward blunder, "that I was so dazzled by those magnificent stones that, for a moment, I forgot to render homage to the charms of the wearer. But--but--may not one be dazzled by the sun while gazing at a charming flower?" "I find your comparison of the sunstroke and the flower so gallant and to the point," retorted the malicious young woman, "that I am tempted to believe it was this very same sunstroke that so outrageously withered these poor flowers," and a gay ripple of laughter broke from her lips, as she pointed to the faded blossoms sent by the duke that evening. The unfortunate man flushed to the roots of his hair, while the princess frowned at her irrepressible niece. "Pray offer your arm to my aunt, my dear duke," resumed the countess, totally indifferent to the divers emotions she had caused. "I promised the embassadress de Sardaigne I would come early, as she is to present me to a relative, and, as you know, we must first visit that enchanted palace you spoke of, in all its details. This is an odd time for such a visit, it is true; but I admit I have a weakness or, rather, a passion, for anything odd. Originality is such a rare, charming thing!" Preceding her aunt and the duke, the bewitching countess ran lightly down the wide stairs of the elegantly furnished house she had rented in the Rue de Rivoli, while in search of the mansion she wished to purchase in Paris. On that evening the duke was to take his friends out in his own carriage; a very permissible liberty, since the bans of his marriage with the countess had already been published. After a few moments of waiting at the door of the mansion, the aunt and niece saw an enormous yellow landau advancing toward them, drawn by two emaciated horses mercilessly lashed by a coachman in red and blue livery. "Why--this is not your carriage?" gasped the countess, gazing at the duke in amazement as the footman opened the _portière_ of the vehicle. "Certainly, madame," he replied. "And what has become of that pretty blue victoria, with the dapple grays, you placed at our disposal yesterday morning?" "Under the present condition of affairs, my dear countess, I may as well make a clean breast of it," rejoined the duke, with touching _abandon_. "That I may not fatigue my valuable horses--for they did cost me enormously--I hire a carriage for the evening. This is a great point of economy, for it is always a risk to take out a valuable turnout at night." "You are perfectly right, my dear duke," the princess hastened to say, fearing a new sarcasm from her niece; and, without further ado, she entered the heavy, lumbering thing, leaning on the arm of her escort. The duke then offered his hand to the countess to assist her in her turn; but she stopped with one dainty foot resting on the last step, and peered curiously within. "My dear aunt," she said sweetly, "will you be kind enough to examine the carriage well?" "Why, my dear," asked the princess naïvely. "Because I am afraid some freckled, red-headed miss, or some fat city merchant may have been forgotten in some obscure corner of this thing. These worthy people usually drive out in family parties in just such equipages, and I have a horrible fear of finding some of them under the seats." "Really, Foedora, I fail to understand you," returned the princess, angrily, while her niece sank in the seat beside her with a laugh. "You are absurdly severe toward M. de Riancourt--what can you be thinking of?" "I want to cure him of his meanness and impudence," retorted the countess, coolly. "Could I better prove my interest in him?" At that moment the duke entered the carriage and took his seat opposite the princess and her niece. Though he seemingly endured with the most Christianly patience all the railleries of the young woman who possessed all kinds of precious mines, the furtive glance he cast on her now and then, and the contraction of his thin lips, betrayed the rancour that filled his heart and foreboded no good for the future. "To the Ramon mansion," he ordered the footman, who stood at the door. "Beg pardon, monsieur, but I don't know where it is," replied the man, respectfully. "At the end of the _Cours-la-Reine_, in the direction of the quartier _Jean-Gonjan_," explained the duke. "Monsieur means that large mansion which has been in course of construction for so many years?" "That very place," assented the duke. The footman closed the carriage door, gave his instructions to the coachman, who lashed his jaded horses, and the lumbering landau started in the direction of _Cours-la-Reine_, where the marvelous Saint-Ramon mansion was situated. CHAPTER XVII. The heavy vehicle rolled on so slowly, that a pedestrian walking in the same direction, easily kept up with it through the whole length of the _Cours-la-Reine_, although he seemed anything but nimble footed. He was poorly dressed and leaned painfully on his stick; his long beard was white, as well as his hair and bushy eyebrows, and the dark color of his wrinkled face gave him the appearance of a mulatto. As the landau approached the Saint-Ramon mansion, however, the coachman was forced to take his place in the long procession of carriages going in the same direction, thus permitting the pedestrian to gain a certain distance ahead. The old mulatto continued his way slowly to the entrance of abroad avenue, encumbered with a long line of carriages and almost dazzling with bright colored lights, and paused in amazement at the gate. "Why are these grounds so brilliantly illuminated?" he asked a curious looker-on. "In honor of the opening of the wonderful _Saint-Ramon_ mansion," replied the man addressed. "_Saint Ramon_!" repeated the old man, softly, as if speaking to himself. "How strange!" He seemed buried in reflections for a few minutes, then turning once more to the man he had already addressed, he asked with evident curiosity: "Can you tell me anything about this mansion, monsieur?" "People say it is the eighth wonder of the world; and upon my word, it must be wonderful; the work has been going on for five years," responded the man. "To whom does it belong?" "To a young millionaire, who has spent his money lavishly and very foolishly, I believe." "Do you know his name?" "I believe the name is Saint Harem or Saint-Herem--" "There is no more doubt," murmured the old man. "But why should he name it _Saint-Ramon_?" Again he seemed buried in sad reflections, until aroused from his reverie by his companion's voice. "How singular, after all," the man was saying. "A rich marquis should know only people with equipages; and yet, outside of two or three good carriages, the whole procession consists of _fiacres and cabriolets_." "Singular, indeed," repeated the old man. "But can you tell me the time?" "Half-past-ten," the man informed him. "I am to be at Chaillot at midnight only," said the old man to himself. "It leaves me ample time to investigate this mystery. What a strange coincidence." After some hesitation, the old man entered the gate, glided into the obscurity of a by-path shaded by secular elm-trees, and walked on toward the mansion. Notwithstanding his evident preoccupation, he could not help remarking the immense quantity of flowers that banked the main avenue, their thousand variegated colors illuminated by a profusion of many-hued lanterns and glittering glass candelabra of all shapes and shades. This fairy-land avenue ended in a vast hemicycle as brightly illuminated, beyond which arose the _Saint Ramon_ mansion, a veritable palace which, by the beauty and grandeur of its architecture, recalled the most brilliant days of the Renaissance. Crossing the hemicycle, the old man reached an immense porch leading to the peristyle. Through the glass doors that enclosed this antechamber in all its length, he could see an army of powdered footmen in magnificent livery, while around him a continual stream of carriages unloaded a multitude of men, women and young girls, whose extreme simplicity of toilet seemed in little harmony with the splendors of this enchanted palace. Urged on by an invincible curiosity, the old mulatto followed the ever increasing throng into the peristyle; then passing through a double row of footmen, in resplendent blue and silver liveries, and standing as impassible as soldiers, he finally reached the reception room, where another army of servants in blue coats, black silk breeches and white silk stockings, stood in array. Although the modest appearance of the guests seemed little befitting the princely luxury of the house in which they were received, the stranger noticed, with some surprise, that the most respectful deference was shown to all. He paused but a moment here, however, passing almost immediately into the music gallery, beyond which was an immense circular salon, surmounted by a dome and forming the center of three other galleries which served as ball room, banquet hall, and billiard room. These four galleries--including the music hall--were connected by wide passages paved in rich mosaics and adorned with a profusion of exotic plants, while they were covered with glass domes, giving the whole the appearance of a hot-house. We shall not attempt to describe the splendor, elegance, noble grandeur and sumptuousness of the furnishings of these vast rooms, dazzling with gildings and paintings, sparkling with lights, crystals and flowers, reflected indefinitely by enormous mirrors, but will merely mention the rare magnificence that gave this palace its royal, monumental character. The salon and galleries were adorned with allegorical paintings and sculptures that would have made the renown of the most beautiful castle in existence. The most illustrious artists of the day had contributed to this superb work. Ingrès, Delacroix, Scheffer, Paul Delaroche, and other future celebrities, such as Couture, Gerome, etc., had been employed by the opulent and intelligent creator of this palace. On the banquet table was displayed a marvel of silverware worthy of the epoch of Benvenuto; candelabra, ewers, ice basins, fruit bowls, flower vases, all would have done honor to a musée by the rich purity of form and the precious finish and delicacy that characterized each piece. One odd peculiarity of the vast circular salon must not be omitted, however. Above a gigantic white marble chimney, a veritable monument to the bold genius of David--our Michaël Angelo--were a number of allegorical figures in relief, representing arts and industries, and supporting a large oval frame incrusted in the entablature of the chimney. This frame enclosed a painting which might have been attributed to Velasquez. It was the portrait of a pale man, with a harsh, austere countenance, hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and high, polished forehead; a brown gown, half in the style of a dressing gown and half way resembling the gown of a monk, gave the figure the imposing character of those saints and martyrs so numerous in the Spanish school of painting; an appearance emphasized, moreover, by a gold aureole which seemed to cast its dazzling reflections on the austere, pensive face. Below, traced in large, Gothic letters in a space formed by the foliage of the border, were these two words: SAINT RAMON. Still following the throng, the old mulatto finally found himself before this chimney. At sight of the portrait, he stood for a moment in amazement; then, overcome by emotion, tears filled his eyes and he murmured softly; "Poor friend! it is indeed he! But why the word _saint_ prefixed to his name? Why that aureole around his brow? Why this mystic appearance? And besides, what a strange celebration! Though poorly dressed, and a stranger, I entered without meeting resistance, or even an inquiry." At this moment a servant bearing fruits and ices approached and offered him refreshments, which he refused; he was striving, but in vain, to guess what might be the condition of the people around him. All the men were modestly attired; some in black frock-coats, others in new blouses, while a few wore the customary evening dress; all maintained a discreet reserve, though they expressed their delight to one another in low voices; and yet, strange to say, far from appearing amazed at the riches accumulated in this palace, they seemed perfectly at ease and not at all awed by the magnificence of their surroundings. The women and young girls, however, seemed more embarrassed and intimidated; they naively admired the splendor of the place and exchanged comments and observations in whispers. Anxious to penetrate this singular mystery, the old mulatto again approached the chimney and joined a group of guests who were contemplating the portrait of _Saint-Ramon_. "Do you see that portrait, Juliette?" a tall, robust man, with a good natured countenance, was asking his wife. "That good man is well entitled to his name. There are many saints in Paradise who are mere idlers beside him, if we are to judge by the good he has done." "How is that, Michel?" queried the wife, inquisitively. "We owe these five years of well-paid work to this worthy man, my dear," explained the husband. "Thanks to this M. Saint-Ramon, I have earned sufficiently in the last few years to make us all happy and contented, and save a great deal besides." "But, my dear Michel," remonstrated the wife, "this is not the man who ordered and paid for the work. M. Saint-Herem did all that, and it was he who welcomed us so kindly when we came this evening." "That may be, Juliette. But whenever M. Saint Herem came into the place to watch us at work, he never failed to say: 'My children, were it not for the riches I have inherited, I could not give you this work and pay you as you deserve. You must therefore reserve all your gratitude for the memory of the man who left me so much money; it was he who accomplished the hardest task, hoarding his wealth cent by cent, depriving himself of every comfort, while I have nothing to do but spend this treasure liberally. To spend is my duty! Of what use are riches, if not to do good! Remember the good old miser then, and bless his avarice; it gives me the pleasure of giving you work in the building of a magnificent monument, and to you it gives ample salaries, honestly earned!" "All the same, Michel, we must not forget M. Saint-Herem and give him a share of our gratitude." "You are right, Juliette. He is a noble young man, and he and his uncle make a famous pair." The old mulatto had listened to this conversation with as much interest as astonishment, and as he wandered from group to group, he heard nothing but a chorus of praises and blessings in favor of Saint-Ramon, the worthy miser, and of his nephew, whose nobility of heart and liberality none could laud too highly. "Is it a dream?" mused the old man. "Who can believe that these praises are addressed to the memory of a miser--a memory usually cursed and execrated by the living! And can it be the heir of this miser, the dispenser of his wealth, who rehabilitates him thus? And why are these workmen invited to this inauguration? It must be a dream!" But the old mulatto's amazement was still more augmented by another singular contrast at this moment. He had suddenly met a group of men in evening dress, with many decorations in their buttonholes, accompanied by women in elegant toilettes. A short distance further on was Florestan Saint-Herem, more brilliant and gay than ever in this atmosphere of luxury and splendor. He was standing at the extremity of the gallery adjoining the reception-room, welcoming his guests with the utmost grace and courtesy, greeting every one with a cordial smile and addressing a few words of gracious affability to each woman or young girl, charming and placing the most timid at their ease by his unaffected sincerity. It was while accomplishing the duties of this most admirable hospitality, that he caught his first glimpse of the beautiful Countess Zomaloff, as she entered the first saloon, accompanied by Princess Wileska and the Duke de Riancourt. CHAPTER XVIII. Although he had long known the Duke de Riancourt, Florestan had never met the princess and her niece: but seeing him enter with the two ladies, he hastened toward him with a welcoming smile. "My dear Saint-Herem," said the duke, "allow me to present Princess Wileska and the Countess Zomaloff. These ladies hope you will think it no indiscretion on their part if they visit your mansion and its wonders with me, according to the invitation you extended yesterday." "My dear duke, I am only too flattered by the honor of this visit," replied the young man, "and I shall be very happy to show you what you are pleased to call the _wonders of this house_." "M. de Riancourt was right to speak of wonders," rejoined Madame Zomaloff, "for I admit that we are so dazzled by a first glance, that we can not conscientiously admire any one thing." "My dear Saint-Herem," resumed the duke, "I may as well make a clean breast of it and admit that the countess' visit is not entirely disinterested. I have told her of your intentions concerning this place, and as I am to have the pleasure and honor of bestowing my name on the countess in a week, you understand that I cannot decide without her approval--since, after all, I stand somewhat in the light of--of a husband." "Really, madame," observed Florestan gaily to the countess, "since the duke anticipates thus on his happiness, do you not think it only right that he should bear the whole consequences of his revelation? Therefore, as a husband never gives his arm to his wife, you may perhaps do me the pleasure of accepting mine!" By this sally Saint-Herem spared himself the obligation of offering his arm to Princess Wileska, who, in his eyes, appeared a much less agreeable companion than her beautiful niece. He therefore led the way with the countess, while M. de Riancourt followed with the princess. "I have traveled much," remarked the countess to her companion, "and I have never seen anything that could equal--not in magnificence, for any millionaire can purchase magnificence with his money--but the marvelous taste which has presided over the construction of this place. It is a veritable musée of splendors--allow me to pause and admire the superb paintings of this ceiling." "After the admiration of the work comes the reward to the author; does it not, madame?" returned Florestan with a smile. "One word from your lips, countess, will make the artist, who painted this ceiling, the happiest and proudest man in the universe," he concluded, with a wave of the hand toward one of the most illustrious masters of the modern school. "A thousand thanks for procuring me such good fortune," replied the countess, advancing toward the artist. "My dear friend," said Florestan, "the Countess Zomaloff wishes to express to you all her admiration for your work." "Not my admiration only, but my gratitude also," rejoined the young woman graciously. "The exquisite pleasure given by such a master-piece, is a debt contracted toward its creator." "However precious and flattering such praises may be to me," returned the artist, with a modesty marked by good taste, "I can only accept a share of it. Pray allow me to place myself _hors de cause_, I can then express myself more freely. For instance, let us take the painting of the concert gallery, which you will admire by and by; they are due to our Raphaël--M. Ingrès. Well, this monumental work, which in the future will furnish art pilgrims as much cause of admiration as the most beautiful frescoes of Rome, Pisa, or Florence, would perhaps never have existed were it not for my excellent friend Saint-Herem. Was it not he who gave our French Raphael the subject of one of his immortal pages? Truly, madame, in these days of vulgar luxuries and brutal magnificences, is it not a phenomenon to meet a _Medicis_, as in the brightest epoch of Italian republics?" "You are right," said the countess, enthusiastically, "and history is just in illustrating--" "Forgive the interruption, countess," laughed Florestan, "but I am as modest as my illustrious friend; and for fear your admiration should be thrown away on an unworthy object, I shall point out the veritable _Medici_--This is he." As he spoke, he designated the portrait above the chimney. "What a pensive, austere face!" exclaimed the countess, gazing at the painting with a feeling of mingled surprise and curiosity. Then, as her eyes fell on the inscription below, she added with increased astonishment: "Saint-Ramon?--Who is he?" "A saint of my own, madame," laughed Florestan. "He was my uncle; and although I am not yet a pope, I have taken the liberty to canonize this admirable man in recognition of his long martyrdom during life and the miracles he accomplished after his death." "His long martyrdom and his miracles!" echoed the countess. "You must be jesting, monsieur?" "Not at all, madame. My uncle Ramon endured the most atrocious privations during his long life, for he was pitilessly and sublimely avaricious--this was his martyrdom. At his death, I inherited his enormous wealth and conceived this prodigious work of art--these are his miracles. I have sanctified his memory by gratitude--this is his canonization. As you see, it is a veritable legend taken from the _Lives of the Saints_." Struck by the originality of the young man, Madame Zomaloff remained silent for a moment, absorbed in deep meditation; while the duke, who until then had loitered some distance behind, approached them. "My dear Florestan," he said, "I have been very eager to address you a really odd question since my arrival. Who are all these people? I recognize a few eminent artists, here and there, and a renowned architect, but none of the rest. The princess and myself have vainly searched the key to the enigma. They are all quiet and reserved, and the young girls appear very modest, while a few are really pretty; but I am anxious to learn to what class of society they belong!" "Since M. de Riancourt has the courage to ask you so indiscreet a question," broke in the countess, "I shall admit that I share his curiosity." "You have no doubt remarked," said Florestan, with a smile, "that the persons assembled here this evening do not belong to what we call the aristocracy--" "True, indeed." "Yet, madame, a few moments ago you were happy to meet the great artist who designed the dome you so much admired, were you not?" "Indeed, the meeting caused me great pleasure, I assure you." "I believe you also approve me for inviting him, as well as many of his colleagues, to the inauguration of their united work?" "The invitation certainly seemed almost a duty on your part, monsieur." "Well, madame, this duty, inspired by gratitude, I have fulfilled toward all who have contributed to the construction of this house, from the greatest artist to the most humble workman. All are here with their families, to enjoy the splendors they have created. Is it not just that the skillful and obscure man who chiseled the golden cup should moisten his lips in it, once, at least, in his life?" "What!" cried the duke in stupefaction, "these are carpenters, gilders, blacksmiths, paper-hangers, ebonists, masons!--even masons! Why, it is absurd, impossible, incredible!" "My dear duke, do you know the habits of the bees?" queried Florestan. "Very little," replied the duke stiffly. "Their habits are most savage and impertinent, my dear duke. Those insolent creatures--under the fabulous pretext that they have constructed their hives--have the impudence to inhabit them. And, what is more shocking still, they claim their right to the sweet honey on which they have so steadily and intelligently labored through the season--" "Well, and what do you conclude from that?" "I conclude from it that, through gratitude at least, we should allow the poor, laboring human bees the innocent pleasure of inhabiting for a single day the gilded hive they have built for idle drones like us, who enjoy the honey gathered by others." The countess, who had drawn a little apart, now again placed her hand on Florestan's arm and gently led him a little away from her aunt and M. de Riancourt. "Monsieur de Saint-Herem," she said with emotion, as they walked slowly on, "your idea is not only charming, but of a touching delicacy. I am no longer astonished at the air of contentment which pervades around us, and which I have remarked on the features of your guests. The more I think of it, the more generous and just it seems to me. After all, as you say, this is the work of these laborers, and you have honored and dignified labor by this fête. From your point of view, this mansion must be far more than an object of art and luxury to you, for many precious souvenirs are attached to its creation." "You are right, madame." "Then--" "Go on, madame," "I cannot understand why--" "Why do you hesitate? Pray, explain your thought!" There was a moment of silence, then she resumed, with some embarrassment: "Two days ago, in speaking of the difficulty of purchasing a mansion as large and sumptuous as I desired, M. de Riancourt recalled the fact that you wished to sell this property." "Yes; the duke wrote to me, requesting permission to visit the house. I begged him to wait till this evening, as he could then see the reception-rooms to more advantage--but I did not then anticipate the honor of receiving you." "Monsieur de Saint-Herem," she said, still hesitatingly, "you have been very indulgent to me--will you allow me one more question?" "Indulgence in this instance has been so sweet and agreeable to me, that I shall thank you for the opportunity of exercising it once more. What is it?" "How can you have the courage, or, rather--I shall use a very harsh word, I fear--how can you have the ingratitude to leave this house, which you have created with so much love, and to which are attached so many kind, generous souvenirs?" "Upon my word, madame!" he replied carelessly, as if he were saying the most natural thing in the world, "I must sell this mansion because I am ruined, completely ruined. This is my last day of good fortune and wealth, and you must admit, madame, that, thanks to your presence here, this day could not have a more brilliant or happier evening!" CHAPTER XIX. Florestan de Saint-Herem had uttered the words "I am ruined" with so much simplicity and carelessness that the countess gazed at him dumbfounded for a moment, unable to believe what she had heard. "What!" she finally gasped, "you are--" "Ruined! completely ruined!" he repeated. "My uncle left me five millions five years ago; I have spent it all, plus eighteen hundred thousand francs. The sale of this mansion, however, with its furniture, paintings, silver, etc., will pay my debts and leave me in possession of about a hundred thousand francs. With that I shall retire to some smiling country place and turn shepherd; a charming contrast, especially when I recall my past existence. What marvelous, impossible dreams--changed into realties for myself, my friends, my mistresses--my gilded whirlwind carried in my train! What renown is mine! how all that was beautiful, elegant, sumptuous, _recherché_, was swallowed up in my dazzling orbit! Would you believe, madame, that my reputation for liberality had spread over Europe? Nay, more; a Chandernagor lapidary sent me an Indian saber with its handle studded with gems, enclosing a pretty, laconic note in these words: 'This cimeter belonged to Tippo-Saëb; it should belong to M. Saint-Herem. The weapon is worth twenty-five thousand francs, payable at the Rothschild house, in Paris. Received twenty-five thousand francs.' Yes; the rarest and most precious objects of art were naively addressed to me from all parts of the world; the finest horses walked into my stables, the most exquisite wines filled my cellars; the most illustrious chefs fought for the privilege of serving me, and the celebrated Dr. Gasterini--do you know him, madame?" "Who has not heard of the most famous gourmand the world has ever known?" "Well, madame, that great man proclaimed that he had eaten as good a dinner in my house as in his own--a compliment he could not pay, even to the table of M. de Talleyrand. Ah! madame, what a grand, complete, beautiful life! And women! Ah! women!" "Monsieur!--" "Fear not, madame, I shall speak of women only as objects of art. And really, can there exist a more charming pretext for magnificence? Luxury is but the accessory; a woman is so pretty, adorned and surrounded by all the products of art. Believe me, madame, I have the certainty of having ruined myself generously, nobly and intelligently. I have neither a foolish expense nor a wicked action to reproach myself! It is with a mind full of delicious souvenirs, a heart full of serenity, that I see my fortune take wings!" His tone was so sincere, the truth of his words and sentiments were so strongly expressed on his loyal, handsome face, that the countess could not but be convinced of the reality of all he said. "I must admit, monsieur," she observed softly, "that such philosophy confounds me! Now that the hour of renouncing such a life is at hand, not a word of bitterness escapes your lips!" "Words of bitterness! after so much joy and happiness? Ah, madame, that would be blasphemy!" "You leave this enchanted palace without regret, without even a sigh, and at the very moment when you would have enjoyed it?" "What will you, madame? I did not believe myself so near the end until a week ago, when my rascally steward showed me my accounts, and I resign myself to the inevitable with a good grace. Besides, in leaving this palace, created with so much love, I am like the poet who has written the last stanza to his poem, the artist who has given the last touch to his canvas; there still remains the imperishable glory of having achieved a masterpiece. This palace is a monument of art and magnificence; it shall always be the temple of luxury, fêtes, pleasures. Ah! how ungrateful I should be to complain of my fate! It is you, madame, who shall be the divinity of this temple; for you shall purchase it, will you not? You would grace it so well! Do not lose the opportunity; for, as the duke has informed you, Lord Wilmot has made me very pressing offers. I should be sorry to sell it to him; he is so ugly, and so is his wife, and so are his five daughters! What divinities for this temple, which seems built expressly for you! I beg you, madame, take it for the love of that art you appreciate so well. Only, be merciful to my worthy uncle! It is a magnificent painting and, although the portrait and the name of _Saint Ramon_ are often repeated in sculptured medallions on diverse parts of the facade, I would be happy to think that this brave uncle--from the height of his marble monument--would assist for centuries to the pleasures of which he deprived himself during life!" "My dear Florestan," interrupted the duke, touching his elbow, "it is all very beautiful and wonderful. But eighteen hundred thousand francs--including furniture and silver, of course--is an exorbitant price." "I am completely disinterested in the matter, my dear duke," replied the young man, with a smile, "those eighteen hundred thousand francs belong to my creditors, and I shall therefore be horribly tenacious on the conditions. Moreover, as I have already told you, Lord Wilmot offers me that sum and urges me to accept it." "That may be, but I am sure you would grant me a favor you would refuse Lord Wilmot. Come, Saint-Herem, don't be inflexible--give me a discount, and--" "Monsieur de Saint-Herem," broke in the countess, "I shall take the house on the conditions you proposed." "Heaven be praised!" exclaimed Florestan, extending his hand toward her. "My good star never deserts me, madame; the affair is settled." "But, madame--" interposed the duke, surprised and annoyed at the liberality of his future wife, and still hoping to obtain a reduction on the price, "this is a matter involving considerable money! And at the point we have reached, it is impossible that you should act without my authority. When we are married--" "Monsieur de Saint-Herem, you have my word," interrupted the countess, with a scornful glance at the duke. "This purchase is a personal matter; my steward will negotiate with yours to-morrow, at any time you may wish." "Agreed, madam," assented Florestan; then turning to M. de Riancourt, he added gaily, "I hope you will bear me no ill-will, my dear duke; you should show yourself to be a real grand seigneur, and not bargain like a banker." The orchestra; which had been silent for a quarter of an hour, now struck up a new cotillion. "Pardon me, countess," resumed the young man, "but I must leave you. I am to dance this cotillion with the charming daughter of one of the best workmen who assisted in the building of this mansion--or rather of _your mansion_, madame. And I cannot tell you how happy I am to carry away that thought in leaving you." He bowed respectfully, and vanished in the throng. "My dear Foedora," said the princess, who had remarked the long tête-à-tête of her niece and Saint-Herem with much impatient anxiety, "it is growing late, and we promised Madame de Sardaigne to come early." "Allow me to observe, madame," put in the duke, addressing his _fiancée_ in his turn, "that you were too hasty in this matter. Saint-Herem is forced to sell this house to pay his debts, and with a little perseverance we could have obtained a reduction of fifty thousand crowns at least, especially if you had requested it yourself--some things are very difficult to refuse a pretty woman!" he concluded with his most amiable smile. "My dear Foedora, what are you thinking about?" resumed the princess to her niece, who was leaning on a gilded mantel covered with flowers, absorbed in deep reflection and deaf to all remonstrances. "Foedora," repeated her aunt, tugging gently at her sleeve, "what are you dreaming about?" "I am thinking of M. de Saint-Herem," said the conntess, regretfully awakening from her reverie. "All this is so strangely odd--" "I really believe that despair at his ruin must have impaired poor Florestan's mind," observed M. de Riancourt, sententiously. "One must be mad to inaugurate a mansion with such a ball; it savors of socialism!" "The duke is right; the thing is absurd and ridiculous," chimed in the princess. "What an amusing story we shall have to relate at the embassy!--but, my dear Foedora, why don't you answer?--what ails you?" "I don't know," replied the countess; "what I experience, is most singular." "You want air, my dear countess," rejoined the duke, with solicitude. "This agglomeration of the masses is stifling; and though the apartments are spacious--" "Foedora, are you ill?" broke in the princess. "No, indeed," declared the countess, "the emotion I experience is, on the contrary, full of sweetness and charm. To tell you the truth, my dear duke, I scarcely know how to express--" "In mercy, explain yourself countess," urged the duke, anxiously. "The strong perfume of these flowers probably affects you strangely." "No, that is not it. I hesitate to speak, because you will both think me so strange, so eccentric--" "Ah! countess, how could we think you otherwise than charming!" exclaimed the duke gallantly. "Foedora, explain yourself," said her aunt impatiently. "I am quite willing to do so, but I shall surprise you greatly I know," she said, with a confident air; then turning to the duke, she added archly: "It seems to me--" "It seems to you," repeated he, encouragingly. "That--" "Go on." "That I am dying to marry M. de Saint-Herem," she concluded, very low. "Madame!" cried the amazed duke, turning crimson. "Madame!" "What is it, my dear duke?" inquired the princess. "How flushed your face is!" "My dear countess," rejoined the duke, with a forced smile, "the jest is rather--" "Pray, give me your arm," interrupted Foedora carelessly, "we are already very late. But then, it is all your own fault; how is it that you, the personification of exactitude, did not proclaim the hour of eleven long ago?" "Ah! madame, I assure you I am not in a laughing humor. Your cruel jest wounded me to the heart." "I was not aware that you possessed such a vulnerable heart." "Your suspicion is unjust; I would die for you!" "Really?" The duke raised his eyes to heaven and heaved a long sigh. "If I were to ask anything of you," she retorted, "it would not be so heroic a sacrifice, I assure you." The carriage was now announced, and the party left the mansion. Almost at the same instant the old mulatto was also turning away from the place, dazzled and amazed at what he had heard and seen, and still dreaming of the blessings showered on the name of Saint-Ramon by the guests of this peculiar fête. "Half-past eleven," murmured the old man, as the hour struck from a distant steeple. "I shall be there at midnight--and what shall I learn? Ah! what anguish is mine!" And with a deep sigh he slowly began the ascent of the declivity, stretching along the Seine, to the Rue Chaillot. CHAPTER XX. The old mulatto wended his way slowly toward the heights of Chaillot, until he reached the church of that poor, populous _faubourg_. To his astonishment, he found the church in a blaze of lights. Through the wide open door could be seen the sanctuary and altar, brilliantly illuminated with tapers and decorated with flowers, as though in anticipation of some imposing ceremony, while grouped in the street and surrounding windows, a throng of curiosity seekers and belated wayfarers excitedly discussed the approaching event. "They cannot delay much longer," observed one. "No, for it is nearly midnight," rejoined another. "Rather a strange hour for a marriage." "Undoubtedly; but with such a dowry one can afford peculiar things." "Who is to be married at this odd hour?" questioned the old man from the last speaker. "You must be a stranger in this part of the city," replied the man addressed, "or you would know all about the _six marriages_, which for four years have taken place on the night of May 11 and 12." "May 11 and 12," repeated the old man, with a start. "But why do you call it the _six marriages_?" "Because each year six young girls, with a dowry of ten thousand francs each, are married here." "A dowry of ten thousand francs! And from whom?" "From a worthy man who died five years ago, whose name is as popular and as reverentially blessed in Chaillot as the _Petit manteau bleu_ in Paris." "And who is this worthy man, in whose name these young girls are so generously dowered?" pursued the old mulatto, with a slight tremor in his voice. "He was called Père Richard," returned the man in a deferential tone. "And why does this Père Richard do so much good after his death?" continued the old man, making an effort to conceal his emotion. "Simply because this was his idea, and because his son religiously carries out his last wishes," explained the man. "And everybody can tell you what a noble man M. Louis Richard is. Himself, his wife and child live on three or four thousand francs a year, at the most, although he must have inherited a large fortune from his father to enable him to bestow annually a dowry of ten thousand francs each on six young girls, not counting the expenses of the 'school' and the 'House of Providence.'" "Excuse the curiosity of a stranger; but you speak of a school and--" "Yes; the school is directed by Madame Mariette, M. Louis Richard's wife. The school was founded for the benefit of twenty-five boys and as many girls, who remain there until they have attained the age of twelve, when they begin their apprenticeship. The children are fed, clothed and educated and receive ten sous a day. In this manner, parents are induced to send them to school instead of forcing them to work in shops." "And the school is under the direction of M. Louis Richard's wife?' "Yes; she claims to have suffered cruelly through her own want of education when she was only a poor shop girl, and she is particularly happy in the thought that she may save others the sufferings she endured." "You also spoke of another institution?" "That house was founded for the benefit of twelve poor, crippled women who cannot work. It is under the direction of Madame Lacombe." "Who is Madame Lacombe?" "Madame Richard's godmother, a good, worthy soul, who lost one hand years ago. She is the personification of gentleness and patience. She can truly sympathize with the crippled women under her charge, for she says that her goddaughter and herself often suffered the pangs of hunger before the former's marriage to M. Richard. But here is the wedding procession." The old man turned to the street and saw a gay cortege approaching, led by Louis, with Madame Lacombe on his arm, closely followed by Mariette leading a pretty boy of four years by the hand. Madame Lacombe was totally unrecognisable. Her face, formerly so haggard and worn, was the picture of health, while her countenance beamed with happiness and benevolence; her silver white hair was smoothly brushed back beneath a dainty lace cap, and her silk dress was half concealed by a beautiful cashmere shawl--a tasty toilet which gave her a most dignified and imposing appearance. Louis Richard's features bore an expression of grave and reserved felicity, and he seemingly realized the full grandeur of the duties he had imposed upon himself; while Mariette, who had grown still prettier in this beneficial atmosphere, distinguished herself by that air of sweet gravity so becoming to young mothers. In her legitimate pride, she still retained the modest dress of her girlhood and wore the coquettish little cap of the shop-girl; and Providence, no doubt, rewarded her for her modesty, for she looked bewitchingly fresh and pretty beneath the lace head-gear, with its knots of pale blue ribbon, as she smiled sweetly on the blond rosy child at her side. Next came six young girls, in white dresses and crowned with orange blossoms, accompanied by their fiancés and relatives, all belonging to the laboring class; then came the twenty-four couples united in the four previous years, followed by the school children and the crippled old women who had found refuge in the charitable institutions founded with the miser's money. The old mulatto gazed in silent reflection at the procession, while his neighbors commented freely on the memorable event. "They owe all this happiness to old Richard," he heard some one say. "And to his son," added another voice. "Undoubtedly; but the son would have been powerless without the father's money." "Do you know that more than a hundred and fifty persons assembled here owe everything to the good old man?" "Yes; and in the last four years, six or seven hundred persons must have shared the benefits of the inheritance." "And if M. Louis lives thirty years longer, the number will reach five or six thousands--thousands saved from misery and crime, perhaps." "You forget the children of these happily married couples, who will have the advantages of education and good breeding procured by this generous dowry." "You are right; the good accomplished by old Richard is beyond calculation. What a pity so few know how to spend their money!" "Yes; but there are few such men as Richard and his son. But why are you weeping?" concluded the speaker, turning suddenly toward the old mulatto. "The praises I hear on all sides of--of this Richard and his son, and the sight of so much happiness causes me a strange emotion," explained the old man. "If you are interested in the ceremony, you may follow the cortege to the _House of Providence_, my good man," returned his first informant, as he moved toward the entrance of the church. The old man stood motionless for a few moments, then slowly followed the throng into the sacred edifice. Throughout the whole solemn ceremony, he seemed plunged into a sort of ecstasy, as if a sudden revelation had opened an immense, dazzling horizon, hitherto veiled to his eyes. Burying his face in his hands, he sank into a deep meditation from which he was aroused by the grave sonorous voice of the officiating priest addressing the newly-married couples. "And now that your union is consecrated by God," he was saying, "continue the honest, laborious life which has been repaid by the happiness you now enjoy; never forget that you owe this just remuneration of your courage in adversity to a man gifted with the most tender and generous affection for his brothers; for, faithful to his duties as a Christian, he does not look upon himself as the master, but as the dispenser of his riches. In giving M. Richard a son so worthy of him, the Lord has recompensed that great man, and his memory shall live amongst men. Your gratitude will create his immortality; his name shall be blessed by you, by your children and your children's children; the venerated name of M. Richard shall be engraved on your hearts as a souvenir of rare virtue!" A murmur of approbation greeted these words, drowning the stifled sobs of the old mulatto whose face was still buried in his hands. The ceremony was now over, and the noise and bustle of the dispersing throng recalled him to himself. Rising from his knees, he hurried to the door, where he stood, trembling in every limb, waiting for the passage of the leading group in the procession. As Louis Richard crossed the threshold, the old man's hand came in contact with his own, causing him to turn in that direction. Seeing the bowed head and shabby clothes of the stranger, the young man slipped a gold coin between his fingers, saying kindly: "Take it, and pray for Père Richard." The old man eagerly grasped the coin, and raising it to his lips, burst into tears. Then leaning once more on his cane, he slowly followed the gay party. CHAPTER XXI. The _House of Providence_ was built on the highest point of Chaillot, in a healthful, beautiful spot, and was surrounded by a large, shady garden which served as pleasure grounds to its inmates. The night was calm and serene, and the atmosphere was impregnated with the sweet fragrance of a profusion of spring blossoms, while numerous gas-jets illuminated the wide avenue that led to the entrance of the principal building. The stranger, who still followed the throng, soon found himself in the midst of a semi-circle silently grouped around a high porch, listening to the following words from a voice that thrilled him with strange emotion: "My friends," Louis was saying, "five years ago to-night, I lost the best of fathers in the frightful accident of the Versailles road. Being possessed of considerable wealth, my father might have lived in comfort and idleness; but he deprived himself of all luxury, working for his daily bread, slowly accumulating riches by his parsimony and augmenting them year by year by his abnegation. Then came his premature death, and I mourned over the loss of the greatest friend of humanity; for, according to his last wishes, I have consecrated his wealth to the accomplishment of three great and noble duties: "Toward children. "Toward young girls. "Toward women whom age and infirmities render incapable of work. "To poor children, my father has provided elementary instructions; to young girls, so often exposed to the seductions of vice, he has assured the pure and sweet joys of family life, so often denied to children of poverty; to aged or infirm women, he has given rest and comfort for the remainder of their days. "These last wishes I have faithfully carried out to the limits of the means he has left me. The good thus done may be small in comparison to the innumerable miseries of humanity; but the man who does what he can, _shares his bread_ with his famished brother and does his duty. This is a duty imposed on all alike, and all should strive to reach that ideal. My father conceived that generous thought--I am but the agent, the echo. The accomplishment of this glorious duty would fill my life with boundless felicity, were it not that I must weep over the death of a beloved and deeply regretted father." As the speaker uttered the last words, a wild commotion spread through the assemblage; overcome by his emotion, the old mulatto had fallen unconscious in the arms of his neighbors. On hearing the cause of the sudden agitation, Louis ordered that the stranger be carried to his own apartments on the ground floor of the building, where he could receive prompt and careful attention; insisting at the same time that the wedding festivities should go on uninterrupted, and that Mariette and Madame Lacombe should preside in his place at the supper table in the garden. In the meantime, the old man had been transported into Louis' study, which was furnished with the few odd pieces of furniture carried away from the old home so long shared in common between the father and son. When the young man entered, the stranger was still unconscious, his white hair falling in disorder over his brow and his unkempt beard almost totally concealing his features. Frightened at his immobility, Louis despatched the attendant for a bottle of spirits; then bending over him he caught the emaciated hand to feel the pulse. As he peered anxiously into the withered face, the stranger turned slightly and uttered a few unintelligible words. The sound of the voice struck him strangely. Bending lower he tried to distinguish the features of the patient; but the semi-obscurity of the room and the disordered hair and beard rendered his examination fruitless. Then the mulatto's eyes opened slowly; raising his head languidly, his gaze wandered over the room and rested on the familiar objects. "Where am I?" he murmured. "Is it a dream? My God! my God!" This time the voice was more distinct and Louis trembled visibly; then a bitter smile came to his lips and he shook his head sadly. "Alas!" he said, in a low tone, "what illusions sorrow will cause." Then turning to the patient, he added kindly: "Do you feel stronger now?" At these words, the stranger sat bolt upright, and catching Louis' hand kissed it rapturously. "There, don't agitate yourself," resumed the young man. "I have done nothing to win your gratitude. Some day I may be able to do more. But tell me how you feel. Was it fatigue or weakness that caused your swoon?" The old man still remained silent, his head bowed down and pressing Louis' hand convulsively to his breast. A singular emotion filled the young man's heart, and the tears came into his eyes as he continued: "Listen to me, father." "Oh! again, again!" murmured the stranger, in a voice choked with emotion. "Well, father--" "Louis!" cried the old man, unable to control himself longer. This single word, uttered with all the strength of his soul, was a revelation. The young man started back as though a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, and stood for a moment pale and trembling, his gaze fixed on the haggard features before him. The commotion was too violent, the moral shock too deep, to allow him to realize the astounding truth at once. It seemed like the sudden transition of deep night to the bright sunshine, which dazzles and renders us momentarily blind. Then the reality suddenly burst on his dazed senses; throwing himself on his knees beside the couch, he brushed back the disheveled white hair from the stranger's face, and scanned the featured of his father, disguised under a fictitious color. There was no longer any doubt; he threw his arms about the old man's neck, murmuring in a sort of filial delirium: "You!--you, my father--Heaven be praised!" * * * * * * "We shall not attempt to describe this first explosion of joy and delirious happiness. Who can paint those affectionate embraces, those tender words that come from the heart and throw the soul into an ecstacy of bliss? When the first emotion had finally subsided, however, Louis eagerly questioned his father concerning those long years of separation. "My dear child," began the father, "I slept for five years and awakened for the first time two days ago. I was in the wrecked car with Ramon and his daughter; but through some inexplicable chance my life was spared, though my leg was fractured and the fright drove me mad." "You, my father?" "Yes, I completely lost my reason." "Heavens! how terrible!" "A kind surgeon carried me to a place of safety and afterward conveyed me to the Versailles asylum. I was perfectly harmless and spoke only of my lost treasures. For four years I remained in the same condition; then I gradually regained my reason, and two days since was pronounced cured. I cannot express what I experienced as memory came back to me, after these five years of slumber; but I blush to admit that my first thought was that of the miser. What had become of my wealth? what use had it been put to? The moment the doors of my prison opened before me, I flew to my notary's office. You can imagine his stupefaction when he recognized me. He then informed me that your first thought had been to act as trustee only to my riches, and to use merely enough for your existence until you reached the age of thirty-five. Then came your severe illness six months later, and fearing you might die without accomplishing your sacred task, you conceived other projects. 'What were these projects?' I asked. 'Wait until midnight to-morrow,' the notary replied, and go to the church at Chaillot. There you will learn all, and thank heaven to have given you such a son.' I had the patience to wait, my dear son, hoping to approach you without being recognized. Oh! my noble, beloved son! if you knew what I have heard and seen! Thanks to your grandeur of soul and the pious ruse of your filial affection, I found my name blessed and venerated! If you knew what sudden revolution took place in me! While blessings were showered on my memory, it seemed to me that my soul had burst its terrestrial chains and was hovering above the world, just as the souls of good men must hover above us, while listening to the expressions of love and gratitude from those whom they have benefitted. But, alas! this illusion was of short duration---I was not deserving of these praises." "You are mistaken, father," protested Louis. "Without your persevering economy I could never have accomplished anything. You placed the lever in my hand. My only merit has been to make good use of the immense force you concentrated at the price of innumerable sacrifices and privations. The horrible misery and the ignorance through which my beloved wife had suffered, the dangers to which they had exposed her, the cruel infirmity of her guardian, all these bitter things were a lesson to me; Mariette, her godmother and myself have tried, as far as it lay in our power, to spare others what we had suffered,--" At this moment the door was burst suddenly open and Florestan de Saint-Herem dashed, breathless into the room. "Rejoice, oh! rejoice!" he cried, throwing himself into his friend's arms. "Saint-Ramon has performed the most wonderful of miracles!" "What do you mean?" gasped the astonished Louis. "Two hours ago I was completely ruined, and now I am richer than I ever was or ever will be. Only fancy, Louis, I am the possessor of gold mines, silver mines, diamonds of untold value, of fabulous riches--millions and millions, in fact! Oh! Saint-Ramon, how just I was to sanctify your name, to canonize you, for you are not ungrateful!" "In mercy, explain yourself, Florestan!" "One hour ago, as the ball was drawing to a close, a servant informed me that a lady had just arrived in a fiacre and requested to see me at once. Hastening to my apartments, I was amazed to find the Countess Zomaloff, a young and beautiful widow, quietly waiting for me. This charming woman was to have married the Duke de Riancourt within a week and had purchased my house during the evening. My surprise was so great that for a moment I was unable to utter a word. "'Monsieur de Saint-Herem,' she said, without a tremor of agitation in her voice, 'you must forgive me for disturbing you, but I shall retain you a few moments only--I am a widow and twenty-eight years of age; I had promised to marry the duke, and would probably have been foolish enough to keep my word it I had not met you. You have a generous heart and a lofty soul; the fête you have given this evening proves it; I admire your intellect and character, and your person pleases me. As for me, the step I am taking now gives you the opportunity of judging my worth--You may think my actions strange, improper, or eccentric--you are at liberty to appreciate me as you wish. If your judgment is favorable, however, I shall be proud and happy to become Madame de Saint-Herem and inhabit the Saint-Ramon mansion with you. My wealth is fabulous, and you may dispose of it as you wish, for I confide my future blindly into your hands. I shall therefore await your decision anxiously. Good-night, Monsieur de Saint-Herem.' "With these words the fairy vanished, my dear Louis, leaving me in such a state of dazzling happiness that I feared I would lose my reason." "My dear Florestan," said his friend gravely, "the countess' frankness and blind confidence in you impose a great duty on you." "I understand, my friend," rejoined Saint-Herem seriously. "I had a right to squander my own fortune; but to ruin a woman who trusts her whole future into my hands would be a piece of unparalleled infamy!" * * * * * * One month later, Louis Richard, with his father and Mariette, assisted at the nuptial benediction of Florestan de Saint-Herem and Madame Zomaloff. Notwithstanding his father's resurrection, Louis still continues to dispense charity around him, greatly aided in the benevolent task by old Richard himself, who now exhibits as much zeal in relieving poverty and distress, as he formerly did in hoarding up his treasure and ministering to his one great passion or besetting sin--avarice. May the twelfth is now doubly celebrated. A magnificent fête is given yearly by M. and Madame de Saint-Herem in honor of their first meeting, for the marriage of _convenance_ has turned out to be one of love. But at midnight, they invariably leave the brilliantly illuminated Saint-Ramon mansion and accompany Louis and Mariette to their home, where they share the wedding supper of the six happy couples united on that day. 
11556	----	Facing the Flag by Jules Verne [Redactor's Note: _Facing the Flag_ {number V044 in the T&M listing of Verne's works} is an anonymous translation of _Face au drapeau_ (1896) first published in the U.S. by F. Tennyson Neely in 1897, and later (circa 1903) republished from the same plates by Hurst and F.M. Lupton (Federal Book Co.). This is a different translation from the one published by Sampson & Low in England entitled _For the Flag_ (1897) translated by Mrs. Cashel Hoey.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ FACING THE FLAG BY J U L E S V E R N E AUTHOR OF "AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS"; "TWENTY THOUSAND LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA"; "FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON," ETC. New York THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY PUBLISHERS ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1897 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAP I. Healthful House II. Count d'Artigas III. Kidnapped IV. The Schooner "Ebba" V. Where am I.--(Notes by Simon Hart, the Engineer.) VI. On Deck VII. Two Days at Sea VIII. Back Cup IX. Inside Back Cup X. Ker Karraje XI. Five Weeks in Back Cup XII. Engineer Serko's Advice XIII. God Be with It XIV. Battle Between the "Sword" and the Tug XV. Expectation XVI. Only a few more Hours XVII. One against Five XVIII. On Board the "Tonnant" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ FACING THE FLAG. CHAPTER I. HEALTHFUL HOUSE. The _carte de visite_ received that day, June 15, 189-, by the director of the establishment of Healthful House was a very neat one, and simply bore, without escutcheon or coronet, the name: COUNT D'ARTIGAS. Below this name, in a corner of the card, the following address was written in lead pencil: "On board the schooner _Ebba_, anchored off New-Berne, Pamlico Sound." The capital of North Carolina--one of the forty-four states of the Union at this epoch--is the rather important town of Raleigh, which is about one hundred and fifty miles in the interior of the province. It is owing to its central position that this city has become the seat of the State legislature, for there are others that equal and even surpass it in industrial and commercial importance, such as Wilmington, Charlotte, Fayetteville, Edenton, Washington, Salisbury, Tarborough, Halifax, and New-Berne. The latter town is situated on estuary of the Neuse River, which empties itself into Pamlico Sound, a sort of vast maritime lake protected by a natural dyke formed by the isles and islets of the Carolina coast. The director of Healthful House could never have imagined why the card should have been sent to him, had it not been accompanied by a note from the Count d'Artigas soliciting permission to visit the establishment. The personage in question hoped that the director would grant his request, and announced that he would present himself in the afternoon, accompanied by Captain Spade, commander of the schooner _Ebba_. This desire to penetrate to the interior of the celebrated sanitarium, then in great request by the wealthy invalids of the United States, was natural enough on the part of a foreigner. Others who did not bear such a high-sounding name as the Count d'Artigas had visited it, and had been unstinting in their compliments to the director. The latter therefore hastened to accord the authorization demanded, and added that he would be honored to open the doors of the establishment to the Count d'Artigas. Healthful House, which contained a select _personnel_, and was assured of the co-operation of the most celebrated doctors in the country, was a private enterprise. Independent of hospitals and almshouses, but subjected to the surveillance of the State, it comprised all the conditions of comfort and salubrity essential to establishments of this description designed to receive an opulent _clientele_. It would have been difficult to find a more agreeable situation than that of Healthful House. On the landward slope of a hill extended a park of two hundred acres planted with the magnificent vegetation that grows so luxuriantly in that part of North America, which is equal in latitude to the Canary and Madeira Islands. At the furthermost limit of the park lay the wide estuary of the Neuse, swept by the cool breezes of Pamlico Sound and by the winds that blew from the ocean beyond the narrow _lido_ of the coast. Healthful House, where rich invalids were cared for under such excellent hygienic conditions, was more generally reserved for the treatment of chronic complaints; but the management did not decline to admit patients affected by mental troubles, when the latter were not of an incurable nature. It thus happened--a circumstance that was bound to attract a good deal of attention to Healthful House, and which perhaps was the motive for the visit of the Count d'Artigas--that a person of world-wide notoriety had for eighteen months been under special observation there. This person was a Frenchman named Thomas Roch, forty-five years of age. He was, beyond question, suffering from some mental malady, but expert alienists admitted that he had not entirely lost the use of his reasoning faculties. It was only too evident that he had lost all notion of things as far as the ordinary acts of life were concerned; but in regard to subjects demanding the exercise of his genius, his sanity was unimpaired and unassailable--a fact which demonstrates how true is the _dictum_ that genius and madness are often closely allied! Otherwise his condition manifested itself by complete loss of memory;--the impossibility of concentrating his attention upon anything, lack of judgment, delirium and incoherence. He no longer even possessed the natural animal instinct of self-preservation, and had to be watched like an infant whom one never permits out of one's sight. Therefore a warder was detailed to keep close watch over him by day and by night in Pavilion No. 17, at the end of Healthful House Park, which had been specially set apart for him. Ordinary insanity, when it is not incurable, can only be cured by moral means. Medicine and therapeutics are powerless, and their inefficacy has long been recognized by specialists. Were these moral means applicable to the case of Thomas Roch? One may be permitted to doubt it, even amid the tranquil and salubrious surroundings of Healthful House. As a matter of fact the very symptoms of uneasiness, changes of temper, irritability, queer traits of character, melancholy, apathy, and a repugnance for serious occupations were distinctly apparent; no treatment seemed capable of curing or even alleviating these symptoms. This was patent to all his medical attendants. It has been justly remarked that madness is an excess of subjectivity; that is to say, a state in which the mind accords too much to mental labor and not enough to outward impressions. In the case of Thomas Roch this indifference was practically absolute. He lived but within himself, so to speak, a prey to a fixed idea which had brought him to the condition in which we find him. Could any circumstance occur to counteract it--to "exteriorize" him, as it were? The thing was improbable, but it was not impossible. It is now necessary to explain how this Frenchman came to quit France, what motive attracted him to the United States, why the Federal government had judged it prudent and necessary to intern him in this sanitarium, where every utterance that unconsciously escaped him during his crises were noted and recorded with the minutest care. Eighteen months previously the Secretary of the Navy at Washington, had received a demand for an audience in regard to a communication that Thomas Roch desired to make to him. As soon as he glanced at the name, the secretary perfectly understood the nature of the communication and the terms which would accompany it, and an immediate audience was unhesitatingly accorded. Thomas Roch's notoriety was indeed such that, out of solicitude for the interests confided to his keeping, and which he was bound to safeguard, he could not hesitate to receive the petitioner and listen to the proposals which the latter desired personally to submit to him. Thomas Roch was an inventor--an inventor of genius. Several important discoveries had brought him prominently to the notice of the world. Thanks to him, problems that had previously remained purely theoretical had received practical application. He occupied a conspicuous place in the front rank of the army of science. It will be seen how worry, deceptions, mortification, and the outrages with which he was overwhelmed by the cynical wits of the press combined to drive him to that degree of madness which necessitated his internment in Healthful House. His latest invention in war-engines bore the name of Roch's Fulgurator. This apparatus possessed, if he was to be believed, such superiority over all others, that the State which acquired it would become absolute master of earth and ocean. The deplorable difficulties inventors encounter in connection with their inventions are only too well known, especially when they endeavor to get them adopted by governmental commissions. Several of the most celebrated examples are still fresh in everybody's memory. It is useless to insist upon this point, because there are sometimes circumstances underlying affairs of this kind upon which it is difficult to obtain any light. In regard to Thomas Roch, however, it is only fair to say that, as in the case of the majority of his predecessors, his pretensions were excessive. He placed such an exorbitant price upon his new engine that it was practicably impossible to treat with him. This was due to the fact--and it should not be lost sight of--that in respect of previous inventions which had been most fruitful in result, he had been imposed upon with the greatest audacity. Being unable to obtain therefrom the profits which he had a right to expect, his temper had become soured. He became suspicious, would give up nothing without knowing just what he was doing, impose conditions that were perhaps unacceptable, wanted his mere assertions accepted as sufficient guarantee, and in any case asked for such a large sum of money on account before condescending to furnish the test of practical experiment that his overtures could not be entertained. In the first place he had offered the fulgurator to France, and made known the nature of it to the commission appointed to pass upon his proposition. The fulgurator was a sort of auto-propulsive engine, of peculiar construction, charged with an explosive composed of new substances and which only produced its effect under the action of a deflagrator that was also new. When this engine, no matter in what way it was launched, exploded, not on striking the object aimed at, but several hundred yards from it, its action upon the atmospheric strata was so terrific that any construction, warship or floating battery, within a zone of twelve thousand square yards, would be blown to atoms. This was the principle of the shell launched by the Zalinski pneumatic gun with which experiments had already been made at that epoch, but its results were multiplied at least a hundred-fold. If, therefore, Thomas Roch's invention possessed this power, it assured the offensive and defensive superiority of his native country. But might not the inventor be exaggerating, notwithstanding that the tests of other engines he had conceived had proved incontestably that they were all he had claimed them to be? This, experiment could alone show, and it was precisely here where the rub came in. Roch would not agree to experiment until the millions at which he valued his fulgurator had first been paid to him. It is certain that a sort of disequilibrium had then occurred in his mental faculties. It was felt that he was developing a condition of mind that would gradually lead to definite madness. No government could possibly condescend to treat with him under the conditions he imposed. The French commission was compelled to break off all negotiations with him, and the newspapers, even those of the Radical Opposition, had to admit that it was difficult to follow up the affair. In view of the excess of subjectivity which was unceasingly augmenting in the profoundly disturbed mind of Thomas Roch, no one will be surprised at the fact that the cord of patriotism gradually relaxed until it ceased to vibrate. For the honor of human nature be it said that Thomas Roch was by this time irresponsible for his actions. He preserved his whole consciousness only in so far as subjects bearing directly upon his invention were concerned. In this particular he had lost nothing of his mental power. But in all that related to the most ordinary details of existence his moral decrepitude increased daily and deprived him of complete responsibility for his acts. Thomas Roch's invention having been refused by the commission, steps ought to have been taken to prevent him from offering it elsewhere. Nothing of the kind was done, and there a great mistake was made. The inevitable was bound to happen, and it did. Under a growing irritability the sentiment of patriotism, which is the very essence of the citizen--who before belonging to himself belongs to his country-- became extinct in the soul of the disappointed inventor. His thoughts turned towards other nations. He crossed the frontier, and forgetting the ineffaceable past, offered the fulgurator to Germany. There, as soon as his exorbitant demands were made known, the government refused to receive his communication. Besides, it so happened that the military authorities were just then absorbed by the construction of a new ballistic engine, and imagined they could afford to ignore that of the French inventor. As the result of this second rebuff Roch's anger became coupled with hatred--an instinctive hatred of humanity--especially after his _pourparlers_ with the British Admiralty came to naught. The English being practical people, did not at first repulse Thomas Roch. They sounded him and tried to get round him; but Roch would listen to nothing. His secret was worth millions, and these millions he would have, or they would not have his secret. The Admiralty at last declined to have anything more to do with him. It was in these conditions, when his intellectual trouble was growing daily worse, that he made a last effort by approaching the American Government. That was about eighteen months before this story opens. The Americans, being even more practical than the English, did not attempt to bargain for Roch's fulgurator, to which, in view of the French chemist's reputation, they attached exceptional importance. They rightly esteemed him a man of genius, and took the measures justified by his condition, prepared to indemnify him equitably later. As Thomas Roch gave only too visible proofs of mental alienation, the Administration, in the very interest of his invention, judged it prudent to sequestrate him. As is already known, he was not confined in a lunatic asylum, but was conveyed to Healthful House, which offered every guarantee for the proper treatment of his malady. Yet, though the most careful attention had been devoted to him, no improvement had manifested itself. Thomas Roch, let it be again remarked--this point cannot be too often insisted upon--incapable though he was of comprehending and performing the ordinary acts and duties of life, recovered all his powers when the field of his discoveries was touched upon. He became animated, and spoke with the assurance of a man who knows whereof he is descanting, and an authority that carried conviction with it. In the heat of his eloquence he would describe the marvellous qualities of his fulgurator and the truly extraordinary effects it caused. As to the nature of the explosive and of the deflagrator, the elements of which the latter was composed, their manufacture, and the way in which they were employed, he preserved complete silence, and all attempts to worm the secret out of him remained ineffectual. Once or twice, during the height of the paroxysms to which he was occasionally subject, there had been reason to believe that his secret would escape him, and every precaution had been taken to note his slightest utterance. But Thomas Roch had each time disappointed his watchers. If he no longer preserved the sentiment of self-preservation, he at least knew how to preserve the secret of his discovery. Pavilion No. 17 was situated in the middle of a garden that was surrounded by hedges, and here Roch was accustomed to take exercise under the surveillance of his guardian. This guardian lived in the same pavilion, slept in the same room with him, and kept constant watch upon him, never leaving him for an hour. He hung upon the lightest words uttered by the patient in the course of his hallucinations, which generally occurred in the intermediary state between sleeping and waking--watched and listened while he dreamed. This guardian was known as Gaydon. Shortly after the sequestration of Thomas Roch, having learned that an attendant speaking French fluently was wanted, he had applied at Healthful House for the place, and had been engaged to look after the new inmate. In reality the alleged Gaydon was a French engineer named Simon Hart, who for several years past had been connected with a manufactory of chemical products in New Jersey. Simon Hart was forty years of age. His high forehead was furrowed with the wrinkle that denoted the thinker, and his resolute bearing denoted energy combined with tenacity. Extremely well versed in the various questions relating to the perfecting of modern armaments, Hart knew everything that had been invented in the shape of explosives, of which there were over eleven hundred at that time, and was fully able to appreciate such a man as Thomas Roch. He firmly believed in the power of the latter's fulgurator, and had no doubt whatever that the inventor had conceived an engine that was capable of revolutionizing the condition of both offensive and defensive warfare on land and sea. He was aware that the demon of insanity had respected the man of science, and that in Roch's partially diseased brain the flame of genius still burned brightly. Then it occurred to him that if, during Roch's crises, his secret was revealed, this invention of a Frenchman would be seized upon by some other country to the detriment of France. Impelled by a spirit of patriotism, he made up his mind to offer himself as Thomas Roch's guardian, by passing himself off as an American thoroughly conversant with the French language, in order that if the inventor did at any time disclose his secret, France alone should benefit thereby. On pretext of returning to Europe, he resigned his position at the New Jersey manufactory, and changed his name so that none should know what had become of him. Thus it came to pass that Simon Hart, alias Gaydon, had been an attendant at Healthful House for fifteen months. It required no little courage on the part of a man of his position and education to perform the menial and exacting duties of an insane man's attendant; but, as has been before remarked, he was actuated by a spirit of the purest and noblest patriotism. The idea of depriving Roch of the legitimate benefits due to the inventor, if he succeeded in learning his secret, never for an instant entered his mind. He had kept the patient under the closest possible observation for fifteen months yet had not been able to learn anything from him, or worm out of him a single reply to his questions that was of the slightest value. But he had become more convinced than ever of the importance of Thomas Roch's discovery, and was extremely apprehensive lest the partial madness of the inventor should become general, or lest he should die during one of his paroxysms and carry his secret with him to the grave. This was Simon Hart's position, and this the mission to which he had wholly devoted himself in the interest of his native country. However, notwithstanding his deceptions and troubles, Thomas Roch's physical health, thanks to his vigorous constitution, was not particularly affected. A man of medium height, with a large head, high, wide forehead, strongly-cut features, iron-gray hair and moustache, eyes generally haggard, but which became piercing and imperious when illuminated by his dominant idea, thin lips closely compressed, as though to prevent the escape of a word that could betray his secret--such was the inventor confined in one of the pavilions of Healthful House, probably unconscious of his sequestration, and confided to the surveillance of Simon Hart the engineer, become Gaydon the warder. CHAPTER II. COUNT D'ARTIGAS. Just who was this Count d'Artigas? A Spaniard? So his name would appear to indicate. Yet on the stern of his schooner, in letters of gold, was the name _Ebba_, which is of pure Norwegian origin. And had you asked him the name of the captain of the _Ebba_, he would have replied, Spade, and would doubtless have added that that of the boatswain was Effrondat, and that of the ship's cook, Helim--all singularly dissimilar and indicating very different nationalities. Could any plausible hypothesis be deducted from the type presented by Count d'Artigas? Not easily. If the color of his skin, his black hair, and the easy grace of his attitude denoted a Spanish origin, the _ensemble_ of his person showed none of the racial characteristics peculiar to the natives of the Iberian peninsula. He was a man of about forty-five years of age, about the average height, and robustly constituted. With his calm and haughty demeanor he resembled an Hindoo lord in whose blood might mingle that of some superb type of Malay. If he was not naturally of a cold temperament, he at least, with his imperious gestures and brevity of speech, endeavored to make it appear that he was. As to the language usually spoken by him and his crew, it was one of those idioms current in the islands of the Indian Ocean and the adjacent seas. Yet when his maritime excursions brought him to the coasts of the old or new world he spoke English with remarkable facility, and with so slight an accent as to scarcely betray his foreign origin. None could have told anything about his past, nor even about his present life, nor from what source he derived his fortune,--obviously a large one, inasmuch as he was able to gratify his every whim and lived in the greatest luxury whenever he visited America,--nor where he resided when at home, nor where was the port from which his schooner hailed, and none would have ventured to question him upon any of these points so little disposed was he to be communicative. He was not the kind of man to give anything away or compromise himself in the slightest degree, even when interviewed by American reporters. All that was known about him was what was published in the papers when the arrival of the _Ebba_ was reported in some port, and particularly in the ports of the east coast of the United States, where the schooner was accustomed to put in at regular periods to lay in provisions and stores for a lengthy voyage. She would take on board not only flour, biscuits, preserves, fresh and dried meat, live stock, wines, beers, and spirits, but also clothing, household utensils, and objects of luxury--all of the finest quality and highest price, and which were paid for either in dollars, guineas, or other coins of various countries and denominations. Consequently, if no one knew anything about the private life of Count d'Artigas, he was nevertheless very well known in the various ports of the United States from the Florida peninsula to New England. It is therefore in no way surprising that the director of Healthful House should have felt greatly flattered by the Count's visit, and have received him with every mark of honor and respect. It was the first time that the schooner _Ebba_ had dropped anchor in the port of New-Berne, and no doubt a mere whim of her owner had brought him to the mouth of the Neuse. Otherwise why should he have come to such a place? Certainly not to lay in stores, for Pamlico Sound offered neither the resources nor facilities to be found in such ports as Boston, New York, Dover, Savannah, Wilmington in North Carolina, and Charleston in South Carolina. What could he have procured with his piastres and bank-notes in the small markets of New-Berne? This chief town of Craven County contained barely six thousand inhabitants. Its commerce consisted principally in the exportation of grain, pigs, furniture, and naval munitions. Besides, a few weeks previously, the schooner had loaded up for some destination which, as usual, was unknown. Had this enigmatical personage then come solely for the purpose of visiting Healthful House? Very likely. There would have been nothing surprising in the fact, seeing that the establishment enjoyed a high and well-merited reputation. Or perhaps the Count had been inspired by curiosity to meet Thomas Roch? This curiosity would have been legitimate and natural enough in view of the universal renown of the French inventor. Fancy--a mad genius who claimed that his discoveries were destined to revolutionize the methods of modern military art! As he had notified the director he would do, the Count d'Artigas presented himself in the afternoon at the door of Healthful House, accompanied by Captain Spade, the commander of the _Ebba_. In conformity with orders given, both were admitted and conducted to the office of the director. The latter received his distinguished visitor with _empressement_, placed himself at his disposal, and intimated his intention of personally conducting him over the establishment, not being willing to concede to anybody else the honor of being his _cicerone_. The Count on his part was profuse in the expression of his thanks for the considerations extended to him. They went over the common rooms and private habitations of the establishment, the director prattling unceasingly about the care with which the patients were tended--much better care, if he was to be believed, than they could possibly have had in the bosoms of their families--and priding himself upon the results achieved, and which had earned for the place its well-merited success. The Count d'Artigas listened to his ceaseless chatter with apparent interest, probably in order the better to dissemble the real motive of his visit. However, after going the rounds for an hour he ventured to remark: "Have you not among your patients, sir, one anent whom there was a great deal of talk some time ago, and whose presence here contributed in no small measure to attract public attention to Healthful House?" "You refer to Thomas Roch, I presume, Count?" queried the director. "Precisely--that Frenchman--that inventor--whose mental condition is said to be very precarious." "Very precarious, Count, and happily so, perhaps! In my opinion humanity has nothing to gain by his discoveries, the application of which would increase the already too numerous means of destruction." "You speak wisely, sir, and I entirely agree with you. Real progress does not lie in that direction, and I regard as inimical to society all those who seek to follow it. But has this inventor entirely lost the use of his intellectual faculties?" "Entirely, no; save as regards the ordinary things of life. In this respect he no longer possesses either comprehension or responsibility. His genius as an inventor, however, remains intact; it has survived his moral degeneracy, and, had his insensate demands been complied with, I have no doubt he would have produced a new war engine--which the world can get along very well without." "Very well without, as you say, sir," re-echoed the Count d'Artigas, and Captain Spade nodded approval. "But you will be able to judge for yourself, Count, for here is the pavilion occupied by Thomas Roch. If his confinement is well justified from the point of view of public security he is none the less treated with all the consideration due to him and the attention which his condition necessitates. Besides, Healthful House is beyond the reach of indiscreet persons who might...." The director completed the phrase with a significant motion of his head--which brought an imperceptible smile to the lips of the stranger. "But," asked the Count, "is Thomas Roch never left alone?" "Never, Count, never. He has a permanent attendant in whom we have implicit confidence, who speaks his language and keeps the closest possible watch upon him. If in some way or other some indication relative to his discovery were to escape him, it would be immediately noted down and its value would be passed upon by those competent to judge." Here the Count d'Artigas stole a rapid and meaning glance at Captain Spade, who responded with a gesture which said plainly enough: "I understand." And had any one observed the captain during the visit, they could not have failed to remark that he examined with the greatest minuteness that portion of the park surrounding Pavilion No. 17, and the different paths leading to the latter--probably in view of some prearranged scheme. The garden of the pavilion was near the high wall surrounding the property, from the foot of which on the other side the hill sloped gently to the right bank of the Neuse. The pavilion itself was a one-story building surmounted by a terrace in the Italian style. It contained two rooms and an ante-room with strongly-barred windows. On each side and in rear of the habitation were clusters of fine trees, which were then in full leaf. In front was a cool, green velvety lawn, ornamented with shrubs and brilliantly tinted flowers. The whole garden extended over about half an acre, and was reserved exclusively for the use of Thomas Roch, who was free to wander about it at pleasure under the surveillance of his guardian. When the Count d'Artigas, Captain Spade, and the director entered the garden, the first person they saw was the warder Gaydon, standing at the door of the pavilion. Unnoticed by the director the Count d'Artigas eyed the attendant with singular persistence. It was not the first time that strangers had come to see the occupant of Pavilion No. 17, for the French inventor was justly regarded as the most interesting inmate of Healthful House. Nevertheless, Gaydon's attention was attracted by the originality of the type presented by the two visitors, of whose nationality he was ignorant. If the name of the Count d'Artigas was not unfamiliar to him, he had never had occasion to meet that wealthy gentleman during the latter's sojourn in the eastern ports. He therefore had no idea as to who the Count was. Neither was he aware that the schooner _Ebba_ was then anchored at the entrance to the Neuse, at the foot of the hill upon which Healthful House was situated. "Gaydon," demanded the director, "where is Thomas Roch?" "Yonder," replied the warder, pointing to a man who was walking meditatively under the trees in rear of the pavilion. "The Count d'Artigas has been authorized to visit Healthful House," the director explained; "and does not wish to go away without having seen Thomas Roch, who was lately the subject of a good deal too much discussion." "And who would be talked about a great deal more," added the Count, "had the Federal Government not taken the precaution to confine him in this establishment." "A necessary precaution, Count." "Necessary, as you observe, Mr. Director. It is better for the peace of the world that his secret should die with him." After having glanced at the Count d'Artigas, Gaydon had not uttered a word; but preceding the two strangers he walked towards the clump of trees where the inventor was pacing back and forth. Thomas Roch paid no attention to them. He appeared to be oblivious of their presence. Meanwhile, Captain Spade, while being careful not to excite suspicion, had been minutely examining the immediate surroundings of the pavilion and the end of the park in which it was situated. From the top of the sloping alleys he could easily distinguish the peak of a mast which showed above the wall of the park. He recognized the peak at a glance as being that of the _Ebba_, and knew therefore that the wall at this part skirted the right bank of the Neuse. The Count d'Artigas' whole attention was concentrated upon the French inventor. The latter's health appeared to have suffered in no way from his eighteen months' confinement; but his queer attitude, his incoherent gestures, his haggard eye, and his indifference to what was passing around him testified only too plainly to the degeneration of his mental faculties. At length Thomas Roch dropped into a seat and with the end of a switch traced in the sand of the alley the outline of a fortification. Then kneeling down he made a number of little mounds that were evidently intended to represent bastions. He next plucked some leaves from a neighboring tree and stuck them in the mounds like so many tiny flags. All this was done with the utmost seriousness and without any attention whatever being paid to the onlookers. It was the amusement of a child, but a child would have lacked this characteristic gravity. "Is he then absolutely mad?" demanded the Count d'Artigas, who in spite of his habitual impassibility appeared to be somewhat disappointed. "I warned you, Count, that nothing could be obtained from him." "Couldn't he at least pay some attention to us?" "It would perhaps be difficult to induce him to do so." Then turning to the attendant: "Speak to him, Gaydon. Perhaps he will answer you." "Oh! he'll answer me right enough, sir, never fear," replied Gaydon. He went up to the inventor and touching him on the shoulder, said gently: "Thomas Roch!" The latter raised his head, and of the persons present he doubtless saw but his keeper, though Captain Spade had come up and all formed a circle about him. "Thomas Roch," continued Gaydon, speaking in English, "here are some visitors to see you. They are interested in your health--in your work." The last word alone seemed to rouse him from his indifference. "My work?" he replied, also in English, which he spoke like a native. Then taking a pebble between his index finger and bent thumb, as a boy plays at marbles, he projected it against one of the little sand-heaps. It scattered, and he jumped for joy. "Blown to pieces! The bastion is blown to pieces! My explosive has destroyed everything at one blow!" he shouted, the light of triumph flashing in his eyes. "You see," said the director, addressing the Count d'Artigas. "The idea of his invention never leaves him." "And it will die with him," affirmed the attendant. "Couldn't you, Gaydon, get him to talk about his fulgurator?" asked his chief. "I will try, if you order me to do so, sir." "Well, I do order you, for I think it might interest the Count d'Artigas." "Certainly," assented the Count, whose physiognomy betrayed no sign of the sentiments which were agitating him. "I ought to warn you that I risk bringing on another fit," observed Gaydon. "You can drop the conversation when you consider it prudent. Tell Thomas Roch that a foreigner wishes to negotiate with him for the purchase of his fulgurator." "But are you not afraid he may give his secret away?" questioned the Count. He spoke with such vivacity that Gaydon could not restrain a glance of distrust, which, however, did not appear to disturb the equanimity of that impenetrable nobleman. "No fear of that," said the warder. "No promise would induce him to divulge his secret. Until the millions he demands are counted into his hand he will remain as mute as a stone." "I don't happen to be carrying those millions about me," remarked the Count quietly. Gaydon again touched Roch on the shoulder and repeated: "Thomas Roch, here are some foreigners who are anxious to acquire your invention." The madman started. "My invention?" he cried. "My deflagrator?" And his growing animation plainly indicated the imminence of the fit that Gaydon had been apprehensive about, and which questions of this character invariably brought on. "How much will you give me for it--how much?" continued Roch. "How much--how much?" "Ten million dollars," replied Gaydon. "Ten millions! Ten millions! A fulgurator ten million times more powerful than anything hitherto invented! Ten millions for an autopropulsive projectile which, when it explodes, destroys everything in sight within a radius of over twelve thousand square yards! Ten millions for the only deflagrator that can provoke its explosion! Why, all the wealth of the world wouldn't suffice to purchase the secret of my engine, and rather than sell it at such a price I would cut my tongue in half with my teeth. Ten millions, when it is worth a billion--a billion--a billion!" It was clear that Roch had lost all notion of things, and had Gaydon offered him ten billions the madman would have replied in exactly the same manner. The Count d'Artigas and Captain Spade had not taken their eyes off him. The Count was impassible as usual, though his brow had darkened, but the captain shook his head in a manner that implied plainly: "Decidedly there is nothing to hope from this poor devil!" After his outburst Roch fled across the garden crying hoarsely: "Billions! Billions!" Gaydon turned to the director and remarked: "I told you how it would be." Then he rushed after his patient, caught him by the arm, and led him, without any attempt at resistance, into the pavilion and closed the door. The Count d'Artigas remained alone with the director, Captain Spade having strolled off again in the direction of the wall at the bottom of the park. "You see I was not guilty of exaggeration, Count," said the director. "It is obvious to every one that Thomas Roch is becoming daily worse. In my opinion his case is a hopeless one. If all the money he asks for were offered to him, nothing could be got from him." "Very likely," replied the Count, "still, if his pecuniary demands are supremely absurd, he has none the less invented an engine the power of which is infinite, one might say." "That is the opinion expressed by competent persons, Count. But what he has discovered will ere long be lost with himself in one of these fits which are becoming more frequent and intense. Very soon even the motive of interest, the only sentiment that appears to have survived in his mind, will become extinct." "Mayhap the sentiment of hatred will remain, though," muttered the Count, as Spade joined them at the garden gate. CHAPTER III. KIDNAPPED. Half an hour later the Count d'Artigas and Captain Spade were following the beech-lined road that separated the Healthful House estate from the right bank of the Neuse. Both had taken leave of the director, the latter declaring himself greatly honored by their visit, and the former thanking him warmly for his courteous reception. A hundred-dollar bill left as a tip for the staff of the establishment had certainly not belied the Count's reputation for generosity. He was--there could be no doubt about it--a foreigner of the highest distinction, if distinction be measured by generosity. Issuing by the gate at the main entrance to Healthful House, they had skirted the wall that surrounded the property, and which was high enough to preclude the possibility of climbing it. Not a word passed between them for some time; the Count was deep in thought and Captain Spade was not in the habit of addressing him without being first spoken to. At last when they stood beneath the rear wall behind which, though it was not visible, the Count knew Pavilion No. 17 was situated, he said: "You managed, I presume, to thoroughly explore the place, and are acquainted with every detail of it?" "Certainly, _Count_" replied Captain Spade, emphasizing the title. "You are perfectly sure about it?" "Perfectly. I could go through the park with my eyes shut. If you still persist in carrying out your scheme the pavilion can be easily reached." "I do persist, Spade." "Notwithstanding Thomas Roch's mental condition?" "Notwithstanding his condition; and if we succeed in carrying him off----" "That is my affair. When night comes on I undertake to enter the park of Healthful House, and then the pavilion garden without being seen by anybody." "By the entrance gate?" "No, on this side." "Yes, but on this side there is the wall, and if you succeed in climbing it, how are you going to get over it again with Thomas Roch? What if the madman cries out--what if he should resist--what if his keeper gives the alarm?" "Don't worry yourself in the least about that. We have only got to go in and come out by this door." Captain Spade pointed to a narrow door let into the wall a few paces distant, and which was doubtless used by the staff of the establishment when they had occasion to go out by the river. "That is the way I propose to go in. It's much easier than scaling the wall with a ladder." "But the door is closed." "It will open." "Has it no bolts?" "Yes, but I shot them back while we were strolling about, and the director didn't notice what I had done." "How are you going to open it?" queried the Count, going to the door. "Here is the key," replied Spade, producing it. He had withdrawn it from the lock, where it happened to be, when he had unbolted the door. "Capital!" exclaimed the Count. "It couldn't be better. The business will be easier than I expected. Let us get back to the schooner. At eight o'clock one of the boats will put you ashore with five men." "Yes, five men will do," said Captain Spade. "There will be enough of them to effect our object even if the keeper is aroused and it becomes necessary to put him out of the way." "Put him out of the way--well, if it becomes absolutely necessary of course you must, but it would be better to seize him too and bring him aboard the _Ebba_ Who knows but what he has already learned a part of Roch's secret?" "True." "Besides, Thomas Roch is used to him, and I don't propose to make him change his habitudes in any way." This observation was accompanied by such a significant smile that Captain Spade could entertain no doubt as to the rôle reserved for the warder of Healthful House. The plan to kidnap them both was thus settled, and appeared to have every chance of being successful; unless during the couple of hours of daylight that yet remained it was noticed that the key of the door had been stolen and the bolts drawn back, Captain Spade and his men could at least count upon being able to enter the park, and the rest, the captain affirmed, would be easy enough. Thomas Roch was the only patient in the establishment isolated and kept under special surveillance. All the other invalids lived in the main building, or occupied pavilions in the front of the park. The plan was to try and seize Roch and Gaydon separately and bind and gag them before they could cry out. The Count d'Artigas and his companion wended their way to a creek where one of the _Ebba's_ boats awaited them. The schooner was anchored two cable lengths from the shore, her sails neatly rolled upon her yards, which were squared as neatly as those of a pleasure yacht or of a man-of-war. At the peak of the mainmast a narrow red pennant was gently swayed by the wind, which came in fitful puffs from the east. The Count and the captain jumped into the boat and a few strokes of the four oars brought them alongside of the schooner. They climbed on deck and going forward to the jib-boom, leaned over the starboard bulwark and gazed at an object that floated on the water a few strokes ahead of the vessel. It was a small buoy that was rocked by the ripple of the ebbing tide. Twilight gradually set in, and the outline of New-Berne on the left bank of the sinuous Neuse became more and more indistinct until it disappeared in the deepening shades of night. A mist set in from the sea, but though it obscured the moon it brought no sign of rain. The lights gleamed out one by one in the houses of the town. The fishing smacks came slowly up the river to their anchorage, impelled by the oars of their crews which struck the water with sharp, rhythmical strokes, and with their sails distended on the chance of catching an occasional puff of the dropping wind to help them along. A couple of steamers passed, sending up volumes of black smoke and myriads of sparks from their double stacks, and lashing the water into foam with their powerful paddles. At eight o'clock the Count d'Artigas appeared on the schooner's deck accompanied by a man about fifty years of age, to whom he remarked: "It is time to go, Serko." "Very well, I will tell Spade," replied Serko. At that moment the captain joined them. "You had better get ready to go," said the Count. "All is ready." "Be careful to prevent any alarm being given, and arrange matters so that no one will for a minute suspect that Thomas Roch and his keeper have been brought on board the _Ebba_." "They wouldn't find them if they came to look for them," observed Serko, shrugging his shoulders and laughing heartily as though he had perpetrated a huge joke. "Nevertheless, it is better not to arouse their suspicion," said d'Artigas. The boat was lowered, and Captain Spade and five sailors took their places in it. Four of the latter got out the oars. The boatswain, Effrondat, who was to remain in charge of the boat, went to the stern beside Captain Spade and took the tiller. "Good luck, Spade," said Serko with a smile, "and don't make more noise about it than if you were a gallant carrying off his lady-love." "I won't--unless that Gaydon chap--" "We must have both Roch and Gaydon," insisted the Count d'Artigas. "That is understood," replied Spade. The boat pushed off, and the sailors on the deck of the schooner watched it till it was lost to sight in the darkness. Pending its return, no preparations for the _Ebba's_ departure were made. Perhaps there was no intention of quitting the port after the men had been kidnapped. Besides, how could the vessel have reached the open sea? Not a breath of air was now stirring, and in half an hour the tide would be setting in again, and rising strongly and rapidly for several miles above New-Berne. Anchored, as has already been said, a couple of cable-lengths from the shore, the _Ebba_ might have been brought much nearer to it, for the water was deep enough, and this would have facilitated the task of the kidnappers when they returned from their expedition. If, however, the Count d'Artigas preferred to let the vessel stay where she was, he probably had his reasons. Not a soul was in sight on the bank, and the road, with its borders of beech trees that skirted the wall of Healthful House estate, was equally deserted. The boat was made fast to the shore. Then Captain Spade and his four sailors landed, leaving the boatswain in charge, and disappeared amid the trees. When they reached the wall Captain Spade stopped and the sailors drew up on each side of the doorway. The captain had only to turn the key in the lock and push the door, unless one of the servants, noticing that the door was not secured as usual, had bolted it. In this event their task would be an extremely difficult one, even if they succeeded in scaling the high wall. The captain put his ear to the key-hole and listened. Not a sound was to be heard in the park. Not even a leaf was rustling in the branches of the beeches under which they were standing. The surrounding country was wrapt in the profoundest silence. Captain Spade drew the key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock and turned it noiselessly. Then he cautiously pushed the door, which opened inward. Things were, then, just as he had left them, and no one had noticed the theft of the key. After assuring himself that nobody happened to be in the neighborhood of the pavilion the captain entered, followed by his men. The door was left wide open, so that they could beat a hurried and uninterrupted retreat in case of necessity. The trees and bushes in this shady part of the park were very thick, and it was so dark that it would not have been easy to distinguish the pavilion had not a light shone brightly in one of the windows. No doubt this was the window of the room occupied by Roch and his guardian, Gaydon, seeing that the latter never left the patient placed in his charge either by night or day. Captain Spade had expected to find him there. The party approached cautiously, taking the utmost precaution to avoid kicking a pebble or stepping on a twig, the noise of which might have revealed their presence. In this way they reached the door of the pavilion near which was the curtained window of the room in which the light was burning. But if the door was locked, how were they going to get in? Captain Spade must have asked himself. He had no key, and to attempt to effect an entrance through the window would be hazardous, for, unless Gaydon could be prevented from giving the alarm, he would rouse the whole establishment. There was no help for it, however. The essential was to get possession of Roch. If they could kidnap Gaydon, too, in conformity with the intentions of the Count d'Artigas, so much the better. If not-- Captain Spade crept stealthily to the window, and standing on tiptoe, looked in. Through an aperture in the curtain he could see all over the room. Gaydon was standing beside Thomas Roch, who had not yet recovered from the fit with which he had been attacked during the Count d'Artigas' visit. His condition necessitated special attention, and the warder was ministering to the patient under the direction of a third person. The latter was one of the doctors attached to Healthful House, and had been at once sent to the pavilion by the director when Roch's paroxysm came on. His presence of course rendered the situation more complicated and the work of the kidnappers more difficult. Roch, fully dressed, was extended upon a sofa. He was now fairly calm. The paroxysm, which was abating, would be followed by several hours of torpor and exhaustion. Just as Captain Spade peeped through the window the doctor was making preparations to leave. The Captain heard him say to Gaydon that his (the doctor's) presence was not likely to be required any more that night, and that there was nothing to be done beyond following the instructions he had given. The doctor then walked towards the door, which, it will be remembered, was close to the window in front of which Spade and his men were standing. If they remained where they were they could not fail to be seen, not only by the doctor, but by the warder, who was accompanying him to the door. Before they made their appearance, however, the sailors, at a sign from their chief, had dispersed and hidden themselves behind the bushes, while Spade himself crouched in the shadow beneath the window. Luckily Gaydon had not brought the lamp with him, so that the captain was in no danger of being seen. As he was about to take leave of Gaydon, the doctor stopped on the step and remarked: "This is one of the worst attacks our patient has had. One or two more like that and he will lose the little reason he still possesses." "Just so," said Gaydon. "I wonder that the director doesn't prohibit all visitors from entering the pavilion. Roch owes his present attack to a Count d'Artigas, for whose amusement harmful questions were put to him." "I will call the director's attention to the matter," responded the doctor. He then descended the steps and Gaydon, leaving the door of the pavilion ajar, accompanied him to the end of the path. When they had gone Captain Spade stood up, and his men rejoined him. Had they not better profit by the chance thus unexpectedly afforded them to enter the room and secure Roch, who was in a semi-comatose condition, and then await Gaydon's return, and seize the warder as he entered? This would have involved considerable risk. Gaydon, at a glance, would perceive that his patient was missing and raise an alarm; the doctor would come running back; the whole staff of Healthful House would turn out, and Spade would not have time to escape with his precious prisoner and lock the door in the wall after him. He did not have much chance to deliberate about it, for the warder was heard returning along the gravel path. Spade decided that the best thing to be done was to spring upon him as he passed and stifle his cries and overpower him before he could attempt to offer any resistance. The carrying off of the mad inventor would be easy enough, inasmuch as he was unconscious, and could not raise a finger to help himself. Gaydon came round a clump of bushes and approached the entrance to the pavilion. As he raised his foot to mount the steps the four sailors sprang upon him, bore him backwards to the ground, and had gagged him, securely bound him hand and foot, and bandaged his eyes before he began to realize what had happened. Two of the men then kept guard over him, while Captain Spade and the others entered the house. As the captain had surmised, Thomas Roch had sunk into such a torpor that he could have heard nothing of what had been going on outside. Reclining at full length, with his eyes closed, he might have been taken for a dead man but for his heavy breathing. There was no need either to bind or gag him. One man took him by the head and another by the feet and started off with him to the schooner. Captain Spade was the last to quit the house after extinguishing the lamp and closing the door behind him. In this way there was no reason to suppose that the inmates would be missed before morning. Gaydon was carried off in the same way as Thomas Roch had been. The two remaining sailors lifted him and bore him quietly but rapidly down the path to the door in the wall. The park was pitch dark. Not even a glimmer of the lights in the windows of Healthful House could be seen through the thick foliage. Arrived at the wall, Spade, who had led the way, stepped aside to allow the sailors with their burdens to pass through, then followed and closed and locked the door. He put the key in his pocket, intending to throw it into the Neuse as soon as they were safely on board the schooner. There was no one on the road, nor on the bank of the river. The party made for the boat, and found that Effrondat, the boatswain, had made all ready to receive them. Thomas Roch and Gaydon were laid in the bottom of the boat, and the sailors again took their places at the oars. "Hurry up, Effrondat, and cast off the painter," ordered the captain. The boatswain obeyed, and pushed the boat off with his foot as he scrambled in. The men bent to their oars and rowed rapidly to the schooner, which was easily distinguishable, having hung out a light at her mizzenmast head. In two minutes they were alongside. The Count d'Artigas was leaning on the bulwarks by the gangway. "All right, Spade?" he questioned. "Yes, sir, all right!" "Both of them?" "Both the madman and his keeper." "Doesn't anybody know about it up at Healthful House? "Not a soul." It was not likely that Gaydon, whose eyes and ears were bandaged, but who preserved all his sang-froid, could have recognized the voices of the Count d'Artigas and Captain Spade. Nor did he have the chance to. No attempt was immediately made to hoist him on board. He had been lying in the bottom of the boat alongside the schooner for fully half an hour, he calculated, before he felt himself lifted, and then lowered, doubtless to the bottom of the hold. The kidnapping having been accomplished it would seem that it only remained for the _Ebba_ to weigh anchor, descend the estuary and make her way out to sea through Pamlico Sound. Yet no preparations for departure were made. Was it not dangerous to stay where they were after their daring raid? Had the Count d'Artigas hidden his prisoners so securely as to preclude the possibility of their being discovered if the _Ebba_, whose presence in proximity to Healthful House could not fail to excite suspicion, received a visit from the New-Berne police? However this might have been, an hour after the return of the expedition, every soul on board save the watch--the Count d'Artigas, Serko, and Captain Spade in their respective cabins, and the crew in the fore-castle, were sound asleep. CHAPTER IV. THE SCHOONER EBBA. It was not till the next morning, and then very leisurely, that the _Ebba_ began to make preparations for her departure. From the extremity of New-Berne quay the crew might have been seen holystoning the deck, after which they loosened the reef lines, under the direction of Effrondat, the boatswain, hoisted in the boats and cleared the halyards. At eight o'clock the Count d'Artigas had not yet appeared on deck. His companion, Serko the engineer, as he was called on board, had not quitted his cabin. Captain Spade was strolling quietly about giving orders. The _Ebba_ would have made a splendid racing yacht, though she had never participated in any of the yacht races either on the North American or British coasts. The height of her masts, the extent of the canvas she carried, her shapely, raking hull, denoted her to be a craft of great speed, and her general lines showed that she was also built to weather the roughest gales at sea. In a favorable wind she would probably make twelve knots an hour. Notwithstanding these advantages, however, she must in a dead calm necessarily suffer from the same disadvantages as other sailing vessels, and it might have been supposed that the Count d'Artigas would have preferred a steam-yacht with which he could have gone anywhere, at any time, in any weather. But apparently he was satisfied to stick to the old method, even when he made his long trips across the Atlantic. On this particular morning the wind was blowing gently from the west, which was very favorable to the _Ebba_, and would enable her to stand straight out of the Neuse, across Pamlico Sound, and through one of the inlets that led to the open sea. At ten o'clock the _Ebba_ was still rocking lazily at anchor, her stem up stream and her cable tautened by the rapidly ebbing tide. The small buoy that on the previous evening had been moored near the schooner was no longer to be seen, and had doubtless been hoisted in. Suddenly a gun boomed out and a slight wreath of white smoke arose from the battery. It was answered by other reports from the guns on the chain of islands along the coast. At this moment the Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko appeared on deck. Captain Spade went to meet them. "Guns barking," he said laconically. "We expected it," replied Serko, shrugging his shoulders. "They are signals to close the passes." "What has that to do with us?" asked the Count d'Artigas quietly. "Nothing at all," said the engineer. They all, of course, knew that the alarm-guns indicated that the disappearance of Thomas Roch and the warder Gaydon from Healthful House had been discovered. At daybreak the doctor had gone to Pavilion No. 17 to see how his patient had passed the night, and had found no one there. He immediately notified the director, who had the grounds thoroughly searched. It was then discovered that the door in rear of the park was unbolted, and that, though locked, the key had been taken away. It was evident that Roch and his attendant had been carried out that way. But who were the kidnappers? No one could possibly imagine. All that could be ascertained was that at half-past seven on the previous night one of the doctors had attended Thomas Roch, who was suffering from one of his fits, and that when the medical man had left him the invalid was in an unconscious condition. What had happened after the doctor took leave of Gaydon at the end of the garden-path could not even be conjectured. The news of the disappearance was telegraphed to New Berne, and thence to Raleigh. On receipt of it the Governor had instantly wired orders that no vessel was to be allowed to quit Pamlico Sound without having been first subjected to a most rigorous search. Another dispatch ordered the cruiser _Falcon_, which was stationed in the port, to carry out the Governor's instructions in this respect. At the same time measures were taken to keep a strict lookout in every town and village in the State. The Count d'Artigas could see the _Falcon_, which was a couple of miles away to the east in the estuary, getting steam up and making hurried preparations to carry out her mission. It would take at least an hour before the warship could be got ready to steam out, and the schooner might by that time have gained a good start. "Shall I weigh anchor?" demanded Captain Spade. "Yes, as we have a fair wind; but you can take your time about it," replied the Count d'Artigas. "The passes of Pamlico Sound will be under observation," observed Engineer Serko, "and no vessel will be able to get out without receiving a visit from gentlemen as inquisitive as they will be indiscreet." "Never mind, get under way all the same," ordered the Count. "When the officers of the cruiser or the Custom-House officers have been over the _Ebba_ the embargo will be raised. I shall be indeed surprised if we are not allowed to go about our business." "With a thousand pardons for the liberty taken, and best wishes for a good voyage and speedy return," chuckled Engineer Serko, following the phrase with a loud and prolonged laugh. When the news was received at New-Berne, the authorities at first were puzzled to know whether the missing inventor and his keeper had fled or been carried off. As, however, Roch's flight could not have taken place without the connivance of Gaydon, this supposition was speedily abandoned. In the opinion of the director and management of Healthful House the warder was absolutely above suspicion. They must both, then, have been kidnapped. It can easily be imagined what a sensation the news caused in the town. What! the French inventor who had been so closely guarded had disappeared, and with him the secret of the wonderful fulgurator that nobody had been able to worm out of him? Might not the most serious consequences follow? Might not the discovery of the new engine be lost to America forever? If the daring act had been perpetrated on behalf of another nation, might not that nation, having Thomas Roch in its power, be eventually able to extract from him what the Federal Government had vainly endeavored to obtain? And was it reasonable, was it permissible, to suppose for an instant that he had been carried off for the benefit of a private individual? Certainly not, was the emphatic reply to the latter question, which was too ridiculous to be entertained. Therefore the whole power of the State was employed in an effort to recover the inventor. In every county of North Carolina a special surveillance was organized on every road and at every railroad station, and every house in town and country was searched. Every port from Wilmington to Norfolk was closed, and no craft of any description could leave without being thoroughly overhauled. Not only the cruiser _Falcon_, but every available cutter and launch was sent out with orders to patrol Pamlico Sound and board yachts, merchant vessels and fishing smacks indiscriminately whether anchored or not and search them down to the keelson. Still the crew of the _Ebba_ prepared calmly to weigh anchor, and the Count d'Artigas did not appear to be in the least concerned at the orders of the authorities and at the consequences that would ensue, if Thomas Roch and his keeper, Gaydon, were found on board. At last all was ready, the crew manned the capstan bars, the sails were hoisted, and the schooner glided gracefully through the water towards the Sound. Twenty miles from New-Berne the estuary curves abruptly and shoots off towards the northwest for about the same distance, gradually widening until it empties itself into Pamlico Sound. The latter is a vast expanse about seventy miles across from Sivan Island to Roanoke. On the seaward side stretches a chain of long and narrow islands, forming a natural breakwater north and south from Cape Lookout to Cape Hatteras and from the latter to Cape Henry, near Norfolk City, in Virginia. Numerous beacons on the islands and islets form an easy guide for vessels at night seeking refuge from the Atlantic gales, and once inside the chain they are certain of finding plenty of good anchoring grounds. Several passes afford an outlet from the Sound to the sea. Beyond Sivan Island lighthouse is Ocracoke inlet, and next is the inlet of Hatteras. There are also three others known as Logger Head inlet, New inlet, and Oregon inlet. The Ocracoke was the one nearest the _Ebba_, and she could make it without tacking, but the _Falcon_ was searching all vessels that passed through. This did not, however, make any particular difference, for by this time all the passes, upon which the guns of the forts had been trained, were guarded by government vessels. The _Ebba_, therefore, kept on her way, neither trying to avoid nor offering to approach the searchers. She seemed to be merely a pleasure-yacht out for a morning sail. No attempt had up to that time been made to accost her. Was she, then, specially privileged, and to be spared the bother of being searched? Was the Count d'Artigas considered too high and mighty a personage to be thus molested, and delayed even for an hour? It was unlikely, for though he was regarded as a distinguished foreigner who lived the life of luxury enjoyed by the favored of fortune, no one, as a matter of fact, knew who he was, nor whence he came, nor whither he was going. The schooner sped gracefully over the calm waters of the sound, her flag--a gold crescent in the angle of a red field--streaming proudly in the breeze. Count d'Artigas was cosily ensconced in a basket-work chair on the after-deck, conversing with Engineer Serko and Captain Spade. "They don't seem in a hurry to board us," remarked Serko. "They can come whenever they think proper," said the Count in a tone of supreme indifference. "No doubt they are waiting for us at the entrance to the inlet," suggested Captain Spade. "Let them wait," grunted the wealthy nobleman. Then he relapsed into his customary unconcerned impassibility. Captain Spade's hypothesis was doubtless correct. The _Falcon_ had as yet made no move towards the schooner, but would almost certainly do so as soon as the latter reached the inlet, and the Count would have to submit to a search of his vessel if he wished to reach the open sea. How was it then that he manifested such extraordinary unconcern? Were Thomas Roch and Gaydon so safely hidden that their hiding-place could not possibly be discovered? The thing was possible, but perhaps the Count d'Artigas would not have been quite so confident had he been aware that the _Ebba_ had been specially signalled to the warship and revenue cutters as a suspect. The Count's visit to Healthful House on the previous day had now attracted particular attention to him and his schooner. Evidently, at the time, the director could have had no reason to suspect the motive of his visit. But a few hours later, Thomas Roch and his keeper had been carried off. No one else from outside had been near the pavilion that day. It was admitted that it would have been an easy matter for the Count's companion, while the former distracted the director's attention, to push back the bolts of the door in the wall and steal the key. Then the fact that the _Ebba_ was anchored in rear of, and only a few hundred yards from, the estate, was in itself suspicious. Nothing would have been easier for the desperadoes than to enter by the door, surprise their victims, and carry them off to the schooner. These suspicions, neither the director nor the _personnel_ of the establishment had at first liked to give expression to, but when the _Ebba_ was seen to weigh anchor and head for the open sea, they appeared to be confirmed. They were communicated to the authorities of New-Berne, who immediately ordered the commander of the _Falcon_ to intercept the schooner, to search her minutely high and low, and from stem to stern, and on no account to let her proceed, unless he was absolutely certain that Roch and Gaydon were not on board. Assuredly the Count d'Artigas could have had no idea that his vessel was the object of such stringent orders; but even if he had, it is questionable whether this superbly haughty and disdainful nobleman would have manifested any particular anxiety. Towards three o'clock, the warship which was cruising before the inlet, after having sent search parties aboard a few fishing-smacks, suddenly manoeuvred to the entrance of the pass, and awaited the approaching schooner. The latter surely did not imagine that she could force a passage in spite of the cruiser, or escape from a vessel propelled by steam. Besides, had she attempted such a foolhardy trick, a couple of shots from the _Falcon's_ guns would speedily have constrained her to lay to. Presently a boat, manned by two officers and ten sailors, put off from the cruiser and rowed towards the _Ebba_. When they were only about half a cable's length off, one of the men rose and waved a flag. "That's a signal to stop," said Engineer Serko. "Precisely," remarked the Count d'Artigas. "We shall have to lay to." "Then lay to." Captain Spade went forward and gave the necessary orders, and in a few minutes the vessel slackened speed, and was soon merely drifting with the tide. The _Falcon's_ boat pulled alongside, and a man in the bows held on to her with a boat-hook. The gangway was lowered by a couple of hands on the schooner, and the two officers, followed by eight of their men, climbed on deck. They found the crew of the _Ebba_ drawn up in line on the forecastle. The officer in command of the boarding-party--a first lieutenant--advanced towards the owner of the schooner, and the following questions and answers were exchanged: "This schooner belongs to the Count d'Artigas, to whom, I presume, I have the honor of speaking?" "Yes, sir." "What is her name?" "The _Ebba_." "She is commanded by?--" "Captain Spade." "What is his nationality?" "Hindo-Malay." The officer scrutinized the schooner's flag, while the Count d'Artigas added: "Will you be good enough to tell me, sir, to what circumstance I owe the pleasure of your visit on board my vessel?" "Orders have been received," replied the officer, "to search every vessel now anchored in Pamlico Sound, or which attempts to leave it." He did not deem it necessary to insist upon this point since the _Ebba_, above every other, was to be subjected to the bother of a rigorous examination. "You, of course, sir, have no intention of refusing me permission to go over your schooner?" "Assuredly not, sir. My vessel is at your disposal from peaks to bilges. Only I should like to know why all the vessels which happen to be in Pamlico Sound to-day are being subjected to this formality." "I see no reason why you should not be informed, Monsieur the Count," replied the officer. "The governor of North Carolina has been apprised that Healthful House has been broken into and two persons kidnapped, and the authorities merely wish to satisfy themselves that the persons carried off have not been embarked during the night." "Is it possible?" exclaimed the Count, feigning surprise. "And who are the persons who have thus disappeared from Healthful House?" "An inventor--a madman--and his keeper." "A madman, sir? Do you, may I ask, refer to the Frenchman, Thomas Roch?" "The same." "The Thomas Roch whom I saw yesterday during my visit to the establishment--whom I questioned in presence of the director--who was seized with a violent paroxysm just as Captain Spade and I were leaving?" The officer observed the stranger with the keenest attention, in an effort to surprise anything suspicious in his attitude or remarks. "It is incredible!" added the Count, as though he had just heard about the outrage for the first time. "I can easily understand, sir, how uneasy the authorities must be," he went on, "in view of Thomas Roch's personality, and I cannot but approve of the measures taken. I need hardly say that neither the French inventor nor his keeper is on board the _Ebba_. However, you can assure yourself of the fact by examining the schooner as minutely as you desire. Captain Spade, show these gentlemen over the vessel." Then saluting the lieutenant of the _Falcon_ coldly, the Count d'Artigas sank into his deck-chair again and replaced his cigar between his lips, while the two officers and eight sailors, conducted by Captain Spade, began their search. In the first place they descended the main hatchway to the after saloon--a luxuriously-appointed place, filled with art objects of great value, hung with rich tapestries and hangings, and wainscotted with costly woods. It goes without saying that this and the adjoining cabins were searched with a care that could not have been surpassed by the most experienced detectives. Moreover, Captain Spade assisted them by every means in his power, obviously anxious that they should not preserve the slightest suspicion of the _Ebba's_ owner. After the grand saloon and cabins, the elegant dining-saloon was visited. Then the cook's galley, Captain Spade's cabin, and the quarters of the crew in the forecastle were overhauled, but no sign of Thomas Roch or Gaydon was to be seen. Next, every inch of the hold, etc., was examined, with the aid of a couple of lanterns. Water-kegs, wine, brandy, whisky and beer barrels, biscuit-boxes, in fact, all the provision boxes and everything the hold contained, including the stock of coal, was moved and probed, and even the bilges were scrutinized, but all in vain. Evidently the suspicion that the Count d'Artigas had carried off the missing men was unfounded and unjust. Even a rat could not have escaped the notice of the vigilant searchers, leave alone two men. When they returned on deck, however, the officers, as a matter of precaution looked into the boats hanging on the davits, and punched the lowered sails, with the same result. It only remained for them, therefore, to take leave of the Count d'Artigas. "You must pardon us for having disturbed you, Monsieur the Count," said the lieutenant. "You were compelled to obey your orders, gentlemen." "It was merely a formality, of course," ventured the officer. By a slight inclination of the head the Count signified that he was quite willing to accept this euphemism. "I assure you, gentlemen, that I have had no hand in this kidnapping." "We can no longer believe so, Monsieur the Count, and will withdraw." "As you please. Is the _Ebba_ now free to proceed?" "Certainly." "Then _au revoir_, gentlemen, _au revoir_, for I am an _habitué_ of this coast and shall soon be back again. I hope that ere my return you will have discovered the author of the outrage, and have Thomas Roch safely back in Healthful House. It is a consummation devoutly to be wished in the interest of the United States--I might even say of the whole world." The two officers courteously saluted the Count, who responded with a nod. Captain Spade accompanied them to the gangway, and they were soon making for the cruiser, which had steamed near to pick them up. Meanwhile the breeze had freshened considerably, and when, at a sign from d'Artigas, Captain Spade set sail again, the _Ebba_ skimmed swiftly through the inlet, and half an hour after was standing out to sea. For an hour she continued steering east-northeast, and then, the wind, being merely a land breeze, dropped, and the schooner lay becalmed, her sails limp, and her flag drooping like a wet rag. It seemed that it would be impossible for the vessel to continue her voyage that night unless a breeze sprang up, and of this there was no sign. Since the schooner had cleared the inlet Captain Spade had stood in the bows gazing into the water, now to port, now to starboard, as if on the lookout for something. Presently he shouted in a stentorian voice: "Furl sail!" The sailors rushed to their posts, and in an instant the sails came rattling down and were furled. Was it Count d'Artigas' intention to wait there till daybreak brought a breeze with it? Presumably, or the sails would have remained hoisted to catch the faintest puff. A boat was lowered and Captain Spade jumped into it, accompanied by a sailor, who paddled it towards an object that was floating on the water a few yards away. This object was a small buoy, similar to that which had floated on the bosom of the Neuse when the _Ebba_ lay off Healthful House. The buoy, with a towline affixed to it, was lifted into the boat that was then paddled to the bow of the _Ebba_, from the deck of which another hawser was cast to the captain, who made it fast to the towline of the buoy. Having dropped the latter overboard again, the captain and the sailor returned to the ship and the boat was hoisted in. Almost immediately the hawser tautened, and the _Ebba_, though not a stitch of canvas had been set, sped off in an easterly direction at a speed that could not have been less than ten knots an hour. Night was falling fast, and soon the rapidly receding lights along the American coast were lost in the mist on the horizon. CHAPTER V. WHERE AM I? (Notes by Simon Hart, the Engineer.) Where am I? What has happened since the sudden aggression of which I was the victim near the pavilion? I had just quitted the doctor, and was about to mount the steps, close the door and resume my post beside Thomas Roch when several men sprang upon me and knocked me down. Who are they? My eyes having been bandaged I was unable to recognize them. I could not cry for help, having been gagged. I could make no resistance, for they had bound me hand and foot. Thus powerless, I felt myself lifted and carried about one hundred paces, then hoisted, then lowered, then laid down. Where? Where? And Thomas Roch, what has become of him? It must have been he rather than I they were after. I was but Gaydon, the warder. None suspected that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, nor could they have suspected my nationality. Why, therefore, should they have desired to kidnap a mere hospital attendant? There can consequently be no doubt that the French inventor has been carried off; and if he was snatched from Healthful House it must have been in the hope of forcing his secret from him. But I am reasoning on the supposition that Thomas Roch was carried off with me. Is it so? Yes--it must be--it is. I can entertain no doubt whatever about it. I have not fallen into the hands of malefactors whose only intention is robbery. They would not have acted in this way. After rendering it impossible for me to cry out, after having thrown me into a clump of bushes in the corner of the garden, after having kidnapped Thomas Roch they would not have shut me up--where I now am. Where? This is the question which I have been asking myself for hours without being able to answer it. However, one thing is certain, and that is that I have embarked upon an extraordinary adventure, that will end?--In what manner I know not--I dare not even imagine what the upshot of it will be. Anyhow, it is my intention to commit to memory, minute by minute, the least circumstance, and then, if it be possible, to jot down my daily impressions. Who knows what the future has in store for me? And who knows but what, in my new position, I may finally discover the secret of Roth's fulgurator? If I am to be delivered one day, this secret must be made known, as well as who is the author, or who are the authors, of this criminal outrage, which may be attended with such serious consequences. I continually revert to this question, hoping that some incident will occur to enlighten me: Where am I? Let me begin from the beginning. After having been carried by the head and feet from Healthful House, I felt that I was laid, without any brutality, I must admit, upon the stretchers of a row-boat of small dimensions. The rocking caused by the weight of my body was succeeded shortly afterwards by a further rocking--which I attribute to the embarking of a second person. Can there be room for doubt that it was Thomas Roch? As far as he was concerned they would not have had to take the precaution of gagging him, or of bandaging his eyes, or of binding him. He must still have been in a state of prostration which precluded the possibility of his making any resistance, or even of being conscious of what was being done. The proof that I am not deceiving myself is that I could smell the unmistakable odor of ether. Now, yesterday, before taking leave of us, the doctor administered a few drops of ether to the invalid and--I remember distinctly--a little of this extremely volatile substance fell upon his clothing while he was struggling in his fit. There is therefore nothing astonishing in the fact that this odor should have clung to him, nor that I should have distinguished it, even beneath the bandages that covered my face. Yes, Thomas Roch was extended near me in the boat. And to think that had I not returned to the pavilion when I did, had I delayed a few minutes longer, I should have found him gone! Let me think. What could have inspired that Count d'Artigas with the unfortunate curiosity to visit Healthful House? If he had not been allowed to see my patient nothing of the kind would have happened. Talking to Thomas Roch about his inventions brought on a fit of exceptional violence. The director is primarily to blame for not heeding my warning. Had he listened to me the doctor would not have been called upon to attend him, the door of the pavilion would have been locked, and the attempt of the band would have been frustrated. As to the interest there could have been in carrying off Thomas Roch, either on behalf of a private person or of one of the states of the Old World, it is so evident that there is no need to dwell upon it. However, I can be perfectly easy about the result. No one can possibly succeed in learning what for fifteen months I have been unable to ascertain. In the condition of intellectual collapse into which my fellow-countryman has fallen, all attempts to force his secret from him will be futile. Moreover, he is bound to go from bad to worse until he is hopelessly insane, even as regards those points upon which he has hitherto preserved his reason intact. After all, however, it is less about Thomas Roch than myself that I must think just now, and this is what I have experienced, to resume the thread of my adventure where I dropped it: After more rocking caused by our captors jumping into it, the boat is rowed off. The distance must be very short, for a minute after we bumped against something. I surmise that this something must be the hull of a ship, and that we have run alongside. There is some scurrying and excitement. Indistinctly through my bandages I can hear orders being given and a confused murmur of voices that lasts for about five minutes, but I cannot distinguish a word that is said. The only thought that occurs to me now is that they will hoist me on board and lower me to the bottom of the hold and keep me there till the vessel is far out at sea. Obviously they will not allow either Thomas Roch or his keeper to appear on deck as long as she remains in Pamlico Sound. My conjecture is correct. Still gagged and bound I am at last lifted by the legs and shoulders. My impression, however, is that I am not being raised over a ship's bulwark, but on the contrary am being lowered. Are they going to drop me overboard to drown like a rat, so as to get rid of a dangerous witness? This thought flashes into my brain, and a quiver of anguish passes through my body from head to foot. Instinctively I draw a long breath, and my lungs are filled with the precious air they will speedily lack. No, there is no immediate cause for alarm. I am laid with comparative gentleness upon a hard floor, which gives me the sensation of metallic coldness. I am lying at full length. To my extreme surprise, I find that the ropes with which I was bound have been untied and loosened. The tramping about around me has ceased. The next instant I hear a door closed with a bang. Where am I? And, in the first place, am I alone? I tear the gag from my mouth, and the bandages from my head. It is dark--pitch dark. Not a ray of light, not even the vague perception of light that the eyes preserve when the lids are tightly closed. I shout--I shout repeatedly. No response. My voice is smothered. The air I breathe is hot, heavy, thick, and the working of my lungs will become difficult, impossible, unless the store of air is renewed. I extend my arms and feel about me, and this is what I conclude: I am in a compartment with sheet-iron walls, which cannot measure more than four cubic yards. I can feel that the walls are of bolted plates, like the sides of a ship's water-tight compartment. I can feel that the entrance to it is by a door on one side, for the hinges protrude somewhat. This door must open inwards, and it is through here, no doubt, that I was carried in. I place my ear to the door, but not a sound can be heard. The silence is as profound as the obscurity--a strange silence that is only broken by the sonorousness of the metallic floor when I move about. None of the dull noises usually to be heard on board a ship is perceptible, not even the rippling of the water along the hull. Nor is there the slightest movement to be felt; yet, in the estuary of the Neuse, the current is always strong enough, to cause a marked oscillation to any vessel. But does the compartment in which I am confined, really belong to a ship? How do I know that I am afloat on the Neuse, though I was conveyed a short distance in a boat? Might not the latter, instead of heading for a ship in waiting for it, opposite Healthful House, have been rowed to a point further down the river? In this case is it not possible that I was carried into the cellar of a house? This would explain the complete immobility of the compartment. It is true that the walls are of bolted plates, and that there is a vague smell of salt water, that odor _sui generis_ which generally pervades the interior of a ship, and which there is no mistaking. An interval, which I estimate at about four hours, must have passed since my incarceration. It must therefore be near midnight. Shall I be left here in this way till morning? Luckily, I dined at six o'clock, which is the regular dinner-hour at Healthful House. I am not suffering from hunger. In fact I feel more inclined to sleep than to eat. Still, I hope I shall have energy enough to resist the inclination. I will not give way to it. I must try and find out what is going on outside. But neither sound nor light can penetrate this iron box. Wait a minute, though; perhaps by listening intently I may hear some sound, however feeble. Therefore I concentrate all my vital power in my sense of hearing. Moreover, I try--in case I should really not be on _terra firma_--to distinguish some movement, some oscillation of my prison. Admitting that the ship is still at anchor, it cannot be long before it will start--otherwise I shall have to give up imagining why Thomas Roch and I have been carried off. At last--it is no illusion--a slight rolling proves to me, beyond a doubt, that I am not on land. We are evidently moving, but the motion is scarcely perceptible. It is not a jerky, but rather a gliding movement, as though we were skimming through the water without effort, on an even keel. Let me consider the matter calmly. I am on board a vessel that was anchored in the Neuse, waiting under sail or steam, for the result of the expedition. A boat brought me aboard, but, I repeat, I did not feel that I was lifted over her bulwarks. Was I passed through a porthole? But after all, what does it matter? Whether I was lowered into the hold or not, I am certainly upon something that is floating and moving. No doubt I shall soon be let out, together with Thomas Roch, supposing them to have locked him up as carefully as they have me. By being let out, I mean being accorded permission to go on deck. It will not be for some hours to come, however, that is certain, for they won't want us to be seen, so that there is no chance of getting a whiff of fresh air till we are well out at sea. If it is a sailing vessel, she must have waited for a breeze--for the breeze that freshens off shore at daybreak, and is favorable to ships navigating Pamlico Sound. It certainly cannot be a steamer. I could not have failed to smell the oil and other odors of the engine-room. And then I should feel the trembling of the machinery, the jerks of the pistons, and the movements of the screws or paddles. The best thing to do is to wait patiently. I shan't be taken out of this hole until to-morrow, anyway. Moreover, if I am not released, somebody will surely bring me something to eat. There is no reason to suppose that they intend to starve me to death. They wouldn't have taken the trouble to bring me aboard, but would have dropped me to the bottom of the river had they been desirous of getting rid of me. Once we are out at sea, what will they have to fear from me? No one could hear my shouts. As to demanding an explanation and making a fuss, it would be useless. Besides, what am I to the men who have carried us off? A mere hospital attendant--one Gaydon, who is of no consequence. It is Thomas Roch they were after. I was taken along too because I happened to return to the pavilion at the critical moment. At any rate, no matter what happens, no matter who our kidnappers may be, no matter where we are taken, I shall stick to this resolution: I will continue to play my role of warder. No one, no! none, can suspect that Gaydon is Simon Hart, the engineer. There are two advantages in this: in the first place, they will take no notice of a poor devil of a warder, and in the second, I may be able to solve the mystery surrounding this plot and turn my knowledge to profit, if I succeed in making my escape. But whither are my thoughts wandering? I must perforce wait till we arrive at our destination before thinking of escaping. It will be time enough to bother about that when the occasion presents itself. Until then the essential is that they remain ignorant as to my identity, and they cannot, and shall not, know who I am. I am now certain that we are going through the water. But there is one thing that puzzles me. It is not a sailing vessel, neither can it be a steamer. Yet it is incontestably propelled by some powerful machine. There are none of the noises, nor is there the trembling that accompanies the working of steam engines. The movement of the vessel is more continuous and regular, it is a sort of direct rotation that is communicated by the motor, whatever the latter may be. No mistake is possible: the ship is propelled by some special mechanism. But what is it? Is it one of those turbines that have been spoken of lately, which, fitted into a submerged tube, are destined to replace the ordinary screw, it being claimed that they utilize the resistance of the water better than the latter and give increased speed to a ship? In a few hours' time I shall doubtless know all about this means of locomotion. Meanwhile there is another thing that equally puzzles me. There is not the slightest rolling or pitching. How is it that Pamlico Sound is so extraordinarily calm? The varying currents continuously ruffle the surface of the Sound, even if nothing else does. It is true the tide may be out, and I remember that last night the wind had fallen altogether. Still, no matter, the thing is inexplicable, for a ship propelled by machinery, no matter at what speed she may be going, always oscillates more or less, and I cannot perceive the slightest rocking. Such are the thoughts with which my mind is persistently filled. Despite an almost overpowering desire to sleep, despite the torpor that is coming upon me in this suffocating atmosphere, I am resolved not to close my eyes. I will keep awake till daylight, and there will be no daylight for me till it is let into my prison from the outside. Perhaps even if the door were open it would not penetrate to this black hole, and I shall probably not see it again until I am taken on deck. I am squatting in a corner of my prison, for I have no stool or anything to sit upon, but as my eyelids are heavy and I feel somnolent in spite of myself, I get up and walk about. Then I wax wrathful, anger fills my soul, I beat upon the iron walls with my fists, and shout for help. In vain! I hurt my hands against the bolts of the plates, and no one answers my cries. Such conduct is unworthy of me. I flattered myself that I would remain calm under all circumstances and here I am acting like a child. The absence of any rolling or lurching movement at least proves that we are not yet at sea. Instead of crossing Pamlico Sound, may we not be going in the opposite direction, up the River Neuse? No! What would they go further inland for? If Thomas Roch has been carried off from Healthful House, his captors obviously mean to take him out of the United States--probably to a distant island in the Atlantic, or to some point on the European continent. It is, therefore, not up the Neuse that our maritime machine, whatever it may be, is going, but across Pamlico Sound, which must be as calm as a mirror. Very well, then, when we get to sea I shall soon, know, for the vessel will rock right enough in the swell off shore, even though there be no wind,--unless I am aboard a battleship, or big cruiser, and this I fancy can hardly be! But hark! If I mistake not--no, it was not imagination--I hear footsteps. Some one is approaching the side of the compartment where the door is. One of the crew no doubt. Are they going to let me out at last? I can now hear voices. A conversation is going on outside the door, but it is carried on in a language that I do not understand. I shout to them--I shout again, but no answer is vouchsafed. There is nothing to do, then, but wait, wait, wait! I keep repeating the word and it rings in my ears like a bell. Let me try to calculate how long I have been here. The ship must have been under way for at least four or five hours. I reckon it must be past midnight, but I cannot tell, for unfortunately my watch is of no use to me in this Cimmerian darkness. Now, if we have been going for five hours, we must have cleared Pamlico Sound, whether we issued by Ocracoke or Hatteras inlet, and must be off the coast a good mile, at least. Yet I haven't felt any motion from the swell of the sea. It is inexplicable, incredible! Come now, have I made a mistake? Am I the dupe of an illusion? Am I not imprisoned in the hold of a ship under way? Another hour has passed and the movement of the ship suddenly ceases; I realize perfectly that she is stationary. Has she reached her destination? In this event we can only be in one of the coast ports to the north or south of Pamlico Sound. But why should Thomas Roch be landed again? The abduction must soon have been discovered, and our kidnappers would run the greatest risk of falling into the hands of the authorities if they attempted to disembark. However this may be, if the vessel is coming to anchor I shall hear the noise of the chain as it is paid out, and feel the jerk as the ship is brought up. I know that sound and that jerk well from experience, and I am bound to hear and feel them in a minute or two. I wait--I listen. A dead and disquieting silence reigns on board. I begin to wonder whether I am not the only living being in the ship. Now I feel an irresistible torpor coming over me. The air is vitiated. I cannot breathe. My chest is bursting. I try to resist, but it is impossible to do so. The temperature rises to such a degree that I am compelled to divest myself of part of my clothing. Then I lie me down in a corner. My heavy eyelids close, and I sink into a prostration that eventually forces me into heavy slumber. How long have I been asleep? I cannot say. Is it night? Is it day? I know not. I remark, however, that I breathe more easily, and that the air is no longer poisoned carbonic acid. Was the air renewed while I slept? Has the door been opened? Has anybody been in here? Yes, here is the proof of it! In feeling about, my hand has come in contact with a mug filled with a liquid that exhales an inviting odor. I raise it to my lips, which, are burning, for I am suffering such an agony of thirst that I would even drink brackish water. It is ale--an ale of excellent quality--which refreshes and comforts me, and I drain the pint to the last drop. But if they have not condemned me to die of thirst, neither have they condemned me to die of hunger, I suppose? No, for in one of the corners I find a basket, and this basket contains some bread and cold meat. I fall to, eating greedily, and my strength little by little returns. Decidedly, I am not so abandoned as I thought I was. Some one entered this obscure hole, and the open door admitted a little of the oxygen from the outside, without which I should have been suffocated. Then the wherewithal to quench my thirst and appease the pangs of hunger was placed within my reach. How much longer will this incarceration last? Days? Months? I cannot estimate the hours that have elapsed since I fell asleep, nor have I any idea as to what time of the day or night it may be. I was careful to wind up my watch, though, and perhaps by feeling the hands--Yes, I think the little hand marks eight o'clock--in the morning, no doubt. What I do know, however, is that the ship is not in motion. There is not the slightest quiver. Hours and hours, weary, interminable hours go by, and I wonder whether they are again waiting till night comes on to renew my stock of air and provisions. Yes, they are waiting to take advantage of my slumbers. But this time I am resolved to resist. I will feign to be asleep--and I shall know how to force an answer from whoever enters! CHAPTER VI. ON DECK. Here I am in the open air, breathing freely once more. I have at last been hauled out of that stifling box and taken on deck. I gaze around me in every direction and see no sign of land. On every hand is that circular line which defines earth and sky. No, there is not even a speck of land to be seen to the west, where the coast of North America extends for thousands of miles. The setting sun now throws but slanting rays upon the bosom of the ocean. It must be about six o'clock in the evening. I take out my watch and it marks thirteen minutes past six. As I have already mentioned, I waited for the door of my prison to open, thoroughly resolved not to fall asleep again, but to spring upon the first person who entered and force him to answer my questions. I was not aware then that it was day, but it was, and hour after hour passed and no one came. I began to suffer again from hunger and thirst, for I had not preserved either bite or sup. As soon as I awoke I felt that the ship was in motion again, after having, I calculated, remained stationary since the previous day--no doubt in some lonely creek, since I had not heard or felt her come to anchor. A few minutes ago--it must therefore have been six o'clock--I again heard footsteps on the other side of the iron wall of my compartment. Was anybody coming to my cell? Yes, for I heard the creaking of the bolts as they were drawn back, and then the door opened, and the darkness in which I had been plunged since the first hour of my captivity was illumined by the light of a lantern. Two men, whom I had no time to look at, entered and seized me by the arms. A thick cloth was thrown over my head, which was enveloped in such a manner that I could see absolutely nothing. What did it all mean? What were they going to do with me? I struggled, but they held me in an iron grasp. I questioned them, but they made no reply. The men spoke to each other in a language that I could not understand, and had never heard before. They stood upon no ceremony with me. It is true I was only a madhouse warder, and they probably did not consider it necessary to do so; but I question very much whether Simon Hart, the engineer, would have received any more courtesy at their hands. This time, however, no attempt was made to gag me nor to bind either my arms or legs. I was simply restrained by main force from breaking away from them. In a moment I was dragged out of the compartment and pushed along a narrow passage. Next, the steps of a metallic stairway resounded under our feet. Then the fresh air blew in my face and I inhaled it with avidity. Finally they took their hands from off me, and I found myself free. I immediately tore the cloth off my head and gazed about me. I am on board a schooner which is ripping through the water at a great rate and leaving a long white trail behind her. I had to clutch at one of the stays for support, dazzled as I was by the light after my forty-eight hours' imprisonment in complete obscurity. On the deck a dozen men with rough, weather-beaten faces come and go--very dissimilar types of men, to whom it would be impossible to attribute any particular nationality. They scarcely take any notice of me. As to the schooner, I estimate that she registers from two hundred and fifty to three hundred tons. She has a fairly wide beam, her masts are strong and lofty, and her large spread of canvas must carry her along at a spanking rate in a good breeze. Aft, a grizzly-faced man is at the wheel, and he is keeping her head to the sea that is running pretty high. I try to find out the name of the vessel, but it is not to be seen anywhere, even on the life-buoys. I walk up to one of the sailors and inquire: "What is the name of this ship?" No answer, and I fancy the man does not understand me. "Where is the captain?" I continue. But the sailor pays no more heed to this than he did to the previous question. I turn on my heel and go forward. Above the forward hatchway a bell is suspended. Maybe the name of the schooner is engraved upon it. I examine it, but can find no name upon it. I then return to the stern and address the man at the wheel. He gazes at me sourly, shrugs his shoulders, and bending, grasps the spokes of the wheel solidly, and brings the schooner, which had been headed off by a large wave from port, stem on to sea again. Seeing that nothing is to be got from that quarter, I turn away and look about to see if I can find Thomas Roch, but I do not perceive him anywhere. Is he not on board? He must be. They could have had no reason for carrying me off alone. No one could have had any idea that I was Simon Hart, the engineer, and even had they known it what interest could they have had in me, and what could they expect of me? Therefore, as Roch is not on deck, I conclude that he is locked in one of the cabins, and trust he has met with better treatment than his ex-guardian. But what is this--and how on earth could I have failed to notice it before? How is this schooner moving? Her sails are furled--there is not an inch of canvas set--the wind has fallen, and the few puffs that occasionally come from the east are unfavorable, in view of the fact that we are going in that very direction. And yet the schooner speeds through the sea, her bows down, throwing off clouds of foam, and leaving a long, milky, undulating trail in her wake. Is she a steam-yacht? No--there is not a smokestack about her. Is she propelled by electricity--by a battery of accumulators, or by piles of great power that work her screw and send her along at this rate? I can come to no other conclusion. In any case she must be fitted with a screw, and by leaning over the stern I shall be able to see it, and can find out what sets it working afterwards. The man at the wheel watches me ironically as I approach, but makes no effort to prevent me from looking over. I gaze long and earnestly, but there is no foaming and seething of the water such as is invariably caused by the revolutions of the screw--naught but the long white furrow that a sailing vessel leaves behind is discernible in the schooner's wake. Then, what kind of a machine is it that imparts such a marvellous speed to the vessel? As I have already said, the wind is against her, and there is a heavy swell on. I must--I will know. No one pays the slightest attention, and I again go forward. As I approach the forecastle I find myself face to face with a man who is leaning nonchalantly on the raised hatchway and who is watching me. He seems to be waiting for me to speak to him. I recognize him instantly. He is the person who accompanied the Count d'Artigas during the latter's visit to Healthful House. There can be no mistake--it is he right enough. It was, then, that rich foreigner who abducted Thomas Roch, and I am on board the _Ebba_ his schooner-yacht which is so well known on the American coast! The man before me will enlighten me about what I want to know. I remember that he and the Count spoke English together. I take him to be the captain of the schooner. "Captain," I say, "you are the person I saw at Healthful House. You remember me, of course?" He looks me up and down but does not condescend to reply. "I am Warder Gaydon, the attendant of Thomas Roch," I continue, "and I want to know why you have carried me off and placed me on board this schooner?" The captain interrupts me with a sign. It is not made to me, however, but to some sailors standing near. They catch me by the arms, and taking no notice of the angry movement that I cannot restrain, bundle me down the hatchway. The hatchway stair in reality, I remark, is a perpendicular iron ladder, at the bottom of which, to right and left, are some cabins, and forward, the men's quarters. Are they going to put me back in my dark prison at the bottom of the hold? No. They turn to the left and push me into a cabin. It is lighted by a port-hole, which is open, and through which the fresh air comes in gusts from the briny. The furniture consists of a bunk, a chair, a chest of drawers, a wash-hand-stand and a table. The latter is spread for dinner, and I sit down. Then the cook's mate comes in with two or three dishes. He is a colored lad, and as he is about to withdraw, I try to question him, but he, too, vouchsafes no reply. Perhaps he doesn't understand me. The door is closed, and I fall to and eat with an excellent appetite, with the intention of putting off all further questioning till some future occasion when I shall stand a chance of getting answered. It is true I am a prisoner, but this time I am comfortable enough, and I hope I shall be permitted to occupy this cabin for the remainder of the voyage, and not be lowered into that black hole again. I now give myself up to my thoughts, the first of which is that it was the Count d'Artigas who planned the abduction; that it was he who is responsible for the kidnapping of Thomas Roch, and that consequently the French inventor must be just as comfortably installed somewhere on board the schooner. But who is this Count d'Artigas? Where does he hail from? If he has seized Thomas Roch, is it not because he is determined to secure the secret of the fulgurator at no matter what cost? Very likely, and I must therefore be careful not to betray my identity, for if they knew the truth, I should never be afforded a chance to get away. But what a lot of mysteries to clear up, how many inexplicable things to explain--the origin of this d'Artigas, his intentions as to the future, whither we are bound, the port to which the schooner belongs, and this mysterious progress through the water without sails and without screws, at a speed of at least ten knots an hour! The air becoming keener as night deepens, I close and secure the port-hole, and as my cabin is bolted on the outside, the best thing I can do is to get into my bunk and let myself be gently rocked to sleep by the broad Atlantic in this mysterious cradle, the _Ebba_. The next morning I rise at daybreak, and having performed my ablutions, dress myself and wait. Presently the idea of trying the door occurs to me. I find that it has been unbolted, and pushing it open, climb the iron ladder and emerge on deck. The crew are washing down the deck, and standing aft and conversing are two men, one of whom is the captain. The latter manifests no surprise at seeing me, and indicates my presence to his companion by a nod. This other man, whom I have never before seen, is an individual of about fifty years of age, whose dark hair is streaked with gray. His features are delicately chiselled, his eyes are bright, and his expression is intelligent and not at all displeasing. He is somewhat of the Grecian type, and I have no doubt that he is of Hellenic origin when I hear him called Serko--Engineer Serko--by the Captain of the _Ebba_. As to the latter, he is called Spade--Captain Spade--and this name has an Italian twang about it. Thus there is a Greek, an Italian, and a crew recruited from every corner of the earth to man a schooner with a Norwegian name! This mixture strikes me as being suspicious. And that Count d'Artigas, with his Spanish name and Asiatic type, where does he come from? Captain Spade and Engineer Serko continue to converse in a low tone of voice. The former is keeping a sharp eye on the man at the wheel, who does not appear to pay any particular attention to the compass in front of him. He seems to pay more heed to the gestures of one of the sailors stationed forward, and who signals to him to put the helm to port or to starboard. Thomas Roch is near them, gazing vacantly out upon the vast expanse which is not limited on the horizon by a single speck of land. Two sailors watch his every movement. It is evidently feared that the madman may possibly attempt to jump overboard. I wonder whether I shall be permitted to communicate with my ward. I walk towards him, and Captain Spade and Engineer Serko watch me. Thomas Roch doesn't see me coming, and I stand beside him. Still he takes no notice of me, and makes no movement. His eyes, which sparkle brightly, wander over the ocean, and he draws in deep breaths of the salt, vivifying atmosphere. Added to the air surcharged with oxygen is a magnificent sunset in a cloudless sky. Does he perceive the change in his situation? Has he already forgotten about Healthful House, the pavilion in which he was a prisoner, and Gaydon, his keeper? It is highly probable. The past has presumably been effaced from his memory and he lives solely in the present. In my opinion, even on the deck of the _Ebba_, in the middle of the sea, Thomas Roch is still the helpless, irresponsible man whom I tended for fifteen months. His intellectual condition has undergone no change, and his reason will return only when he is spoken to about his inventions. The Count d'Artigas is perfectly aware of this mental disposition, having had a proof of it during his visit, and he evidently relies thereon to surprise sooner or later the inventor's secret. But with what object? "Thomas Roch!" I exclaim. My voice seems to strike him, and after gazing at me fixedly for an instant he averts his eyes quickly. I take his hand and press it. He withdraws it brusquely and walks away, without having recognized me, in the direction of Captain Spade and Engineer Serko. Does he think of speaking to one or other of these men, and if they speak to him will he be more reasonable than he was with me, and reply to them? At this moment his physiognomy lights up with a gleam of intelligence. His attention, obviously, has been attracted by the queer progress of the schooner. He gazes at the masts and the furled sails. Then he turns back and stops at the place where, if the _Ebba_ were a steamer, the funnel ought to be, and which in this case ought to be belching forth a cloud of black smoke. What appeared so strange to me evidently strikes Thomas Roch as being strange, too. He cannot explain what I found inexplicable, and, as I did, he walks aft to see if there is a screw. On the flanks of the _Ebba_ a shoal of porpoises are sporting. Swift as is the schooner's course they easily pass her, leaping and gambolling in their native element with surprising grace and agility. Thomas Roch pays no attention to them, but leans over the stern. Engineer Serko and Captain Spade, fearful lest he should fall overboard, hurry to him and drag him gently, but firmly, away. I observe from long experience that Roch is a prey to violent excitement. He turns about and gesticulates, uttering incoherent phrases the while. It is plain to me that another fit is coming on, similar to the one he had in the pavilion of Healthful House on the night we were abducted. He will have to be seized and carried down to his cabin, and I shall perhaps be summoned to attend to him. Meanwhile Engineer Serko and Captain Spade do not lose sight of him for a moment. They are evidently curious to see what he will do. After walking towards the mainmast and assuring himself that the sails are not set, he goes up to it and flinging his arms around it, tries with all his might to shake it, as though seeking to pull it down. Finding his efforts futile, he quits it and goes to the foremast, where the same performance is gone through. He waxes more and more excited. His vague utterances are followed by inarticulate cries. Suddenly he rushes to the port stays and clings to them, and I begin to fear that he will leap into the rigging and climb to the cross-tree, where he might be precipitated into the sea by a lurch of the ship. On a sign from Captain Spade, some sailors run up and try to make him relinquish his grasp of the stays, but are unable to do so. I know that during his fits he is endowed with the strength of ten men, and many a time I have been compelled to summon assistance in order to overpower him. Other members of the crew, however, come up, and the unhappy madman is borne to the deck, where two big sailors hold him down, despite his extraordinary strength. The only thing to do is to convey him to his cabin, and let him lie there till he gets over his fit. This is what will be done in conformity with orders given by a new-comer whose voice seems familiar to me. I turn and recognize him. He is the Count d'Artigas, with a frown on his face and an imperious manner, just as I had seen him at Healthful House. I at once advance toward him. I want an explanation and mean to have it. "By what right, sir?"--I begin. "By the right of might," replies the Count. Then he turns on his heel, and Thomas Roch is carried below. CHAPTER VII. TWO DAYS AT SEA. Perhaps--should circumstances render it necessary--I may be induced to tell the Count d'Artigas that I am Simon Hart, the engineer. Who knows but what I may receive more consideration than if I remain Warder Gaydon? This measure, however, demands reflection. I have always been dominated by the thought that if the owner of the _Ebba_ kidnapped the French inventor, it was in the hope of getting possession of Roch's fulgurator, for which, neither the old nor new continent would pay the impossible price demanded. In that case the best thing I can do is to remain Warder Gaydon, on the chance that I may be allowed to continue in attendance upon him. In this way, if Thomas Roch should ever divulge his secret, I may learn what it was impossible to do at Healthful House, and can act accordingly. Meanwhile, where is the _Ebba_ bound?--first question. Who and what is the Count d'Artigas?--second question. The first will be answered in a few days' time, no doubt, in view of the rapidity with which we are ripping through the water, under the action of a means of propulsion that I shall end by finding out all about. As regards the second, I am by no means so sure that my curiosity will ever be gratified. In my opinion this enigmatical personage has an all important reason for hiding his origin, and I am afraid there is no indication by which I can gauge his nationality. If the Count d'Artigas speaks English fluently--and I was able to assure myself of that fact during his visit to Pavilion No. 17,--he pronounces it with a harsh, vibrating accent, which is not to be found among the peoples of northern latitudes. I do not remember ever to have heard anything like it in the course of my travels either in the Old or New World--unless it be the harshness characteristic of the idioms in use among the Malays. And, in truth, with his olive, verging on copper-tinted skin, his jet-black, crinkly hair, his piercing, deep-set, restless eyes, his square shoulders and marked muscular development, it is by no means unlikely that he belongs to one of the extreme Eastern races. I believe this name of d'Artigas is an assumed one, and his title of Count likewise. If his schooner bears a Norwegian name, he at any rate is not of Scandinavian origin. He has nothing of the races of Northern Europe about him. But whoever and whatever he may be, this man abducted Thomas Roch--and me with him--with no good intention, I'll be bound. But what I should like to know is, has he acted as the agent of a foreign power, or on his own account? Does he wish to profit alone by Thomas Roch's invention, and is he in the position to dispose of it profitably? That is another question that I cannot yet answer. Maybe I shall be able to find out from what I hear and see ere I make my escape, if escape be possible. The _Ebba_ continues on her way in the same mysterious manner. I am free to walk about the deck, without, however, being able to go beyond the fore hatchway. Once I attempted to go as far as the bows where I could, by leaning over, perceive the schooner's stem as it cut through the water, but acting, it was plain, on orders received, the watch on deck turned me back, and one of them, addressing me brusquely in harsh, grating English, said: "Go back! Go back! You are interfering with the working of the ship!" With the working of the ship! There was no working. Did they realize that I was trying to discover by what means the schooner was propelled? Very likely, and Captain Spade, who had looked on, must have known it, too. Even a hospital attendant could not fail to be astonished at the fact that a vessel without either screw or sails was going along at such a speed. However this may be, for some reason or other, the bows of the _Ebba_ are barred to me. Toward ten o'clock a breeze springs up--a northwest wind and very favorable--and Captain Spade gives an order to the boatswain. The latter immediately pipes all hands on deck, and the mainsail, the foresail, staysail and jibs are hoisted. The work could not have been executed with greater regularity and discipline on board a man-of-war. The _Ebba_ now has a slight list to port, and her speed is notably increased. But the motor continues to push her along, as is evident from the fact that the sails are not always as full as they ought to be if the schooner were bowling along solely under their action. However, they continue to render yeoman's service, for the breeze has set in steadily. The sky is clear, for the clouds in the west disappear as soon as they attain the horizon, and the sunlight dances on the water. My preoccupation now is to find out as near as possible where we are bound for. I am a good-enough sailor to be able to estimate the approximate speed of a ship. In my opinion the _Ebba_ has been travelling at the rate of from ten to eleven knots an hour. As to the direction we have been going in, it is always the same, and I have been able to verify this by casual glances at the binnacle. If the fore part of the vessel is barred to Warder Gaydon he has been allowed a free run of the remainder of it. Time and again I have glanced at the compass, and noticed that the needle invariably pointed to the east, or to be exact, east-southeast. These are the conditions in which we are navigating this part of the Atlantic Ocean, which is bounded on the west by the coast of the United States of America. I appeal to my memory. What are the islands or groups of islands to be found in the direction we are going, ere the continent of the Old World is reached? North Carolina, which the schooner quitted forty-eight hours ago, is traversed by the thirty-fifth parallel of latitude, and this parallel, extending eastward, must, if I mistake not, cut the African coast at Morocco. But along the line, about three thousand miles from America, are the Azores. Is it presumable that the _Ebba_ is heading for this archipelago, that the port to which she belongs is somewhere in these islands which constitute one of Portugal's insular domains? I cannot admit such an hypothesis. Besides, before the Azores, on the line of the thirty-fifth parallel, is the Bermuda group, which belongs to England. It seems to me to be a good deal less hypothetical that, if the Count d'Artigas was entrusted with the abduction of Thomas Roch by a European Power at all, it was by the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. The possibility, however, remains that he may be acting solely in his own interest. Three or four times during the day Count d'Artigas has come aft and remained for some time scanning the surrounding horizon attentively. When a sail or the smoke from a steamer heaves in sight he examines the passing vessel for a considerable time with a powerful telescope. I may add that he has not once condescended to notice my presence on deck. Now and then Captain Spade joins him and both exchange a few words in a language that I can neither understand nor recognize. It is with Engineer Serko, however, that the owner of the _Ebba_ converses more readily than with anybody else, and the latter appears to be very intimate with him. The engineer is a good deal more free, more loquacious and less surly than his companions, and I wonder what position he occupies on the schooner. Is he a personal friend of the Count d'Artigas? Does he scour the seas with him, sharing the enviable life enjoyed by the rich yachtsman? He is the only man of the lot who seems to manifest, if not sympathy with, at least some interest in me. I have not seen Thomas Roch all day. He must be shut in his cabin, still under the influence of the fit that came upon him last night. I feel certain that this is so, when about three o'clock in the afternoon, just as he is about to go below, the Count beckons me to approach. I do not know what he wishes to say to me, this Count d'Artigas, but I do know what I will say to him. "Do these fits to which Thomas Roch is subject last long?" he asks me in English. "Sometimes forty-eight hours," I reply. "What is to be done?" "Nothing at all. Let him alone until he falls asleep. After a night's sleep the fit will be over and Thomas Roch will be his own helpless self again." "Very well, Warder Gaydon, you will continue to attend him as you did at Healthful House, if it be necessary." "To attend to him!" "Yes--on board the schooner--pending our arrival." "Where?" "Where we shall be to-morrow afternoon," replies the Count. To-morrow, I say to myself. Then we are not bound for the coast of Africa, nor even the Azores. There only remains the hypothesis that we are making for the Bermudas. Count d'Artigas is about to go down the hatchway when I interrogate him in my turn: "Sir," I exclaim, "I desire to know, I have the right to know, where I am going, and----" "Here, Warder Gaydon," he interrupted, "you have no rights. All you have to do is to answer when you are spoken to." "I protest!" "Protest, then," replies this haughty and imperious personage, glancing at me menacingly. Then he disappears down the hatchway, leaving me face to face with Engineer Serko. "If I were you, Warder Gaydon, I would resign myself to the inevitable," remarks the latter with a smile. "When one is caught in a trap----" "One can cry out, I suppose?" "What is the use when no one is near to hear you?" "I shall be heard some day, sir." "Some day--that's a long way off. However, shout as much as you please." And with this ironical advice, Engineer Serko leaves me to my own reflections. Towards four o'clock a big ship is reported about six miles off to the east, coming in our direction. She is moving rapidly and grows perceptibly larger. Black clouds of smoke pour out of her two funnels. She is a warship, for a narrow pennant floats from her main-mast, and though she is not flying any flag I take her to be an American cruiser. I wonder whether the _Ebba_ will render her the customary salute as she passes. No; for the schooner suddenly changes her course with the evident intention of avoiding her. This proceeding on the part of such a suspicious yacht does not astonish me greatly. But what does cause me extreme surprise is Captain Spade's way of manoeuvring. He runs forward to a signalling apparatus in the bows, similar to that by which orders are transmitted to the engine room of a steamer. As soon as he presses one of the buttons of this apparatus the _Ebba_ veers off a point to the south-west. Evidently an order of "some kind" has been transmitted to the driver of the machine of "some kind" which causes this inexplicable movement of the schooner by the action of a motor of "some kind" the principle of which I cannot guess at. The result of this manoeuvre is that the _Ebba_ slants away from the cruiser, whose course does not vary. Why should this warship cause a pleasure-yacht to turn out of its way? I have no idea. But the _Ebba_ behaves in a very different manner when about six o'clock in the evening a second ship comes in sight on the port bow. This time, instead of seeking to avoid her, Captain Spade signals an order by means of the apparatus above referred to, and resumes his course to the east--which will bring him close to the said ship. An hour later, the two vessels are only about four miles from each other. The wind has dropped completely. The strange ship, which is a three-masted merchantman, is taking in her top-gallant sails. It is useless to expect the wind to spring up again during the night, and she will lay becalmed till morning. The _Ebba_, however, propelled by her mysterious motor, continues to approach her. It goes without saying, that Captain Spade has also begun to take in sail, and the work, under the direction of the boatswain Effrondat, is executed with the same precision and promptness that struck me before. When the twilight deepens into darkness, only a mile and a half separates the vessels. Captain Spade then comes up to me--I am standing on the starboard side--and unceremoniously orders me to go below. I can but obey. I remark, however, ere I go, that the boatswain has not lighted the head-lamps, whereas the lamps of the three-master shine brightly--green to starboard, and red to port. I entertain no doubt that the schooner intends to pass her without being seen; for though she has slackened speed somewhat, her direction has not been in any way modified. I enter my cabin under the impression of a vague foreboding. My supper is on the table, but uneasy, I know not why, I hardly touch it, and lie down to wait for sleep that does not come. I remain in this condition for two hours. The silence is unbroken save by the water that ripples along the vessel's sides. My mind is full of the events of the past two days, and other thoughts crowd thickly upon me. To-morrow afternoon we shall reach our destination. To-morrow, I shall resume, on land, my attendance upon Thomas Roch, "if it be necessary," said the Count d'Artigas. If, when I was thrown into that black hole at the bottom of the hold, I was able to perceive when the schooner started off across Pamlico Sound, I now feel that she has come to a stop. It must be about ten o'clock. Why has she stopped? When Captain Spade ordered me below, there was no land in sight. In this direction, there is no island until the Bermuda group is reached--at least there is none on the map--and we shall have to go another fifty or sixty miles before the Bermudas can be sighted by the lookout men. Not only has the _Ebba_ stopped, but her immobility is almost complete. There is not a breath of wind, and scarcely any swell, and her slight, regular rocking is hardly perceptible. Then my thoughts turn to the merchantman, which was only a mile and a half off, on our bow, when I came below. If the schooner continued her course towards her, she must be almost alongside now. We certainly cannot be lying more than one or two cables' length from her. The three-master, which was becalmed at sundown, could not have gone west. She must be close by, and if the night is clear, I shall be able to see her through the porthole. It occurs to me, that perhaps a chance of escape presents itself. Why should I not attempt it, since no hope of being restored to liberty is held out to me? It is true I cannot swim, but if I seize a life buoy and jump overboard, I may be able to reach the ship, if I am not observed by the watch on deck. I must quit my cabin and go up by the forward hatchway. I listen. I hear no noise, either in the men's quarters, or on deck. The sailors must all be asleep at this hour. Here goes. I try to open the door, and find it is bolted on the outside, as I might have expected. I must give up the attempt, which, after all, had small chance of success. The best thing I can do, is to go to sleep, for I am weary of mind, if not of body. I am restless and racked by conflicting thoughts, and apprehensions of I know not what. Oh! if I could but sink into the blessed oblivion of slumber! I must have managed to fall asleep, for I have just been awakened by a noise--an unusual noise, such as I have not hitherto heard on board the schooner. Day begins to peer through the glass of my port-hole, which is turned towards the east. I look at my watch. It is half-past four. The first thing I wonder is, whether the _Ebba_ has resumed her voyage. No, I am certain she has not, either by sail, or by her motor. The sea is as calm at sunrise as it was at sunset. If the _Ebba_ has been going ahead while I slept, she is at any rate, stationary now. The noise to which I referred, is caused by men hurrying to and fro on deck--by men heavily laden. I fancy I can also hear a similar noise in the hold beneath my cabin floor, the entrance to which is situated abaft the foremast. I also feel that something is scraping against the schooner's hull. Have boats come alongside? Are the crew engaged in loading or unloading merchandise? And yet we cannot possibly have reached our journey's end. The Count d'Artigas said that we should not reach our destination till this afternoon. Now, I repeat, she was, last night, fully fifty or sixty miles from the nearest land, the group of the Bermudas. That she could have returned westward, and can be in proximity to the American coast, is inadmissible, in view of the distance. Moreover, I have reason to believe that the _Ebba_ has remained stationary all night. Before I fell asleep, I know she had stopped, and I now know that she is not moving. However, I shall see when I am allowed to go on deck. My cabin door is still bolted, I find on trying it; but I do not think they are likely to keep me here when broad daylight is on. An hour goes by, and it gradually gets lighter. I look out of my porthole. The ocean is covered by a mist, which the first rays of the sun will speedily disperse. I can, however, see for a half a mile, and if the three-masted merchantman is not visible, it is probably because she is lying off the other, or port, side of the _Ebba_. Presently I hear a key turned in my door, and the bolts drawn. I push the door open and clamber up the iron ladder to the deck, just as the men are battening down the cover of the hold. I look for the Count d'Artigas, but do not see him. He has not yet left his cabin. Aft, Captain Spade and Engineer Serko are superintending the stowing of some bales, which have doubtless been hoisted from the hold. This explains the noisy operations that were going on when I was awakened. Obviously, if the crew are getting out the cargo, we are approaching the end of our voyage. We are not far from port, and perhaps in a few hours, the schooner will drop anchor. But what about the sailing ship that was to port of us? She ought to be in the same place, seeing that there has been and is no wind. I look for her, but she is nowhere to be seen. There is not a sail, not a speck on the horizon either east, west, north or south. After cogitating upon the circumstance I can only arrive at the following conclusion, which, however, can only be accepted under reserve: Although I did not notice it, the _Ebba_ resumed her voyage while I slept, leaving the three-master becalmed behind her, and this is why the merchantman is no longer visible. I am careful not to question Captain Spade about it, nor even Engineer Serko, as I should certainly receive no answer. Besides, at this moment Captain Spade goes to the signalling apparatus and presses one of the buttons on the upper disk. Almost immediately the _Ebba_ gives a jerk, then with her sails still furled, she starts off eastward again. Two hours later the Count d'Artigas comes up through the main hatchway and takes his customary place aft. Serko and Captain Spade at once approach and engage in conversation with him. All three raise their telescopes and sweep the horizon from southeast to northeast. No one will be surprised to learn that I gaze intently in the same direction; but having no telescope I cannot distinguish anything. The midday meal over we all return on deck--all with the exception of Thomas Roch, who has not quitted his cabin. Towards one o'clock land is sighted by the lookout man on the foretop cross-tree. Inasmuch as the _Ebba_ is bowling along at great speed I shall soon be able to make out the coast line. In effect, two hours later a vague semicircular line that curves outward is discernible about eight miles off. As the schooner approaches it becomes more distinct. It is a mountain, or at all events very high ground, and from its summit a cloud of smoke ascends. What! A volcano in these parts? It must then be---- CHAPTER VIII. BACK CUP. In my opinion the _Ebba_ could have struck no other group of islands but the Bermudas in this part of the Atlantic. This is clear from the distance covered from the American coast and the direction sailed in since we issued from Pamlico Sound. This direction has constantly been south-southeast, and the distance, judging from the _Ebba's_ rate of speed, which has scarcely varied, is approximately seven hundred and fifty miles. Still, the schooner does not slacken speed. The Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko remain aft, by the man at the wheel. Captain Spade has gone forward. Are we not going to leave this island, which appears to be isolated, to the west? It does not seem likely, since it is still broad daylight, and the hour at which the _Ebba_ was timed to arrive. All the sailors are drawn up on deck, awaiting orders, and Boatswain Effrondat is making preparations to anchor. Ere a couple of hours have passed I shall know all about it. It will be the first answer to one of the many questions that have perplexed me since the schooner put to sea. And yet it is most unlikely that the port to which the _Ebba_ belongs is situated on one of the Bermuda islands, in the middle of an English archipelago--unless the Count d'Artigas has kidnapped Thomas Roch for the British government, which I cannot believe. I become aware that this extraordinary man is gazing at me with singular persistence. Although he can have no suspicion that I am Simon Hart, the engineer, he must be asking himself what I think of this adventure. If Warder Gaydon is but a poor devil, this poor devil will manifest as much unconcern as to what is in store for him as any gentleman could--even though he were the proprietor of this queer pleasure yacht. Still I am a little uneasy under his gaze. I dare say that if the Count d'Artigas could guess how certain things have suddenly become clear to me, he would not hesitate to have me thrown overboard. Prudence therefore commands me to be more circumspect than ever. Without giving rise to any suspicion--even in the mind of Engineer Serko--I have succeeded in raising a corner of the mysterious veil, and I begin to see ahead a bit. As the _Ebba_ draws nearer, the island, or rather islet, towards which she is speeding shows more sharply against the blue background of the sky. The sun which has passed the zenith, shines full upon the western side. The islet is isolated, or at any rate I cannot see any others of the group to which it belongs, either to north or south. This islet, of curious contexture, resembles as near as possible a cup turned upside down, from which a fuliginous vapor arises. Its summit--the bottom of the cup, if you like--is about three hundred feet above the level of the sea, and its flanks, which are steep and regular, are as bare as the sea-washed rocks at its base. There is another peculiarity about it which must render the islet easily recognizable by mariners approaching it from the west, and this is a rock which forms a natural arch at the base of the mountain--the handle of the cup, so to speak--and through which the waves wash as freely as the sunshine passes. Seen this way the islet fully justifies the name of Back Cup given to it. Well, I know and recognize this islet! It is situated at the extremity of the archipelago of the Bermudas. It is the "reversed cup" that I had occasion to visit a few years ago--No, I am not mistaken. I then climbed over the calcareous and crooked rocks at its base on the east side. Yes, it is Back Cup, sure enough! Had I been less self-possessed I might have uttered an exclamation of surprise--and satisfaction--which, with good reason, would have excited the attention and suspicion of the Count d'Artigas. These are the circumstances under which I came to explore Back Cup while on a visit to Bermuda. This archipelago, which is situated about seven hundred and fifty miles from North Carolina is composed of several hundred islands or islets. Its centre is crossed by the sixty-fourth meridian and the thirty-second parallel. Since the Englishman Lomer was shipwrecked and cast up there in 1609, the Bermudas have belonged to the United Kingdom, and in consequence the colonial population has increased to ten thousand inhabitants. It was not for its productions of cotton, coffee, indigo, and arrowroot that England annexed the group--seized it, one might say; but because it formed a splendid maritime station in that part of the Ocean, and in proximity to the United States of America. Possession was taken of it without any protest on the part of other powers, and Bermuda is now administered by a British governor with the addition of a council and a General Assembly. The principal islands of the archipelago are called St. David, Somerset, Hamilton, and St. George. The latter has a free port, and the town of the same name is also the capital of the group. The largest of these isles is not more than seventeen miles long and five wide. Leaving out the medium-sized ones, there remains but an agglomeration of islets and reefs scattered over an area of twelve square leagues. Although the climate of Bermuda is very healthy, very salubrious, the isles are nevertheless frightfully beaten by the heavy winter tempests of the Atlantic, and their approach by navigators presents certain difficulties. What the archipelago especially lacks are rivers and rios. However, as abundant rains fall frequently, this drawback is got over by the inhabitants, who treasure up the heaven-sent water for household and agricultural purposes. This has necessitated the construction of vast cisterns which the downfalls keep filled. These works of engineering skill justly merit the admiration they receive and do honor to the genius of man. It was in connection with the setting up of these cisterns that I made the trip, as well as out of curiosity to inspect the fine works. I obtained from the company of which I was the engineer in New Jersey a vacation of several weeks, and embarked at New York for the Bermudas. While I was staying on Hamilton Island, in the vast port of Southampton, an event occurred of great interest to geologists. One day a whole flotilla of fishers, men, women and children, entered Southampton Harbor. For fifty years these families had lived on the east coast of Back Cup, where they had erected log-cabins and houses of stone. Their position for carrying on their industry was an exceptionally favorable one, for the waters teem with fish all the year round, and in March and April whales abound. Nothing had hitherto occurred to disturb their tranquil existence. They were quite contented with their rough lot, which was rendered less onerous by the facility of communication with Hamilton and St. George. Their solid barks took cargoes of fish there, which they exchanged for the necessities of life. Why had they thus abandoned the islet with the intention, as it pretty soon appeared, of never returning to it? The reason turned out to be that they no longer considered themselves in safety there. A couple of months previously they had been at first surprised, then alarmed, by several distinct detonations that appeared to have taken place in the interior of the mountain. At the same time smoke and flames issued from the summit--or the bottom of the reversed cup, if you like. Now no one had ever suspected that the islet was of volcanic origin, or that there was a crater at the top, no one having been able to climb its sides. Now, however, there could be no possible doubt that the mountain was an ancient volcano that had suddenly become active again and threatened the village with destruction. During the ensuing two months internal rumblings and explosions continued to be heard, which were accompanied by bursts of flame from the top--especially at night. The island was shaken by the explosions--the shocks could be distinctly felt. All these phenomena were indicative of an imminent eruption, and there was no spot at the base of the mountain that could afford any protection from the rivers of lava that would inevitably pour down its smooth, steep slopes and overwhelm the village in their boiling flood. Besides, the very mountain might be destroyed in the eruption. There was nothing for the population exposed to such a dire catastrophe to do but leave. This they did. Their humble Lares and Penates, in fact all their belongings, were loaded into the fishing-smacks, and the entire colony sought refuge in Southhampton Harbor. The news that a volcano, that had presumably been smouldering for centuries at the western extremity of the group, showed signs of breaking out again, caused a sensation throughout the Bermudas. But while some were terrified, the curiosity of others was aroused, mine included. The phenomenon was worth investigation, even if the simple fisher-folk had exaggerated. Back Cup, which, as already stated, lies at the western extremity of the archipelago, is connected therewith by a chain of small islets and reefs, which cannot be approached from the east. Being only three hundred feet in altitude, it cannot be seen either from St. George or Hamilton. I joined a party of explorers and we embarked in a cutter that landed us on the island, and made our way to the abandoned village of the Bermudan fishers. The internal crackings and detonations could be plainly heard, and a sheaf of smoke was swayed by the wind at the summit. Beyond a peradventure the ancient volcano had been started again by the subterranean fire, and an eruption at any moment was to be apprehended. In vain we attempted to climb to the mouth of the crater. The mountain sheered down at an angle of from seventy-five to eighty degrees, and its smooth, slippery sides afforded absolutely no foothold. Anything more barren than this rocky freak of nature it would be difficult to conceive. Only a few tufts of wild herbs were to be seen upon the whole island, and these seemed to have no _raison d'être_. Our explorations were therefore necessarily limited, and in view of the active symptoms of danger that manifested themselves, we could but approve the action of the villagers in abandoning the place; for we entertained no doubt that its destruction was imminent. These were the circumstances in which I was led to visit Back Cup, and no one will consequently be surprised at the fact that I recognized it immediately we hove in sight of the queer structure. No, I repeat, the Count d'Artigas would probably not be overpleased if he were aware that Warder Gaydon is perfectly acquainted with this islet, even if the _Ebba_ was to anchor there--which, as there is no port, is, to say the least, extremely improbable. As we draw nearer, I attentively examine Back Cup. Not one of its former inhabitants has been induced to return, and, as it is absolutely deserted, I cannot imagine why the schooner should visit the place. Perhaps, however, the Count d'Artigas and his companions have no intention of landing there. Even though the _Ebba_ should find temporary shelter between the rocky sides of a narrow creek there is nothing to give ground to the supposition that a wealthy yachtsman would have the remotest idea of fixing upon as his residence an arid cone exposed to all the terrible tempests of the Western Atlantic. To live here is all very well for rustic fishermen, but not for the Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade and his crew. Back Cup is now only half a mile off, and the seaweed thrown up on its rocky base is plainly discernible. The only living things upon it are the sea-gulls and other birds that circle in clouds around the smoking crater. When she is only two cable's lengths off, the schooner slackens speed, and then stops at the entrance of a sort of natural canal formed by a couple of reefs that barely rise above the water. I wonder whether the _Ebba_ will venture to try the dangerous feat of passing through it. I do not think so. She will probably lay where she is--though why she should do so I do not know--for a few hours, and then continue her voyage towards the east. However this may be I see no preparations in progress for dropping anchor. The anchors are suspended in their usual places, the cables have not been cleared, and no motion has been made to lower a single boat. At this moment Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko and Captain Spade go forward and perform some manoeuvre that is inexplicable to me. I walk along the port side of the deck until I am near the foremast, and then I can see a small buoy that the sailors are hoisting in. Almost immediately the water, at the same spot becomes dark and I observe a black mass rising to the surface. Is it a big whale rising for air, and is the _Ebba_ in danger of being shattered by a blow from the monster's tail? Now I understand! At last the mystery is solved. I know what was the motor that caused the schooner to go at such an extraordinary speed without sails and without a screw. Her indefatigable motor is emerging from the sea, after having towed her from the coast of America to the archipelago of the Bermudas. There it is, floating alongside--a submersible boat, a submarine tug, worked by a screw set in motion by the current from a battery of accumulators or powerful electric piles. On the upper part of the long cigar-shaped iron tug is a platform in the middle of which is the "lid" by which an entrance is effected. In the fore part of the platform projects a periscope, or lookout, formed by port-holes or lenses through which an electric searchlight can throw its gleam for some distance under water in front of and on each side of the tug. Now relieved of its ballast of water the boat has risen to the surface. Its lid will open and fresh air will penetrate it to every part. In all probability, if it remained submerged during the day it rose at night and towed the _Ebba_ on the surface. But if the mechanical power of the tug is produced by electricity the latter must be furnished by some manufactory where it is stored, and the means of procuring the batteries is not to be found on Back Cup, I suppose. And then, why does the _Ebba_ have recourse to this submarine towing system? Why is she not provided with her own means of propulsion, like other pleasure-boats? These are things, however, upon which I have at present no leisure to ruminate. The lid of the tug opens and several men issue on to the platform. They are the crew of this submarine boat, and Captain Spade has been able to communicate with them and transmit his orders as to the direction to be taken by means of electric signals connected with the tug by a wire that passes along the stem of the schooner. Engineer Serko approaches me and says, pointing to the boat: "Get in." "Get in!" I exclaim. "Yes, in the tug, and look sharp about it." As usual there is nothing for it but to obey. I hasten to comply with the order and clamber over the side. At the same time Thomas Roch appears on deck accompanied by one of the crew. He appears to be very calm, and very indifferent too, and makes no resistance when he is lifted over and lowered into the tug. When he has been taken in, Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko follow. Captain Spade and the crew of the _Ebba_ remain behind, with the exception of four men who man the dinghy, which has been lowered. They have hold of a long hawser, with which the schooner is probably to be towed through the reef. Is there then a creek in the middle of the rocks where the vessel is secure from the breakers? Is this the port to which she belongs? They row off with the hawser and make the end fast to a ring in the reef. Then the crew on board haul on it and in five minutes the schooner is so completely lost to sight among the rocks that even the tip of her mast could not be seen from the sea. Who in Bermuda imagines that a vessel is accustomed to lay up in this secret creek? Who in America would have any idea that the rich yachtsman so well known in all the eastern ports abides in the solitude of Back Cup mountain? Twenty minutes later the dinghy returns with the four men towards the tug which was evidently waiting for them before proceeding--where? They climb on board, the little boat is made fast astern, a movement is felt, the screw revolves rapidly and the tug skims along the surface to Back Cup, skirting the reefs to the south. Three cable's lengths further on, another tortuous canal is seen that leads to the island. Into this the tug enters. When it gets close inshore, an order is given to two men who jump out and haul the dinghy up on a narrow sandy beach out of the reach of wave or weed, and where it will be easily get-at-able when wanted. This done the sailors return to the tug and Engineer Serko signs to me to go below. A short iron ladder leads into a central cabin where various bales and packages are stored, and for which no doubt there was not room in the hold of the schooner. I am pushed into a side cabin, the door is shut upon me, and here I am once more a prisoner in profound darkness. I recognize the cabin the moment I enter it. It is the place in which I spent so many long hours after our abduction from Healthful House, and in which I was confined until well out at sea off Pamlico Sound. It is evident that Thomas Roch has been placed in a similar compartment. A loud noise is heard, the banging of the lid as it closes, and the tug begins to sink as the water is admitted to the tanks. This movement is succeeded by another--a movement that impels the boat through the water. Three minutes later it stops, and I feel that we are rising to the surface again. Another noise made by the lid being raised. The door of my cabin opens, and I rush out and clamber on to the platform. I look around and find that the tug has penetrated to the interior of Back Cup mountain. This is the mysterious retreat where Count d'Artigas lives with his companions--out of the world, so to speak. CHAPTER IX. INSIDE BACK CUP. The next morning I am able to make a first inspection of the vast cavern of Back Cup. No one seeks to prevent me. What a night I have passed! What strange visions I have seen! With what impatience I waited for morning! I was conducted to a grotto about a hundred paces from the edge of the lake where the tug stopped. The grotto, twelve feet by ten, was lighted by an incandescent lamp, and fitted with an entrance door that was closed upon me. I am not surprised that electricity is employed in lighting the interior of the cavern, as it is also used in the submarine boat. But where is it generated? Where does it come from? Is there a manufactory installed somewhere or other in this vast crypt, with machinery, dynamos and accumulators? My cell is neatly furnished with a table on which provisions are spread, a bunk with bedding, a basket chair, a wash-hand-stand with toilet set, and a closet containing linen and various suits of clothes. In a drawer of the table I find paper, ink and pens. My dinner consists of fresh fish, preserved meat, bread of excellent quality, ale and whisky; but I am so excited that I scarcely touch it. Yet I feel that I ought to fortify myself and recover my calmness of mind. I must and will solve the mystery surrounding the handful of men who burrow in the bowels of this island. So it is under the carapace of Back Cup that Count d'Artigas has established himself! This cavity, the existence of which is not even suspected, is his home when he is not sailing in the _Ebba_ along the coasts of the new world or the old. This is the unknown retreat he has discovered, to which access is obtained by a submarine passage twelve or fifteen feet below the surface of the ocean. Why has he severed himself from the world? What has been his past? If, as I suspect, this name of d'Artigas and this title of Count are assumed, what motive has he for hiding his identity? Has he been banished, is he an outcast of society that he should have selected this place above all others? Am I not in the power of an evildoer anxious to ensure impunity for his crimes and to defy the law by seeking refuge in this undiscoverable burrow? I have the right of supposing anything in the case of this suspicious foreigner, and I exercise it. Then the question to which I have never been able to suggest a satisfactory answer once more surges into my mind. Why was Thomas Roch abducted from Healthful House in the manner already fully described? Does the Count d'Artigas hope to force from him the secret of his fulgurator with a view to utilizing it for the defence of Back Cup in case his retreat should by chance be discovered? Hardly. It would be easy enough to starve the gang out of Back Cup, by preventing the tug from supplying them with provisions. On the other hand, the schooner could never break through the investing lines, and if she did her description would be known in every port. In this event, of what possible use would Thomas Roch's invention be to the Count d'Artigas Decidedly, I cannot understand it! About seven o'clock in the morning I jump out of bed. If I am a prisoner in the cavern I am at least not imprisoned in my grotto cell. The door yields when I turn the handle and push against it, and I walk out. Thirty yards in front of me is a rocky plane, forming a sort of quay that extends to right and left. Several sailors of the _Ebba_ are engaged in landing bales and stores from the interior of the tug, which lays alongside a little stone jetty. A dim light to which my eyes soon grow accustomed envelops the cavern and comes from a hole in the centre of the roof, through which the blue sky can be seen. "It is from that hole that the smoke which can be seen for such a distance issues," I say to myself, and this discovery suggests a whole series of reflections. Back Cup, then, is not a volcano, as was supposed--as I supposed myself. The flames that were seen a few years ago, and the columns of smoke that still rise were and are produced artificially. The detonations and rumblings that so alarmed the Bermudan fishers were not caused by the internal workings of nature. These various phenomena were fictitious. They manifested themselves at the mere will of the owner of the island, who wanted to scare away the inhabitants who resided on the coast. He succeeded, this Count d'Artigas, and remains the sole and undisputed monarch of the mountain. By exploding gunpowder, and burning seaweed swept up in inexhaustible quantities by the ocean, he has been able to simulate a volcano upon the point of eruption and effectually scare would-be settlers away! The light becomes stronger as the sun rises higher, the daylight streams through the fictitious crater, and I shall soon be able to estimate the cavern's dimensions. This is how I calculate: Exteriorly the island of Back Cup, which is as nearly as possible circular, measures two hundred and fifty yards in circumference, and presents an interior superficies of about six acres. The sides of the mountain at its base vary in thickness from thirty to a hundred yards. It therefore follows that this excavation practically occupies the whole of that part of Back Cup island which appears above water. As to the length of the submarine tunnel by which communication is obtained with the outside, and through which the tug passed, I estimate that it is fifty yards in length. The size of the cavern can be judged from these approximate figures. But vast as it is, I remember that there are caverns of larger dimensions both in the old and new worlds. For instance in Carniole, Northumberland, Derbyshire, Piedmont, the Balearics, Hungary and California are larger grottoes than Back Cup, and those at Han-sur-Lesse in Belgium, and the Mammoth Caves in Kentucky, are also more extensive. The latter contain no fewer than two hundred and twenty-six domes, seven rivers, eight cataracts, thirty two wells of unknown depth, and an immense lake which extends over six or seven leagues, the limit of which has never been reached by explorers. I know these Kentucky grottoes, having visited them, as many thousands of tourists have done. The principal one will serve as a comparison to Back Cup. The roof of the former, like that of the latter, is supported by pillars of various lengths, which give it the appearance of a Gothic cathedral, with naves and aisles, though it lacks the architectural regularity of a religious edifice. The only difference is that whereas the roof of the Kentucky grotto is over four hundred feet high, that of Back Cup is not above two hundred and twenty at that part of it where the round hole through which issue the smoke and flames is situated. Another peculiarity, and a very important one, that requires to be pointed out, is that whereas the majority of the grottoes referred to are easily accessible, and were therefore bound to be discovered some time or other, the same remark does not apply to Back Cup. Although it is marked on the map as an island forming part of the Bermuda group, how could any one imagine that it is hollow, that its rocky sides are only the walls of an enormous cavern? In order to make such a discovery it would be necessary to get inside, and to get inside a submarine apparatus similar to that of the Count d'Artigas would be necessary. In my opinion this strange yachtsman's discovery of the tunnel by which he has been able to found this disquieting colony of Back Cup must have been due to pure chance. Now I turn my attention to the lake and observe that it is a very small one, measuring not more than four hundred yards in circumference. It is, properly speaking, a lagoon, the rocky sides of which are perpendicular. It is large enough for the tug to work about in it, and holds enough water too, for it must be one hundred and twenty-five feet deep. It goes without saying that this crypt, given its position and structure, belongs to the category of those which are due to the encroachments of the sea. It is at once of Neptunian and Plutonian origin, like the grottoes of Crozon and Morgate in the bay of Douarnenez in France, of Bonifacio on the Corsican coast, Thorgatten in Norway, the height of which is estimated at over three hundred feet, the catavaults of Greece, the grottoes of Gibraltar in Spain, and Tourana in Cochin China, whose carapace indicates that they are all the product of this dual geological labor. The islet of Back Cup is in great part formed of calcareous rocks, which slope upwards gently from the lagoon towards the sides and are separated from each other by narrow beaches of fine sand. Thick layers of seaweed that have been swept through the tunnel by the tide and thrown up around the lake have been piled into heaps, some of which are dry and some still wet, but all of which exhale the strong odor of the briny ocean. This, however, is not the only combustible employed by the inhabitants of Back Cup, for I see an enormous store of coal that must have been brought by the schooner and the tug. But it is the incineration of masses of dried seaweed that causes the smoke vomited forth by the crater of the mountain. Continuing my walk I perceive on the northern side of the lagoon the habitations of this colony of troglodytes--do they not merit the appellation? This part of the cavern, which is known as the Beehive, fully justifies its name, for it is honeycombed by cells excavated in the limestone rock and in which these human bees--or perhaps they should rather be called wasps--reside. The lay of the cavern to the east is very different. Here hundreds of pillars of all shapes rise to the dome, and form a veritable forest of stone trees through the sinuous avenues of which one can thread one's way to the extreme limit of the place. By counting the cells of the Beehive I calculate that Count d'Artigas' companions number from eighty to one hundred. As my eye wanders over the place I notice that the Count is standing in front of one of the cells, which is isolated from the others, and talking to Engineer Serko and Captain Spade. After a while they stroll down to the jetty alongside which the tug is lying. A dozen men have been emptying the merchandise out of the tug and transporting the goods in boats to the other side, where great cellars have been excavated in the rocks and form the storehouses of the band. The orifice of the tunnel is not visible in the waters of the lagoon, and I remember that when I was brought here I felt the tug sink several feet before it entered. In this respect therefore Back Cup does not resemble either the grottoes of Staffa or Morgate, entrance to which is always open, even at high tide. There may be another passage communicating with the coast, either natural or artificial, and this I shall have to make my business to find out. The island well merits its name of Back Cup. It is indeed a gigantic cup turned upside down, not only to outward appearance, but inwardly, too, though people are ignorant of the fact. I have already remarked that the Beehive is situated to the north of the lagoon, that is to say to the left on entering by the tunnel. On the opposite side are the storerooms filled with provisions of all kinds, bales of merchandise, barrels of wine, beer, and spirits and various packets bearing different marks and labels that show that they came from all parts of the world. One would think that the cargoes of a score of ships had been landed here. A little farther on is a large wooden shed the nature of which is easily distinguishable. From a pole above it a network of thick copper wires extends which conducts the current to the powerful electric lights suspended from the roof or dome, and to the incandescent lamps in each of the cells of the hive. A large number of lamps are also installed among the stone pillars and light up the avenues to their extremities. "Shall I be permitted to roam about wherever I please?" I ask myself. I hope so. I cannot for the life of me see why the Count d'Artigas should prohibit me from doing so, for I cannot get farther than the surrounding walls of his mysterious domain. I question whether there is any other issue than the tunnel, and how on earth could I get through that? Besides, admitting that I am able to get through it, I cannot get off the island. My disappearance would be soon noticed, and the tug would take out a dozen men who would explore every nook and cranny. I should inevitably be recaptured, brought back to the Beehive, and deprived of my liberty for good. I must therefore give up all idea of making my escape, unless I can see that it has some chance of being successful, and if ever an opportunity does present itself I shall not be slow to take advantage of it. On strolling round by the rows of cells I am able to observe a few of these companions of the Count d'Artigas who are content to pass their monotonous existence in the depths of Back Cup. As I said before, calculating from the number of cells in the Beehive, there must be between eighty and a hundred of them. They pay no attention whatever to me as I pass, and on examining them closely it seems to me that they must have been recruited from every country. I do not distinguish any community of origin among them, not even a similarity by which they might be classed as North Americans, Europeans or Asiatics. The color of their skin shades from white to yellow and black--the black peculiar to Australia rather than to Africa. To sum up, they appear for the most part to pertain to the Malay races. I may add that the Count d'Artigas certainly belongs to that particular race which peoples the Dutch isles in the West Pacific, while Engineer Serko must be Levantine and Captain Spade of Italian origin. But if the inhabitants of Back Cup are not bound to each other by ties of race, they certainly are by instinct and inclination. What forbidding, savage-looking faces they have, to be sure! They are men of violent character who have probably never placed any restraint upon their passions, nor hesitated at anything, and it occurs to me that in all likelihood they have sought refuge in this cavern, where they fancy they can continue to defy the law with impunity, after a long series of crimes--robbery, murder, arson, and excesses of all descriptions committed together. In this case Back Cup is nothing but a lair of pirates, the Count d'Artigas is the leader of the band and Serko and Spade are his lieutenants. I cannot get this idea out of my head, and the more I consider the more convinced I am that I am right, especially as everything I see during my stroll about the cavern seems to confirm my opinion. However this may be, and whatever may be the circumstances that have brought them together in this place, Count d'Artigas' companions appear to accept his all-powerful domination without question. On the other hand, if he keeps them under his iron heel by enforcing the severest discipline, certain advantages, some compensation, must accrue from the servitude to which they bow. What can this compensation be? Having turned that part of the bank under which the tunnel passes, I find myself on the opposite side of the lagoon, where are situated the storerooms containing the merchandise brought by the _Ebba_ on each trip, and which contain a great quantity of bales. Beyond is the manufactory of electric energy. I gaze in at the windows as I pass and notice that it contains machines of the latest invention and highest attained perfection, which take up little space. Not one steam engine, with its more or less complicated mechanism and need of fuel, is to be seen in the place. As I had surmised, piles of extraordinary power supply the current to the lamps in the cavern, as well as to the dynamos of the tug. No doubt the current is also utilized for domestic purposes, such as warming the Beehive and cooking food, I can see that in a neighboring cavity it is applied to the alembics used to produce fresh water. At any rate the colonists of Back Cup are not reduced to catching the rain water that falls so abundantly upon the exterior of the mountain. A few paces from the electric power house is a large cistern that, save in the matter of proportions, is the counterpart of those I visited in Bermuda. In the latter place the cisterns have to supply the needs of over ten thousand people, this one of a hundred--what? I am not sure yet what to call them. That their chief had serious reasons for choosing the bowels of this island for his abiding place is obvious. But what were those reasons? I can understand monks shutting themselves behind their monastery walls with the intention of separating themselves from the world, but these subjects of the Count d'Artigas have nothing of the monk about them, and would not be mistaken for such by the most simple-minded of mortals. I continue my way through the pillars to the extremity of the cavern. No one has sought to stop me, no one has spoken to me, not a soul apparently has taken the very slightest notice of me. This portion of Back Cup is extremely curious, and comparable to the most marvellous of the grottoes of Kentucky or the Balearics. I need hardly say that nowhere is the labor of man apparent. All this is the handiwork of nature, and it is not without wonder, mingled with awe, that I reflect upon the telluric forces capable of engendering such prodigious substructions. The daylight from the crater in the centre only strikes this part of the cavern obliquely, so that it is very imperfectly lighted, but at night, when illuminated by the electric lamps, its aspect must be positively fantastic. I have examined the walls everywhere with minute attention, but have been unable to discover any means of communicating with the outside. Quite a colony of birds--gulls, sea-swallows and other feathery denizens of the Bermudan beaches have made their home in the cavern. They have apparently never been hunted, for they are in no way disturbed by the presence of man. But besides sea-birds, which are free to come and go as they please by the orifice in the dome, there is a whole farmyard of domestic poultry, and cows and pigs. The food supply is therefore no less assured than it is varied, when the fish of all kinds that abound in the lagoon and around the island are taken into consideration. Moreover, a mere glance at the colonists of Back Cup amply suffices to show that they are not accustomed to fare scantily. They are all vigorous, robust seafaring men, weatherbeaten and seasoned in the burning beat of tropical latitudes, whose rich blood is surcharged with oxygen by the breezes of the ocean. There is not a youth nor an old man among them. They are all in their prime, their ages ranging from thirty to fifty. But why do they submit to such an existence? Do they never leave their rocky retreat? Perhaps I shall find out ere I am much older. CHAPTER X. KER KARRAJE. The cell in which I reside is about a hundred paces from the habitation of the Count d'Artigas, which is one of the end ones of this row of the Beehive. If I am not to share it with Thomas Roch, I presume the latter's cell is not far off, for in order that Warder Gaydon may continue to care for the ex-patient of Healthful House, their respective apartments will have to be contiguous. However, I suppose I shall soon be enlightened on this point. Captain Spade and Engineer Serko reside separately in proximity to D'Artigas' mansion. Mansion? Yes, why not dignify it with the title since this habitation has been arranged with a certain art? Skillful hands have carved an ornamental façade in the rock. A large door affords access to it. Colored glass windows in wooden frames let into the limestone walls admit the light. The interior comprises several chambers, a dining-room and a drawing-room lighted by a stained-glass window, the whole being perfectly ventilated. The furniture is of various styles and shapes and of French, English and American make. The kitchen, larder, etc., are in adjoining cells in rear of the Beehive. In the afternoon, just as I issue from my cell with the firm intention of "obtaining an audience" of the Count d'Artigas, I catch sight of him coming along the shore of the lagoon towards the hive. Either he does not see me, or wishes to avoid me, for he quickens his steps and I am unable to catch him. "Well, he will have to receive me, anyhow!" I mutter to myself. I hurry up to the door through which he has just disappeared and which has closed behind him. It is guarded by a gigantic, dark-skinned Malay, who orders me away in no amiable tone of voice. I decline to comply with his injunction, and repeat to him twice the following request in my very best English: "Tell the Count d'Artigas that I desire to be received immediately." I might just as well have addressed myself to the surrounding rock. This savage, no doubt, does not understand a word of English, for he scowls at me and orders me away again with a menacing cry. I have a good mind to attempt to force the door and shout so that the Count d'Artigas cannot fail to hear me, but in all probability I shall only succeed in rousing the wrath of the Malay, who appears to be endowed with herculean strength. I therefore judge discretion to be the better part of valor, and put off the explanation that is owing to me--and which, sooner or later, I will have--to a more propitious occasion. I meander off in front of the Beehive towards the east, and my thoughts revert to Thomas Roch. I am surprised that I have not seen him yet. Can he be in the throes of a fresh paroxysm? This hypothesis is hardly admissible, for if the Count d'Artigas is to be believed, he would in this event have summoned me to attend to the inventor. A little farther on I encounter Engineer Serko. With his inviting manner and usual good-humor this ironical individual smiles when he perceives me, and does not seek to avoid me. If he knew I was a colleague, an engineer--providing he himself really is one--perhaps he might receive me with more cordiality than I have yet encountered, but I am not going to be such a fool as to tell him who and what I am. He stops, with laughing eyes and mocking mouth, and accompanies a "Good day, how do you do?" with a gracious gesture of salutation. I respond coldly to his politeness--a fact which he affects not to notice. "May Saint Jonathan protect you, Mr. Gaydon!" he continues in his clear, ringing voice. "You are not, I presume, disposed to regret the fortunate circumstance by which you were permitted to visit this surpassingly marvellous cavern--and it really is one of the finest, although the least known on this spheroid." This word of a scientific language used in conversation with a simple hospital attendant surprises me, I admit, and I merely reply: "I should have no reason to complain, Mr. Serko, if, after having had the pleasure of visiting this cavern, I were at liberty to quit it." "What! Already thinking of leaving us, Mr. Gaydon,--of returning to your dismal pavilion at Healthful House? Why, you have scarcely had time to explore our magnificent domain, or to admire the incomparable beauty with which nature has endowed it." "What I have seen suffices," I answer; "and should you perchance be talking seriously I will assure you seriously that I do not want to see any more of it." "Come, now, Mr. Gaydon, permit me to point out that you have not yet had the opportunity of appreciating the advantages of an existence passed in such unrivalled surroundings. It is a quiet life, exempt from care, with an assured future, material conditions such as are not to be met with anywhere, an even climate and no more to fear from the tempests which desolate the coasts in this part of the Atlantic than from the cold of winter, or the heat of summer. This temperate and salubrious atmosphere is scarcely affected by changes of season. Here we have no need to apprehend the wrath of either Pluto or Neptune." "Sir," I reply, "it is impossible that this climate can suit you, that you can appreciate living in this grotto of----" I was on the point of pronouncing the name of Back Cup. Fortunately I restrained myself in time. What would happen if they suspected that I am aware of the name of their island, and, consequently, of its position at the extremity of the Bermuda group? "However," I continue, "if this climate does not suit me, I have, I presume, the right to make a change." "The right, of course." "I understand from your remark that I shall be furnished with the means of returning to America when I want to go?" "I have no reason for opposing your desires, Mr. Gaydon," Engineer Serko replies, "and I regard your presumption as a very natural one. Observe, however, that we live here in a noble and superb independence, that we acknowledge the authority of no foreign power, that we are subject to no outside authority, that we are the colonists of no state, either of the old or new world. This is worth consideration by whomsoever has a sense of pride and independence. Besides, what memories are evoked in a cultivated mind by these grottoes which seem to have been chiselled by the hands of the gods and in which they were wont to render their oracles by the mouth of Trophonius." Decidedly, Engineer Serko is fond of citing mythology! Trophonius after Pluto and Neptune? Does he imagine that Warder Gaydon ever heard of Trophonius? It is clear this mocker continues to mock, and I have to exercise the greatest patience in order not to reply in the same tone. "A moment ago," I continue shortly, "I wanted to enter yon habitation, which, if I mistake not, is that of the Count d'Artigas, but I was prevented." "By whom, Mr. Gaydon?" "By a man in the Count's employ." "He probably had received strict orders about it." "Possibly, yet whether he likes it or not, Count d'Artigas will have to see me and listen to me." "Maybe it would be difficult, and even impossible to get him to do so," says Engineer Serko with a smile. "Why so?" "Because there is no such person as Count d'Artigas here." "You are jesting, I presume; I have just seen him." "It was not the Count d'Artigas whom you saw, Mr. Gaydon." "Who was it then, may I ask?" "The pirate Ker Karraje." This name was thrown at me in a hard tone of voice, and Engineer Serko walked off before I had presence of mind enough to detain him. The pirate Ker Karraje! Yes, this name is a revelation to me. I know it well, and what memories it evokes! It by itself explains what has hitherto been inexplicable to me. I now know into whose hands I have fallen. With what I already knew, with what I have learned since my arrival in Back Cup from Engineer Serko, this is what I am able to tell about the past and present of Ker Karraje: Eight or nine years ago, the West Pacific was infested by pirates who acted with the greatest audacity. A band of criminals of various origins, composed of escaped convicts, military and naval deserters, etc., operated with incredible audacity under the orders of a redoubtable chief. The nucleus of the band had been formed by men pertaining to the scum of Europe who had been attracted to New South Wales, in Australia, by the discovery of gold there. Among these gold-diggers, were Captain Spade and Engineer Serko, two outcasts, whom a certain community of ideas and character soon bound together in close friendship. These intelligent, well educated, resolute men would most assuredly have succeeded in any career. But being without conscience or scruples, and determined to get rich at no matter what cost, deriving from gambling and speculation what they might have earned by patient and steady work, they engaged in all sorts of impossible adventures. One day they were rich, the next day poor, like most of the questionable individuals who had hurried to the gold-fields in search of fortune. Among the diggers in New South Wales was a man of incomparable audacity, one of those men who stick at nothing--not even at crime--and whose influence upon bad and violent natures is irresistible. That man's name was Ker Karraje. The origin or nationality or antecedents of this pirate were never established by the investigations ordered in regard to him. He eluded all pursuit, and his name--or at least the name he gave himself--was known all over the world, and inspired horror and terror everywhere, as being that of a legendary personage, a bogey, invisible and unseizable. I have now reason to believe that Ker Karraje is a Malay. However, it is of little consequence, after all. What is certain is that he was with reason regarded as a formidable and dangerous villain who had many crimes, committed in distant seas, to answer for. After spending a few years on the Australian goldfields, where he made the acquaintance of Engineer Serko and Captain Spade, Ker Karraje managed to seize a ship in the port of Melbourne, in the province of Victoria. He was joined by about thirty rascals whose number was speedily tripled. In that part of the Pacific Ocean where piracy is still carried on with great facility, and I may say, profit, the number of ships pillaged, crews massacred, and raids committed in certain western islands which the colonists were unable to defend, cannot be estimated. Although the whereabouts of Ker Karraje's vessel, commanded by Captain Spade, was several times made known to the authorities, all attempts to capture it proved futile. The marauder would disappear among the innumerable islands of which he knew every cove and creek, and it was impossible to come across him. He maintained a perfect reign of terror. England, France, Germany, Russia and America vainly dispatched warships in pursuit of the phantom vessel which disappeared, no one knew whither, after robberies and murders that could not be prevented or punished had been committed by her crew. One day this series of crimes came to an end, and no more was heard of Ker Karraje. Had he abandoned the Pacific for other seas? Would this pirate break out in a fresh place? It was argued that notwithstanding what they must have spent in orgies and debauchery the pirate and his companions must still have an enormous amount of wealth hidden in some place known only to themselves, and that they were enjoying their ill-gotten gains. Where had the band hidden themselves since they had ceased their depredations? This was a question which everybody asked and none was able to answer. All attempts to run them to earth were vain. Terror and uneasiness having ceased with the danger, Ker Karraje's exploits soon began to be forgotten, even in the West Pacific. This is what had happened--and what will never be known unless I succeed in escaping from Back Cup: These wretches were, as a matter of fact, possessed of great wealth when they abandoned the Southern Seas. Having destroyed their ship they dispersed in different directions after having arranged to meet on the American continent. Engineer Serko, who was well versed in his profession, and was a clever mechanic to boot, and who had made a special study of submarine craft, proposed to Ker Karraje that they should construct one of these boats in order to continue their criminal exploits with greater secrecy and effectiveness. Ker Karraje at once saw the practical nature of the proposition, and as they had no lack of money the idea was soon carried out. While the so-called Count d'Artigas ordered the construction of the schooner _Ebba_ at the shipyards of Gotteborg, in Sweden, he gave to the Cramps of Philadelphia, in America, the plans of a submarine boat whose construction excited no suspicion. Besides, as will be seen, it soon disappeared and was never heard of again. The boat was constructed from a model and under the personal supervision of Engineer Serko, and fitted with all the known appliances of nautical science. The screw was worked with electric piles of recent invention which imparted enormous propulsive power to the motor. It goes without saying that no one imagined that Count d'Artigas was none other than Ker Karraje, the former pirate of the Pacific, and that Engineer Serko was the most formidable and resolute of his accomplices. The former was regarded as a foreigner of noble birth and great fortune, who for several months had been frequenting the ports of the United States, the _Ebba_ having been launched long before the tug was ready. Work upon the latter occupied fully eighteen months, and when the boat was finished it excited the admiration of all those interested in these engines of submarine navigation. By its external form, its interior arrangements, its air-supply system, the rapidity with which it could be immersed, the facility with which it could be handled and controlled, and its extraordinary speed, it was conceded to be far superior to the _Goubet,_ the _Gymnote_, the _Zede_, and other similar boats which had made great strides towards perfection. After several extremely successful experiments a public test was given in the open sea, four miles off Charleston, in presence of several American and foreign warships, merchant vessels, and pleasure boats invited for the occasion. Of course the _Ebba_ was among them, with the Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade on board, and the old crew as well, save half a dozen men who manned the submarine machine, which was worked by a mechanical engineer named Gibson, a bold and very clever Englishman. The programme of this definite experiment comprised various evolutions on the surface of the water, which were to be followed by an immersion to last several hours, the boat being ordered not to rise again until a certain buoy stationed many miles out at sea had been attained. At the appointed time the lid was closed and the boat at first manoeuvred on the surface. Her speed and the ease with which she turned and twisted were loudly praised by all the technical spectators. Then at a signal given on board the _Ebba_ the tug sank slowly out of sight, and several vessels started for the buoy where she was to reappear. Three hours went by, but there was no sign of the boat. No one could suppose that in accordance with instructions received from the Count d'Artigas and Engineer Serko this submarine machine, which was destined to act as the invisible tug of the schooner, would not emerge till it had gone several miles beyond the rendezvous. Therefore, with the exception of those who were in the secret, no one entertained any doubt that the boat and all inside her had perished as the result of an accident either to her metallic covering or machinery. On board the _Ebba_ consternation was admirably simulated. On board the other vessels it was real. Drags were used and divers sent down along the course the boat was supposed to have taken, but it could not be found, and it was agreed that it had been swallowed up in the depths of the Atlantic. Two days later the Count d'Artigas put to sea again, and in forty-eight hours came up with the tug at the place appointed. This is how Ker Karraje became possessed of the admirable vessel which was to perform the double function of towing the schooner and attacking ships. With this terrible engine of destruction, whose very existence was ignored, the Count d'Artigas was able to recommence his career of piracy with security and impunity. These details I have learned from Engineer Serko, who is very proud of his handiwork,--and also very positive that the prisoner of Back Cup will never be able to disclose the secret. It will easily be realized how powerful was the offensive weapon Ker Karraje now possessed. During the night the tug would rush at a merchant vessel, and bore a hole in her with its powerful ram. At the same time the schooner which could not possibly have excited any suspicion, would run alongside and her horde of cutthroats would pour on to the doomed vessel's deck and massacre the helpless crew, after which they would hurriedly transfer that part of the cargo that was worth taking to the _Ebba_. Thus it happened that ship after ship was added to the long list of those that never reached port and were classed as having gone down with all on board. For a year after the odious comedy in the bay of Charleston Ker Karraje operated in the Atlantic, and his wealth increased to enormous proportions. The merchandise for which he had no use was disposed of in distant markets in exchange for gold and silver. But what was sadly needed was a place where the profits could be safely hidden pending the time when they were to be finally divided. Chance came to their aid. While exploring the bottom of the sea in the neighborhood of the Bermudas, Engineer Serko and Driver Gibson discovered at the base of Back Cup island the tunnel which led to the interior of the mountain. Would it have been possible for Ker Karraje to have found a more admirable refuge than this, absolutely safe as it was from any possible chance of discovery? Thus it came to pass that one of the islands of the Archipelago of Bermuda, erstwhile the haunt of buccaneers, became the lair of another gang a good deal more to be dreaded. This retreat having been definitely adopted, Count d'Artigas and his companions set about getting their place in order. Engineer Serko installed an electric power house, without having recourse to machines whose construction abroad might have aroused suspicion, simply employing piles that could be easily mounted and required but metal plates and chemical substances that the _Ebba_ procured during her visits to the American coast. What happened on the night of the 19th inst. can easily be divined. If the three-masted merchantman which lay becalmed was not visible at break of day it was because she had been scuttled by the tug, boarded by the cut-throat band on the _Ebba_, and sunk with all on board after being pillaged. The bales and things that I had seen on the schooner were a part of her cargo, and all unknown to me the gallant ship was lying at the bottom of the broad Atlantic! How will this adventure end? Shall I ever be able to escape from Back Cup, denounce the false Count d'Artigas and rid the seas of Ker Karraje's pirates? And if Ker Karraje is terrible as it is, how much more so will he become if he ever obtains possession of Roch's fulgurator! His power will be increased a hundred-fold! If he were able to employ this new engine of destruction no merchantman could resist him, no warship escape total destruction. I remain for some time absorbed and oppressed by the reflections with which the revelation of Ker Karraje's name inspires me. All that I have ever heard about this famous pirate recurs to me--his existence when he skimmed the Southern Seas, the useless expeditions organized by the maritime powers to hunt him down. The unaccountable loss of so many vessels in the Atlantic during the past few years is attributable to him. He had merely changed the scene of his exploits. It was supposed that he had been got rid of, whereas he is continuing his piratical practices in the most frequented ocean on the globe, by means of the tug which is believed to be lying at the bottom of Charleston Bay. "Now," I say to myself, "I know his real name and that of his lair--Ker Karraje and Back Cup;" and I surmise that if Engineer Serko has let me into the secret he must have been authorized to do so. Am I not meant to understand from this that I must give up all hope of ever recovering my liberty? Engineer Serko had manifestly remarked the impression created upon me by this revelation. I remember that on leaving me he went towards Ker Karraje's habitation, no doubt with the intention of apprising him of what had passed. After a rather long walk around the lagoon I am about to return to my cell, when I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and find myself face to face with the Count d'Artigas, who is accompanied by Captain Spade. He glances at me sharply, and in a burst of irritation that I cannot suppress, I exclaim: "You are keeping me here, sir, against all right. If it was to wait upon Thomas Roch that you carried me off from Healthful House, I refuse to attend to him, and insist upon being sent back." The pirate chief makes a gesture, but does not reply. Then my temper gets the better of me altogether. "Answer me, Count d'Artigas--or rather, for I know who you are--answer me, Ker Karraje!" I shout. "The Count d'Artigas is Ker Karraje," he coolly replies, "just as Warder Gaydon is Engineer Simon Hart; and Ker Karraje will never restore to liberty Engineer Simon Hart, who knows his secrets." CHAPTER XI. FIVE WEEKS IN BACK CUP. The situation is plain. Ker Karraje knows who I am. He knew who I was when he kidnapped Thomas Roch and his attendant. How did this man manage to find out what I was able to keep from the staff of Healthful House? How comes it that he knew that a French engineer was performing the duties of attendant to Thomas Roch? I do not know how he discovered it, but the fact remains that he did. Evidently he had means of information which must have been costly, but from which he has derived considerable profit. Besides, men of his kidney do not count the cost when they wish to attain an end they have in view. Henceforward Ker Karraje, or rather Engineer Serko, will replace me as attendant upon Thomas Roch. Will he succeed better than I did? God grant that he may not, that the civilized world may be spared such a misfortune! I did not reply to Ker Karraje's Parthian shot, for I was stricken dumb. I did not, however, collapse, as the alleged Count d'Artigas perhaps expected I would. No! I looked him straight in the eyes, which glittered angrily, and crossed my arms defiantly, as he had done. And yet he held my life in his hands! At a sign a bullet would have laid me dead at his feet. Then my body, cast into the lagoon, would have been borne out to sea through the tunnel and there would have been an end of me. After this scene I am left at liberty, just as before. No measure is taken against me, I can walk among the pillars to the very end of the cavern, which--it is only too clear--possesses no other issue except the tunnel. When I return to my cell, at the extremity of the Beehive, a prey to a thousand thoughts suggested by my situation, I say to myself: "If Ker Karraje knows I am Simon Hart, the engineer, he must at any rate never know that I am aware of the position of Back Cup Island." As to the plan of confiding Thomas Roch to my care, I do not think he ever seriously entertained it, seeing that my identity had been revealed to him. I regret this, inasmuch as the inventor will indubitably be the object of pressing solicitations, and as Engineer Serko will employ every means in his power to obtain the composition of the explosive and deflagrator, of which he will make such detestable use during future piratical exploits. Yes, it would have been far better if I could have remained Thomas Roch's keeper here, as in Healthful House. For fifteen days I see nothing of my late charge. No one, I repeat, has placed any obstacles in the way of my daily peregrinations. I have no need to occupy myself about the material part of my existence. My meals are brought to me regularly, direct from the kitchen of the Count d'Artigas--I cannot accustom myself to calling him by any other name. The food leaves nothing to be desired, thanks to the provisions that the _Ebba_ brings on her return from each voyage. It is very fortunate, too, that I have been supplied with all the writing materials I require, for during my long hours of idleness I have been able to jot down in my notebook the slightest incidents that have occurred since I was abducted from Healthful House, and to keep a diary day by day. As long as I am permitted to use a pen I shall continue my notes. Mayhap some day, they will help to clear up the mysteries of Back Cup. _From July 5 to July 25._--A fortnight has passed, and all my attempts to get near Thomas Roch have been frustrated. Orders have evidently been given to keep him away from my influence, inefficacious though the latter has hitherto been. My only hope is that the Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade will waste their time trying to get at the inventor's secrets. Three or four times to my knowledge, at least, Thomas Roch and Engineer Serko have walked together around the lagoon. As far as I have been able to judge, the former listened with some attention to what the other was saying to him. Serko has conducted him over the whole cavern, shown him the electric power house and the mechanism of the tug. Thomas Roch's mental condition has visibly improved since his departure from Healthful House. Thomas Roch lives in a private room in Ker Karraje's "mansion." I have no doubt that he is daily sounded in regard to his discoveries, especially by Engineer Serko. Will he be able to resist the temptation if they offer him the exorbitant price that he demands? Has he any idea of the value of money? These wretches may dazzle him with the gold that they have accumulated by years of rapine. In the present state of his mind may he not be induced to disclose the composition of his fulgurator? They would then only have to fetch the necessary substances and Thomas Roch would have plenty of time in Back Cup to devote to his chemical combinations. As to the war-engines themselves nothing would be easier than to have them made in sections in different parts of the American continent. My hair stands on end when I think what they could and would do with them if once they gained possession of them. These intolerable apprehensions no longer leave me a minute's peace; they are wearing me out and my health is suffering in consequence. Although the air in the interior of Back Cup is pure, I become subject to attacks of suffocation, and I feel as though my prison walls were falling upon me and crushing me under their weight. I am, besides, oppressed by the feeling that I am cut off from the world, as effectually as though I were no longer upon our planet,--for I know nothing of what is going on outside. Ah! if it were only possible to escape through that submarine tunnel, or through the hole in the dome and slide to the base of the mountain! On the morning of the 25th I at last encounter Thomas Roch. He is alone on the other side of the lagoon, and I wonder, inasmuch as I have not seen them since the previous day, whether Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade have not gone off on some expedition. I walk round towards Thomas Roch, and before he can see me I examine him attentively. His serious, thoughtful physiognomy is no longer that of a madman. He walks slowly, with his eyes bent on the ground, and under his arm a drawing-board upon which is stretched a sheet of paper covered with designs. Suddenly he raises his head, advances a step and recognizes me. "Ah! Gaydon, it is you, is it?" he cries, "I have then escaped from you! I am free!" He can, indeed, regard himself as being free--a good deal more at liberty in Back Cup than he was in Healthful House. But maybe my presence evokes unpleasant memories, and will bring on another fit, for he continues with extraordinary animation: "Yes, I know you, Gaydon.--Do not approach me! Stand off! stand off! You would like to get me back in your clutches, incarcerate me again in your dungeon! Never! I have friends here who will protect me. They are powerful, they are rich. The Count d'Artigas is my backer and Engineer Serko is my partner. We are going to exploit my invention! We are going to make my fulgurator! Hence! Get you gone!" Thomas Roch is in a perfect fury. He raises his voice, agitates his arms, and finally pulls from his pockets many rolls of dollar bills and banknotes, and handfuls of English, French, American and German gold coins, which slip through his fingers and roll about the cavern. How could he get all this money except from Ker Karraje, and as the price of his secret? The noise he makes attracts a number of men to the scene. They watch us for a moment, then seize Thomas Roch and drag him away. As soon as I am out of his sight he ceases-to struggle and becomes calm again. _July 27._--Two hours after meeting with Thomas Roch, I went down to the lagoon and walked out to the edge of the stone jetty. The tug is not moored in its accustomed place, nor can I see it anywhere about the lake. Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko had not gone yesterday, as I supposed, for I saw them in the evening. To-day, however, I have reason to believe that they really have gone away in the tug with Captain Spade and the crew of the _Ebba_, and that the latter must be sailing away. Have they set out on a piracy expedition? Very likely. It is equally likely that Ker Karraje, become once more the Count d'Artigas, travelling for pleasure on board his yacht, intends to put into some port on the American coast to procure the substances necessary to the preparation of Roch's fulgurator. Ah! if it had only been possible for me to hide in the tug, to slip into the _Ebba's_ hold, and stow myself away there until the schooner arrived in port! Then perchance I might have escaped and delivered the world from this band of pirates. It will be seen how tenaciously I cling to the thought of escape--of fleeing--fleeing at any cost from this lair. But flight is impossible, except through the tunnel, by means of a submarine boat. Is it not folly to think of such a thing? Sheer folly, and yet what other way is there of getting out of Back Cup? While I give myself up to these reflections the water of the lagoon opens a few yards from me and the tug appears. The lid is raised and Gibson, the engineer, and the men issue on to the platform. Other men come up and catch the line that is thrown to them. They haul upon it, and the tug is soon moored in its accustomed place. This time, therefore, at any rate, the schooner is not being towed, and the tug merely went out to put Ker Karraje and his companions aboard the _Ebba_. This only confirms my impression that the sole object of their trip is to reach an American port where the Count d'Artigas can procure the materials for making the explosive, and order the machines in some foundry. On the day fixed for their return the tug will go out through the tunnel again to meet the schooner and Ker Karraje will return to Back Cup. Decidedly, this evildoer is carrying out his designs and has succeeded sooner than I thought would be possible. _August 3._--An incident occurred to-day of which the lagoon was the theatre--a very curious incident that must be exceedingly rare. Towards three o'clock in the afternoon there was a prodigious bubbling in the water, which ceased for a minute or two and then recommenced in the centre of the lagoon. About fifteen pirates, whose attention had been attracted by this unaccountable phenomenon, hurried down to the bank manifesting signs of astonishment not unmingled with fear--at least I thought so. The agitation of the water was not caused by the tug, as the latter was lying alongside the jetty, and the idea that some other submarine boat had found its way through the tunnel was highly improbable. Almost at the same instant cries were heard on the opposite bank. The newcomers shouted something in a hoarse voice to the men on the side where I was standing, and these immediately rushed off towards the Beehive. I conjectured that they had caught sight of some sea-monster that had found its way in, and was floundering in the lagoon, and that they had rushed off to fetch arms and harpoons to try and capture it. I was right, for they speedily returned with the latter weapons and rifles loaded with explosive bullets. The monster in question was a whale, of the species that is common enough in Bermudan waters, which after swimming through the tunnel was plunging about in the narrow limits of the lake. As it was constrained to take refuge in Back Cup I concluded that it must have been hard pressed by whalers. Some minutes elapsed before the monster rose to the surface. Then the green shiny mass appeared spouting furiously and darting to and fro as though fighting with some formidable enemy. "If it was driven in here by whalers," I said to myself, "there must be a vessel in proximity to Back Cup--peradventure within a stone's throw of it. Her boats must have entered the western passes to the very foot of the mountain. And to think I am unable to communicate with them! But even if I could, I fail to see how I could go to them through these massive walls." I soon found, however, that it was not fishers, but sharks that had driven the whale through the tunnel, and which infest these waters in great numbers. I could see them plainly as they darted about, turning upon their backs and displaying their enormous mouths which were bristling with their cruel teeth. There were five or six of the monsters, and they attacked the whale with great viciousness. The latter's only means of defence was its tail, with which it lashed at them with terrific force and rapidity. But the whale had received several wounds and the water was tinged with its life-blood; for plunge and lash as it would, it could not escape the bites of its enemies. However, the voracious sharks were not permitted to vanquish their prey, for man, far more powerful with his instruments of death, was about to take a hand and snatch it from them. Gathered around the lagoon were the companions of Ker Karraje, every whit as ferocious as the sharks themselves, and well deserving the same name, for what else are they? Standing amid a group, at the extremity of the jetty, and armed with a harpoon, was the big Malay who had prevented me from entering Ker Karraje's house. When the whale got within shot, he hurled the harpoon with great force and skill, and it sank into the leviathan's flesh just under the left fin. The whale plunged immediately, followed by the relentless sharks. The rope attached to the weapon ran out for about sixty yards, and then slackened. The men at once began to haul on it, and the monster rose to the surface again near the end of the tunnel, struggling desperately in its death agony, and spurting great columns of water tinged with blood. One blow of its tail struck a shark, and hurled it clean out of water against the rocky side, where it dropped in again, badly, if not fatally injured. The harpoon was torn from the flesh by the jerk, and the whale went under. It came up again for the last time, and lashed the water so that it washed up from the tunnel end, disclosing the top of the orifice. Then the sharks again rushed on their prey, but were scared off by a hail of the explosive bullets. Two men then jumped into a boat and attached a line to the dead monster. The latter was hauled into the jetty, and the Malays started to cut it up with a dexterity that showed they were no novices at the work. No more sharks were to be seen, but I concluded that it would be as well to refrain from taking a bath in the lagoon for some days to come. I now know exactly where the entrance to the tunnel is situated. The orifice on this side is only ten feet below the edge of the western bank. But of what use is this knowledge to me? _August 7_.--Twelve days have elapsed since the Count d'Artigas, Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade put to sea. There is nothing to indicate that their return is expected, though the tug is always kept in readiness for immediate departure by Gibson, the engine-driver. If the _Ebba_ is not afraid to enter the ports of the United States by day, I rather fancy she prefers to enter the rocky channel of Back Cup at nightfall. I also fancy, somehow, that Ker Karraje and his companions will return to-night. _August 10_.--At ten o'clock last night, as I anticipated, the tug went under and out, just in time to meet the _Ebba_ and tow her through the channel to her creek, after which she returned with Ker Karraje and the others. When I look out this morning, I see Thomas Roch and Engineer Serko walking down to the lagoon, and talking. What they are talking about I can easily guess. I go forward and take a good look at my ex-patient. He is asking questions of Engineer Serko With great animation. His eyes gleam, his face is flushed, and he is all eagerness to reach the jetty. Engineer Serko can hardly keep up with him. The crew of the tug are unloading her, and they have just brought ashore ten medium-sized boxes. These boxes bear a peculiar red mark, which Thomas Roch examines closely. Engineer Serko orders the men to transport them to the storehouses on the left bank, and the boxes are forthwith loaded on a boat and rowed over. In my opinion, these boxes contain the substances by the combination or mixture of which, the fulgurator and deflagrator are to be made. The engines, doubtless, are being made in an American foundry, and when they are ready, the schooner will fetch them and bring them to Back Cup. For once in a while, anyhow, the _Ebba_ has not returned with any stolen merchandise. She went out and has returned with a clear bill. But with what terrible power Ker Karraje will be armed for both offensive and defensive operations at sea! If Thomas Roch is to be credited, this fulgurator could shatter the terrestrial spheroid at one blow. And who knows but what one day, he will try the experiment? CHAPTER XII. ENGINEER SERKO'S ADVICE. Thomas Roch has started work and spends hours and hours in a wooden shed on the left bank of the lagoon that has been set apart as his laboratory and workshop. No one enters it except himself. Does he insist upon preparing the explosive in secret and does he intend to keep the formula thereof to himself? I should not wonder. The manner of employing Roch's fulgurator is, I believe, very simple indeed. The projectile in which it is used requires neither gun nor mortar to launch it, nor pneumatic tube like the Zalinski shell. It is autopropulsive, it projects itself, and no ship within a certain zone when the engine explodes could escape utter destruction. With such a weapon as this at his command Ker Karraje would be invincible. _From August 11 to August 17_.--During the past week Thomas Roch has been working without intermission. Every morning the inventor goes to his laboratory and does not issue therefrom till night. I have made no attempt to stop him or speak to him, knowing that it would be useless to do so. Although he is still indifferent to everything that does not touch upon his work he appears to be perfectly self-possessed. Why should he not have recovered his reason? Has he not obtained what he has so long sought for? Is he not at last able to carry out the plans he formed years and years ago? _August 18_.--At one o'clock this morning I was roused by several detonations. "Has Back Cup been attacked?" was my first thought. "Has the schooner excited suspicion, and been chased to the entrance to the passes? Is the island being bombarded with a view to its destruction? Has justice at last overtaken these evil-doers ere Thomas Roch has been able to complete the manufacture of his explosive, and before the autopropulsive engine could be fetched from the continent?" The detonations, which are very violent, continue, succeeding each other at regular intervals, and it occurs to me that if the schooner has been destroyed, all communication with the bases of supply being impossible, Back Cup cannot be provisioned. It is true the tug would be able to land the Count d'Artigas somewhere on the American coast where, money being no object, he could easily buy or order another vessel. But no matter. If Back Cup is only destroyed before Ker Karraje has Roch's fulgurator at his disposal I shall render thanks to heaven. A few hours later, at the usual time, I quit my cell. All is quiet at the Beehive. The men are going about their business as usual. The tug is moored near the jetty. Thomas Roch is going to his laboratory, and Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko are tranquilly pacing backwards and forwards by the lake and chatting. The island therefore could not have been attacked during the night. Yet I was awakened by the report of cannon, this I will swear. At this moment Ker Karraje goes off towards his abode and Engineer Serko, smilingly ironical, as usual, advances to meet me. "Well, Mr. Simon Hart," he says, "are you getting accustomed to your tranquil existence? Do you appreciate at their just merit the advantages of this enchanted grotto? Have you given up all hope of recovering your liberty some day or other?" What is the use of waxing wroth with this jester? I reply calmly: "No, sir. I have not given up hope, and I still expect that I shall be released." "What! Mr. Hart, separate ourselves from a man whom we all esteem--and I from a colleague who perhaps, in the course of Thomas Roch's fits of delirium, has learned some of his secrets? You are not serious!" So this is why they are keeping me a prisoner in Back Cup! They suppose that I am in part familiar with Roch's invention, and they hope to force me to tell what I know if Thomas Roch refuses to give up his secret. This is the reason why I was kidnapped with him, and why I have not been accommodated with an involuntary plunge in the lagoon with a stone fastened to my neck. I see it all now, and it is just as well to know it. "Very serious," I affirm, in response to the last remark of my interlocutor. "Well," he continues, "if I had the honor to be Simon Hart, the engineer, I should reason as follows: 'Given, on the one hand, the personality of Ker Karraje, the reasons which incited him to select such a mysterious retreat as this cavern, the necessity of the said cavern being kept from any attempt to discover it, not only in the interest of the Count d'Artigas, but in that of his companions--'" "Of his accomplices, if you please." "'Of his accomplices,' then--'and on the other hand, given the fact that I know the real name of the Count d'Artigas and in what mysterious safe he keeps his riches--'" "Riches stolen, and stained with blood, Mr. Serko." "'Riches stolen and stained with blood,' if you like--'I ought to understand that this question of liberty cannot be settled in accordance with my desires.'" It is useless to argue the point under these conditions, and I switch the conversation on to another line. "May I ask," I continue, "how you came to find out that Gaydon, the warder, was Simon Hart, the engineer?" "I see no reason for keeping you in ignorance on the subject, my dear colleague. It was largely by hazard. We had certain relations with the manufactory in New Jersey with which you were connected, and which you quitted suddenly one day under somewhat singular circumstances. Well, during a visit I made to Healthful House some months before the Count d'Artigas went there, I saw and recognized you." "You?" "My very self, and from that moment I promised myself the pleasure of having you for a fellow-passenger on board the _Ebba_." I do not recall ever having seen this Serko at Healthful House, but what he says is very likely true. "I hope your whim of having me for a companion will cost you dear, some day or other," I say to myself. Then, abruptly, I go on: "If I am not mistaken, you have succeeded in inducing Thomas Roch to disclose the secret of his fulgurator?" "Yes, Mr. Hart. We paid millions for it. But millions, you know, are nothing to us. We have only the trouble of taking them! Therefore we filled all his pockets--covered him with millions!" "Of what use are these millions to him if he is not allowed to enjoy them outside?" "That, Mr. Hart, is a matter that does not trouble him a little bit! This man of genius thinks nothing of the future: he lives but in the present. While engines are being constructed from his plans over yonder in America, he is preparing his explosive with chemical substances with which he has been abundantly supplied. He! he! What an invention it is, this autopropulsive engine, which flies through the air of its own power and accelerates its speed till the goal is reached, thanks to the properties of a certain powder of progressive combustion! Here we have an invention that will bring about a radical change in the art of war." "Defensive war, Mr. Serko." "And offensive war, Mr. Hart." "Naturally," I answer. Then pumping him still more closely, I go on: "So, what no one else has been able to obtain from Thomas Roch--" "We obtained without much difficulty." "By paying him." "By paying him an incredible price--and, moreover, by causing to vibrate what in him is a very sensitive chord." "What chord?" "That of vengeance!" "Vengeance?--against whom?" "Against all those who have made themselves his enemies by discouraging him, by spurning him, expelling him, by constraining him to go a-begging from country to country with an invention of incontestable superiority! Now all notion of patriotism is extinct in his soul. He has now but one thought, one ferocious desire: to avenge himself upon those who have denied him--and even upon all mankind! Really, Mr. Hart, your governments of Europe and America committed a stupendous blunder in refusing to pay Roch the price his fulgurator is worth!" And Engineer Serko describes enthusiastically the various advantages of the new explosive which, he says, is incontestably superior to any yet invented. "And what a destructive effect it has," he adds. "It is analogous to that of the Zalinski shell, but is a hundred times more powerful, and requires no machine for firing it, as it flies through the air on its own wings, so to speak." I listen in the hope that Engineer Serko will give away a part of the secret, but in vain. He is careful not to say more than he wants to. "Has Thomas Roch," I ask, "made you acquainted with the composition of his explosive?" "Yes, Mr. Hart--if it is all the same to you--and we shall shortly have considerable quantities of it stored in a safe place." "But will there not be a great and ever-impending danger in accumulating large quantities of it? If an accident were to happen it would be all up with the island of----!" Once more the name of Back Cup was on the point of escaping me. They might consider me too well-informed if they were aware that in addition to being acquainted with the Count d'Artigas' real name I also know where his stronghold is situated. Luckily Engineer Serko has not remarked my reticence, and he replies: "There will be no cause for alarm. Thomas Roch's explosive will not burn unless subjected to a special deflagrator. Neither fire nor shock will explode it." "And has Thomas Roch also sold you the secret of his deflagrator?" "Not yet, Mr. Hart, but it will not be long before the bargain is concluded. Therefore, I repeat, no danger is to be apprehended, and you need not keep awake of nights on that account. A thousand devils, sir! We have no desire to be blown up with our cavern and treasures! A few more years of good business and we shall divide the profits, which will be large enough to enable each one of us to live as he thinks proper and enjoy life to the top of his bent--after the dissolution of the firm of Ker Karraje and Co. I may add that though there is no danger of an explosion, we have everything to fear from a denunciation--which you are in the position to make, Mr. Hart. Therefore, if you take my advice, you will, like a sensible man, resign yourself to the inevitable until the disbanding of the company. We shall then see what in the interest of our security is best to be done with you!" It will be admitted that these words are not exactly calculated to reassure me. However, a lot of things may happen ere then. I have learned one good thing from this conversation, and that is that if Thomas Roch has sold his explosive to Ker Karraje and Co., he has at any rate, kept the secret of his deflagrator, without which the explosive is of no more value than the dust of the highway. But before terminating the interview I think I ought to make a very natural observation to Mr. Serko. "Sir," I say, "you are now acquainted with the composition of Thomas Roch's explosive. Does it really possess the destructive power that the inventor attributes to it? Has it ever been tried? May you not have purchased a composition as inert as a pinch of snuff?" "You are doubtless better informed upon this point than you pretend, Mr. Hart. Nevertheless, I thank you for the interest you manifest in our affairs, and am able to reassure you. The other night we made a series of decisive experiments. With only a few grains of this substance great blocks of rock were reduced to impalpable dust!" This explanation evidently applies to the detonation I heard. "Thus, my dear colleague," continues Engineer Serko, "I can assure you that our expectations have been answered. The effects of the explosive surpass anything that could have been imagined. A few thousand tons of it would burst our spheroid and scatter the fragments into space. You can be absolutely certain that it is capable of destroying no matter what vessel at a distance considerably greater than that attained by present projectiles and within a zone of at least a mile. The weak point in the invention is that rather too much time has to be expended in regulating the firing." Engineer Serko stops short, as though reluctant to give any further information, but finally adds: "Therefore, I end as I began, Mr. Hart. Resign yourself to the inevitable. Accept your new existence without reserve. Give yourself up to the tranquil delights of this subterranean life. If one is in good health, one preserves it; if one has lost one's health, one recovers it here. That is what is happening to your fellow countryman. Yes, the best thing you can do is to resign yourself to your lot." Thereupon this giver of good advice leaves me, after saluting me with a friendly gesture, like a man whose good intentions merit appreciation. But what irony there is in his words, in his glance, in his attitude. Shall I ever be able to get even with him? I now know that at any rate it is not easy to regulate the aim of Roch's auto-propulsive engine. It is probable that it always bursts at the same distance, and that beyond the zone in which the effects of the fulgurator are so terrible, and once it has been passed, a ship is safe from its effects. If I could only inform the world of this vital fact! _August 20_.--For two days no incident worth recording has occurred. I have explored Back Cup to its extreme limits. At night when the long perspective of arched columns are illuminated by the electric lamps, I am almost religiously impressed when I gaze upon the natural wonders of this cavern, which has become my prison. I have never given up hope of finding somewhere in the walls a fissure of some kind of which the pirates are ignorant and through which I could make my escape. It is true that once outside I should have to wait till a passing ship hove in sight. My evasion would speedily be known at the Beehive, and I should soon be recaptured, unless--a happy thought strikes me--unless I could get at the _Ebba's_ boat that was drawn up high and dry on the little sandy beach in the creek. In this I might be able to make my way to St. George or Hamilton. This evening--it was about nine o'clock--I stretched myself on a bed of sand at the foot of one of the columns, about one hundred yards to the east of the lagoon. Shortly afterwards I heard footsteps, then voices. Hiding myself as best I could behind the rocky base of the pillar, I listened with all my ears. I recognized the voices as those of Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko. The two men stopped close to where I was lying, and continued their conversation in English--which is the language generally used in Back Cup. I was therefore able to understand all that they said. They were talking about Thomas Roch, or rather his fulgurator. "In a week's time," said Ker Karraje, "I shall put to sea in the _Ebba_, and fetch the sections of the engines that are being cast in that Virginian foundry." "And when they are here," observed Engineer Serko, "I will piece them together and fix up the frames for firing them. But beforehand, there is a job to be done which it seems to me is indispensable." "What is that?" "To cut a tunnel through the wall of the cavern." "Through the wall of the cavern?" "Oh! nothing but a narrow passage through which only one man at a time could squeeze, a hole easy enough to block, and the outside end of which would be hidden among the rocks." "Of what use could it be to us, Serko?" "I have often thought about the utility of having some other way of getting out besides the submarine tunnel. We never know what the future may have in store for us." "But the walls are so thick and hard," objected Ker Karraje. "Oh, with a few grains of Roch's explosive I undertake to reduce the rock to such fine powder that we shall be able to blow it away with our breath," Serko replied. It can easily be imagined with what interest and eagerness I listened to this. Here was a ray of hope. It. was proposed to open up communication with the outside by a tunnel in the wall, and this held out the possibility of escape. As this thought flashed through my mind, Ker Karraje said: "Very well, Serko, and if it becomes necessary some day to defend Back Cup and prevent any ship from approaching it----. It is true," he went on, without finishing the reflection, "our retreat would have to have been discovered by accident--or by denunciation." "We have nothing to fear either from accident or denunciation," affirmed Serko. "By one of our band, no, of course not, but by Simon Hart, perhaps." "Hart!" exclaimed Serko. "He would have to escape first and no one can escape from Back Cup. I am, by the bye, interested in this Hart. He is a colleague, after all, and I have always suspected that he knows more about Roch's invention than he pretends. I will get round him so that we shall soon be discussing physics, mechanics, and matters ballistic like a couple of friends." "No matter," replied the generous and sensible Count d'Artigas, "when we are in full possession of the secret we had better get rid of the fellow." "We have plenty of time to do that, Ker Karraje." "If God permits you to, you wretches," I muttered to myself, while my heart thumped against my ribs. And yet, without the intervention of Providence, what hope is there for me? The conversation then took another direction. "Now that we know the composition of the explosive, Serko," said Ker Karraje, "we must, at all cost, get that of the deflagrator from Thomas Roch." "Yes," replied Engineer Serko, "that is what I am trying to do. Unfortunately, however, Roch positively refuses to discuss it. Still he has already made a few drops of it with which those experiments were made, and he will furnish as with some more to blow a hole through the wall." "But what about our expeditions at sea?" queried Ker Karraje. "Patience! We shall end by getting Roch's thunderbolts entirely in our own hand, and then----" "Are you sure, Serko?" "Quite sure,--by paying the price, Ker Karraje." The conversation dropped at this point, and they strolled off without having seen me--very luckily for me, I guess. If Engineer Serko spoke up somewhat in defence of a colleague, Ker Karraje is apparently animated with much less benevolent sentiments in regard to me. On the least suspicion they would throw me into the lake, and if I ever got through the tunnel, it would only be as a corpse carried out by the ebbing tide. _August 21_.--Engineer Serko has been prospecting with a view to piercing the proposed passage through the wall, in such a way that its existence will never be dreamed of outside. After a minute examination he decided to tunnel through the northern end of the cavern about sixty feet from the first cells of the Beehive. I am anxious for the passage to be made, for who knows but what it may be the way to freedom for me? Ah! if I only knew how to swim, perhaps I should have attempted to escape through the submarine tunnel, as since it was disclosed by the lashing back of the waters by the whale in its death-struggle, I know exactly where the orifice is situated. It seems to me that at the time of the great tides, this orifice must be partly uncovered. At the full and new moon, when the sea attains its maximum depression below the normal level, it is possible that--I must satisfy myself about this. I do not know how the fact will help me in any way, even if the entrance to the tunnel is partly uncovered, but I cannot afford to miss any detail that may possibly aid in my escape from Back Cup. _August 29_.--This morning I am witnessing the departure of the tug. The Count d'Artigas is, no doubt, going off in the _Ebba_ to fetch the sections of Thomas Roch's engines. Before embarking, the Count converses long and earnestly with Engineer Serko, who, apparently, is not going to accompany him on this trip, and is evidently giving him some recommendations, of which I may be the object. Then, having stepped on to the platform, he goes below, the lid shuts with a bang, and the tug sinks out of sight, leaving a trail of bubbles behind it. The hours go by, night is coming on, yet the tug does not return. I conclude that it has gone to tow the schooner, and perhaps to destroy any merchant vessels that may come in their way. It cannot, however, be absent very long, as the trip to America and back will not take more than a week. Besides, if I can judge from the calm atmosphere in the interior of the cavern, the _Ebba_ must be favored with beautiful weather. This is, in fact, the fine season in this part of the world. Ah! if only I could break out of my prison! CHAPTER XIII. GOD BE WITH IT. _From August 29 to September 10_.--Thirteen days have gone by and the _Ebba_ has not returned. Did she then not make straight for the American coast? Has she been delayed by a buccaneering cruise in the neighborhood of Back Cup? It seems to me that Ker Karraje's only desire would be to get back with the sections of Roch's engines as soon as possible. Maybe the Virginian foundry had not quite finished them. Engineer Serko does not display the least anxiety or impatience. He continues to greet me with his accustomed ironical cordiality, and with a kindly air that I distrust--with good reason. He affects to be solicitous as to my health, urges me to make the best of a bad job, calls me Ali Baba, assures me that there is not, in the whole world, such an enchanting spot as this Arabian Nights cavern, observes that I am fed, warmed, lodged, and clothed, that I have no taxes to pay, and that even the inhabitants of the favored principality of Monaco do not enjoy an existence more free from care. Sometimes this ironical verbiage brings the blood to my face, and I am tempted to seize this cynical banterer by the throat and choke the life out of him. They would kill me afterwards. Still, what would that matter! Would it not be better to end in this way than to spend years and years amid these infernal and infamous surroundings? However, while there is life there is hope, I reflect, and this thought restrains me. I have scarcely set eyes upon Thomas Roch since the _Ebba_ went away. He shuts himself up in his laboratory and works unceasingly. If he utilizes all the substances placed at his disposition there will be enough to blow up Back Cup and the whole Bermudan archipelago with it! I cling to the hope that he will never consent to give up the secret of his deflagrator, and that Engineer Serko's efforts to acquire it will remain futile. _September 3_.--To-day I have been able to witness with my own eyes the power of Roch's explosive, and also the manner in which the fulgurator is employed. During the morning the men began to pierce the passage through the wall of the cavern at the spot fixed upon by Engineer Serko, who superintended the work in person. The work began at the base, where the rock is as hard as granite. To have continued it with pickaxes would have entailed long and arduous labor, inasmuch as the wall at this place is not less than from twenty to thirty yards in thickness, but thanks to Roch's fulgurator the passage will be completed easily and rapidly. I may well be astonished at what I have seen. The pickaxes hardly made any impression on the rock, but its disaggregation was effected with really remarkable facility by means of the fulgurator. A few grains of this explosive shattered the rocky mass and reduced it to almost impalpable powder that one's breath could disperse as easily as vapor. The explosion produced an excavation measuring fully a cubic yard. It was accompanied by a sharp detonation that may be compared to the report of a cannon. The first charge used, although a very small one, a mere pinch, blew the men in every direction, and two of them were seriously injured. Engineer Serko himself was projected several yards, and sustained some rather severe contusions. Here is how this substance, whose bursting force surpasses anything hitherto conceived, is employed. A small hole about an inch and a half in length is pierced obliquely in the rock. A few grains of the explosive are then inserted, but no wad is used. Then Thomas Roch steps forward. In his hand is a little glass phial containing a bluish, oily liquid that congeals almost as soon as it comes in contact with the air. He pours one drop on the entrance of the hole, and draws back, but not with undue haste. It takes a certain time--about thirty-five seconds, I reckon--before the combination of the fulgurator and deflagrator is effected. But when the explosion does take place its power of disaggregation is such--I repeat--that it may be regarded as unlimited. It is at any rate a thousand times superior to that of any known explosive. Under these circumstances it will probably not take more than a week to complete the tunnel. _September 19_.--For some time past I have observed that the tide rises and falls twice every twenty-four hours, and that the ebb and flow produce a rather swift current through the submarine tunnel. It is pretty certain therefore that a floating object thrown into the lagoon when the top of the orifice is uncovered would be carried out by the receding tide. It is just possible that during the lowest equinoctial tides the top of the orifice is uncovered. This I shall be able to ascertain, as this is precisely the time they occur. To-day, September 19, I could almost distinguish the summit of the hole under the water. The day after to-morrow, if ever, it will be uncovered. Very well then, if I cannot myself attempt to get through, may be a bottle thrown into the lagoon might be carried out during the last few minutes of the ebb. And might not this bottle by chance--an ultra-providential chance, I must avow--be picked up by a ship passing near Back Cup? Perhaps even it might be borne away by a friendly current and cast upon one of the Bermudan beaches. What if that bottle contained a letter? I cannot get this thought out of my mind, and it works me up into a great state of excitement. Then objections crop up--this one among others: the bottle might be swept against the rocks and smashed ere ever it could get out of the tunnel. Very true, but what if, instead of a bottle a diminutive, tightly closed keg were used? It would not run any danger of being smashed and would besides stand a much better chance of reaching the open sea. _September 20_.--This evening, I, unperceived, entered one of the store houses containing the booty pillaged from various ships and procured a keg very suitable for my experiment. I hid the keg under my coat, and returned to the Beehive and my cell. Then without losing an instant I set to work. Paper, pen, ink, nothing was wanting, as will be supposed from the fact that for three months I have been making notes and dotting down my impressions daily. I indite the following message: "On June 15 last Thomas Roch and his keeper Gaydon, or rather Simon Hart, the French engineer who occupied Pavilion No. 17, at Healthful House, near New-Berne, North Carolina, United States of America, were kidnapped and carried on board the schooner _Ebba_, belonging to the Count d'Artigas. Both are now confined in the interior of a cavern which serves as a lair for the said Count d'Artigas--who is really Ker Karraje, the pirate who some time ago carried on his depredations in the West Pacific--and for about a hundred men of which his band is composed. "When he has obtained possession of Roch's fulgurator whose power is, so to speak, without limit, Ker Karraje will be in a position to carry on his crimes with complete impunity. "It is therefore urgent that the states interested should destroy his lair without delay. "The cavern in which the pirate Ker Karraje has taken refuge is in the interior of the islet of Back Cup, which is wrongly regarded as an active volcano. It is situated at the western extremity of the archipelago of Bermuda, and on the east is bounded by a range of reefs, but on the north, south, and west is open. "Communication with the inside of the mountain is only possible through a tunnel a few yards under water in a narrow pass on the west. A submarine apparatus therefore is necessary to effect an entrance, at any rate until a tunnel they are boring through the northwestern wall of the cavern is completed. "The pirate Ker Karraje employs an apparatus of this kind--the submarine boat that the Count d'Artigas ordered of the Cramps and which was supposed to have been lost during the public experiment with it in Charleston Bay. This boat is used not only for the purpose of entering and issuing from Back Cup, but also to tow the schooner and attack merchant vessels in Bermudan waters. "This schooner _Ebba_, so well known on the American coast, is kept in a small creek on the western side of the island, behind a mass of rocks, and is invisible from the sea. "The best place to land is on the west coast formerly occupied by the colony of Bermudan fishers; but it would first be advisable to effect a breach in the side of the cavern by means of the most powerful melinite shells. "The fact that Ker Karraje may be in the position to use Roch's fulgurator for the defence of the island must also be taken into consideration. Let it be well borne in mind that if its destructive power surpasses anything ever conceived or dreamed of, it extends over a zone not exceeding a mile in extent. The distance of this dangerous zone is variable, but once the engines have been set, the modification of the distance occupies some time, and a warship that succeeds in passing the zone has nothing further to fear. "This document is written on the twentieth day of September at eight o'clock in the evening and is signed with my name "THOMAS HART, Engineer." The above is the text of the statement I have just drawn up. It says all that is necessary about the island, whose exact situation is marked on all modern charts and maps, and points out the expediency of acting without delay, and what to do in case Ker Karraje is in the position to employ Roch's fulgurator. I add a plan of the cavern showing its internal configuration, the situation of the lagoon, the lay of the Beehive, Ker Karraje's habitation, my cell, and Thomas Roch's laboratory. I wrap the document in a piece of tarpaulin and insert the package in the little keg, which measures six inches by three and a half. It is perfectly watertight and will stand any amount of knocking about against the rocks. There is one danger, however, and that is, that it may be swept back by the returning tide, cast up on the island, and fall into the hands of the crew of the _Ebba_ when the schooner is hauled into her creek. If Ker Karraje ever gets hold of it, it will be all up with me. It will be readily conceived with what anxiety I have awaited the moment to make the attempt: I am in a perfect fever of excitement, for it is a matter of life or death to me. I calculate from previous observations that the tide will be very low at about a quarter to nine. The top of the tunnel ought then to be a foot and a half above water, which is more than enough to permit of the keg passing through it. It will be another half hour at least before the flow sets in again, and by that time the keg may be far enough away to escape being thrown back on the coast. I peer out of my cell. There is no one about, and I advance to the side of the lagoon, where by the light of a nearby lamp, I perceive the arch of the tunnel, towards which the current seems to be setting pretty swiftly. I go down to the very edge, and cast in the keg which contains the precious document and all my hopes. "God be with it!" I fervently exclaim. "God be with it!" For a minute or two the little barrel remains stationary, and then floats back to the side again. I throw it out once more with all my strength. This time it is in the track of the current, which to my great joy sweeps it along and in twenty seconds, it has disappeared in the tunnel. Yes, God be with it! May Heaven guide thee, little barrel! May it protect all those whom Ker Karraje menaces and grant that this band of pirates may not escape from the justice of man! CHAPTER XIV. BATTLE BETWEEN THE "SWORD" AND THE TUG. Through all this sleepless night I have followed the keg in fancy. How many times I seem to see it swept against the rocks in the tunnel into a creek, or some excavation. I am in a cold perspiration from head to foot. Then I imagine that it has been carried out to sea. Heavens! if the returning tide should sweep it back to the entrance and then through the tunnel into the lagoon! I must be on the lookout for it. I rise before the sun and saunter down to the lagoon. Not a single object is floating on its calm surface. The work on the tunnel through the side of the cavern goes on, and at four o'clock in the afternoon on September 23, Engineer Serko blows away the last rock obstructing the issue, and communication with the outer world is established. It is only a very narrow hole, and one has to stoop to go through it. The exterior orifice is lost among the crannies of the rocky coast, and it would be easy to obstruct it, if such a measure became necessary. It goes without saying that the passage will be strictly guarded. No one without special authorization will be able either to go out or come in, therefore there is little hope of escape in that direction. _September 25._--This morning the tug rose from the depth of the lagoon to the surface, and has now run alongside the jetty. The Count d'Artigas and Captain Spade disembark, and the crew set to work to land the provisions--boxes of canned meat, preserves, barrels of wine and spirits, and other things brought by the _Ebba,_ among which are several packages destined for Thomas Roch. The men also land the various sections of Roch's engines which are discoid in shape. The inventor watches their operations, and his eyes glisten with eagerness. He seizes one of the sections, examines it, and nods approval. I notice that his joy no longer finds expression in incoherent utterances, that he is completely transformed from what he was while a patient at Healthful House. So much is this the case that I begin to ask myself whether his madness which was asserted to be incurable, has not been radically cured. At last Thomas Roch embarks in the boat used for crossing the lake and is rowed over to his laboratory. Engineer Serko accompanies him. In an hour's time the tug's cargo has all been taken out and transported to the storehouses. Ker Karraje exchanges a word or two with Engineer Serko and then enters his mansion. Later, in the afternoon, I see them walking up and down in front of the Beehive and talking earnestly together. Then they enter the new tunnel, followed by Captain Spade. If I could but follow them! If I could but breathe for awhile the bracing air of the Atlantic, of which the interior of Back Cup only receives attenuated puffs, so to speak. _From September 26 to October 10_.--Fifteen days have elapsed. Under the directions of Engineer Serko and Thomas Roch the sections of the engines have been fitted together. Then the construction of their supports is begun. These supports are simple trestles, fitted with transverse troughs or grooves of various degrees of inclination, and which could be easily installed on the deck of the _Ebba_, or even on the platform of the tug, which can be kept on a level with the surface. Thus Ker Karraje, will be ruler of the seas, with his yacht. No warship, however big, however powerful, will be able to cross the zone of danger, whereas the _Ebba_ will be out of range of its guns. If only my notice were found! If only the existence of this lair of Back Cup were known! Means would soon be found, if not of destroying the place, at least of starving the band into submission! _October 20_.--To my extreme surprise I find this morning that the tug has gone away again. I recall that yesterday the elements of the piles were renewed, but I thought it was only to keep them in order. In view of the fact that the outside can now be reached through the new tunnel, and that Thomas Roch has everything he requires, I can only conclude that the tug has gone off on another marauding expedition. Yet this is the season of the equinoctial gales, and the Bermudan waters are swept by frequent tempests. This is evident from the violent gusts that drive back the smoke through the crater and the heavy rain that accompanies it, as well as by the water in the lagoon, which swells and washes over the brown rocks on its shores. But it is by no means sure that the _Ebba_ has quitted her cove. However staunch she may be, she is, it seems to me, of too light a build to face such tempests as now rage, even with the help of the tug. On the other hand, although the tug has nothing to fear from the heavy seas, as it would be in calm water a few yards below the surface, it is hardly likely that it has gone on a trip unless to accompany the schooner. I do not know to what its departure can be attributed, but its absence is likely to be prolonged, for it has not yet returned. Engineer Serko has remained behind, but Ker Karraje, Captain Spade, and the crew of the schooner, I find, have left. Life in the cavern goes on with its usual dispiriting monotony. I pass hour after hour in my cell, meditating, hoping, despairing, following in fancy the voyage of my little barrel, tossed about at the mercy of the currents and whose chances of being picked up, I fear, are becoming fainter each day, and killing time by writing my diary, which will probably not survive me. Thomas Roch is constantly occupied in his laboratory manufacturing his deflagrator. I still entertain the conviction that nothing will ever induce him to give up the secret of the liquid's composition; but I am perfectly aware that he will not hesitate to place his invention at Ker Karraje's service. I often meet Engineer Serko when my strolls take me in the direction of the Beehive. He always shows himself disposed to chat with me, though, it is true, he does so in a tone of impertinent frivolity. We converse upon all sorts of subjects, but rarely of my position. Recrimination thereanent is useless and only subjects me to renewed bantering. _October 22_.--To-day I asked Engineer Serko whether the _Ebba_ had put to sea again with the tug. "Yes, Mr. Simon Hart," he replied, "and though the clouds gather and loud the tempest roars, be in no uneasiness in regard to our dear _Ebba_." "Will she be gone long?" "We expect her back within forty-eight hours. It is the last voyage Count d'Artigas proposes to make before the winter gales render navigation in these parts impracticable." "Is her voyage one of business or pleasure?" "Of business, Mr. Hart, of business," answered Engineer Serko with a smile. "Our engines are now completed, and when the fine weather returns we shall resume offensive operations." "Against unfortunate merchantmen." "As unfortunate as they are richly laden." "Acts of piracy, whose impunity will, I trust, not always be assured," I cried.. "Calm yourself, dear colleague, be calm! Be calm! No one, you know, can ever discover our retreat, and none can ever disclose the secret! Besides, with these engines, which are so easily handled and are of such terrible power, it would be easy for us to blow to pieces any ship that attempted to get within a certain radius of the island." "Providing," I said, "that Thomas Roch has sold you the composition of his deflagrator as he has sold you that of his fulgurator." "That he has done, Mr. Hart, and it behooves me to set your mind at rest upon that point." From this categorical response I ought to have concluded that the misfortune had been consummated, but a certain hesitation in the intonation of his voice warned me that implicit reliance was not to be placed upon Engineer Serko's assertions. _October 25_.--What a frightful adventure I have just been mixed up in, and what a wonder I did not lose my life! It is only by a miracle that I am able to resume these notes, which have been interrupted for forty-eight hours. With a little luck, I should have been delivered! I should now be in one of the Bermudan ports--St. George or Hamilton. The mysteries of Back Cup would have been cleared up. The description of the schooner would have been wired all over the world, and she would not dare to put into any port. The provisioning of Back Cup would be impossible, and Ker Karraje's bandits would be condemned to starve to death! This is what occurred: At eight o'clock in the evening on October 23, I quitted my cell in an indefinable state of nervousness, and with a presentiment that a serious event was imminent. In vain I had tried to seek calmness in sleep. It was impossible to do so, and I rose and went out. Outside Back Cup the weather must have been very rough. Violent gusts of wind swept in through the crater and agitated the water of the lagoon. I walked along the shore on the Beehive side. No one was about. It was rather cold, and the air was damp. The pirates were all snugly ensconced in their cells, with the exception of one man, who stood guard over the new passage, notwithstanding that the outer entrance had been blocked. From where he was this man could not see the lagoon, moreover there were only two lamps alight, one on each side of the lake, and the forest of pillars was wrapt in the profoundest obscurity. I was walking about in the shadow, when some one passed me. I saw that he was Thomas Roch. He was walking slowly, absorbed by his thoughts, his brain at work, as usual. Was this not a favorable opportunity to talk to him, to enlighten him about what he was probably ignorant, namely, the character of the people into whose hands he had fallen? "He cannot," I argued, "know that the Count d'Artigas is none other than Ker Karraje, the pirate. He cannot be aware that he has given up a part of his invention to such a bandit. I must open his eyes to the fact that he will never be able to enjoy his millions, that he is a prisoner in Back Cup, and will never be allowed to leave it, any more than I shall. Yes, I will make an appeal to his sentiments of humanity, and point out to him what frightful misfortunes he will be responsible for if he does not keep the secret of his deflagrator." All this I had said to myself, and was preparing to carry out my resolution, when I suddenly felt myself seized from behind. Two men held me by the arms, and another appeared in front of me. Before I had time to cry out the man exclaimed in English: "Hush! not a word! Are you not Simon Hart?" "Yes, how did you know?" "I saw you come out of your cell." "Who are you, then?" "Lieutenant Davon, of the British Navy, of H.M.S. _Standard_, which is stationed at the Bermudas." Emotion choked me so that it was impossible for me to utter a word. "We have come to rescue you from Ker Karraje, and also propose to carry off Thomas Roch," he added. "Thomas Roch?" I stammered. "Yes, the document signed by you was found on the beach at St. George----" "In a keg, Lieutenant Davon, which I committed to the waters of the lagoon." "And which contained," went on the officer, "the notice by which we were apprised that the island of Back Cup served as a refuge for Ker Karraje and his band--Ker Karraje, this false Count d'Artigas, the author of the double abduction from Healthful House." "Ah! Lieutenant Davon----" "Now we have not a moment to spare, we must profit by the obscurity." "One word, Lieutenant Davon, how did you penetrate to the interior of Back Cup?" "By means of the submarine boat _Sword_, with which we have been making experiments at St. George for six months past." "A submarine boat!" "Yes, it awaits us at the foot of the rocks. And now, Mr. Hart, where is Ker Karraje's tug?" "It has been away for three weeks." "Ker Karraje is not here, then?" "No, but we expect him back every day--every hour, I might say." "It matters little," replied Lieutenant Davon. "It is not after Ker Karraje, but Thomas Roch, we have come--and you also, Mr. Hart. The _Sword_ will not leave the lagoon till you are both on board. If she does not turn up at St. George again, they will know that I have failed--and they will try again." "Where is the _Sword_, Lieutenant?" "On this side, in the shadow of the bank, where it cannot be seen. Thanks to your directions, I and my crew were able to locate the tunnel. We came through all right, and ten minutes ago rose to the surface of the lake. Two men landed with me. I saw you issue from the cell marked on your plan. Do you know where Thomas Roch is?" "A few paces off. He has just passed me, on his way to his laboratory." "God be praised, Mr. Hart!" "Amen, Lieutenant Davon." The lieutenant, the two men and I took the path around the lagoon. We had not gone far when we perceived Thomas Roch in front of us. To throw ourselves upon him, gag him before he could utter a cry, bind him before he could offer any resistance, and bear him off to the place where the _Sword_ was moored was the work of a minute. The _Sword_ was a submersible boat of only twelve tons, and consequently much inferior to the tug, both in respect of dimensions and power. Her screw was worked by a couple of dynamos fitted with accumulators that had been charged twelve hours previously in the port of St. George. However, the _Sword_ would suffice to take us out of this prison, to restore us to liberty--that liberty of which I had given up all hope. Thomas Roch was at last to be rescued from the clutches of Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko. The rascals would not be able to utilize his invention, and nothing could prevent the warships from landing a storming party on the island, who would force the tunnel in the wall and secure the pirates! We saw no one while the two men were conveying Thomas Roch to the _Sword_, and all got on board without incident. The lid was shut and secured, the water compartments filled, and the _Sword_ sank out of sight. We were saved! The _Sword_ was divided into three water-tight compartments. The after one contained the accumulators and machinery. The middle one, occupied by the pilot, was surmounted by a periscope fitted with lenticular portholes, through which an electric search-lamp lighted the way through the water. Forward, in the other compartment, Thomas Roch and I were shut in. My companion, though the gag which was choking him had been removed, was still bound, and, I thought, knew what was going on. But we were in a hurry to be off, and hoped to reach St. George that very night if no obstacle was encountered. I pushed open the door of the compartment and rejoined Lieutenant Davon, who was standing by the man at the wheel. In the after compartment three other men, including the engineer, awaited the lieutenant's orders to set the machinery in motion. "Lieutenant Davon," I said, "I do not think there is any particular reason why I should stay in there with Roch. If I can help you to get through the tunnel, pray command me." "Yes, I shall be glad to have you by me, Mr. Hart." It was then exactly thirty-seven minutes past eight. The search-lamp threw a vague light through the water ahead of the _Sword_. From where we were, we had to cross the lagoon through its entire length to get to the tunnel. It would be pretty difficult to fetch it, we knew, but, if necessary, we could hug the sides of the lake until we located it. Once outside the tunnel the _Sword_ would rise to the surface and make for St. George at full speed. "At what depth are we now?" I asked the lieutenant. "About a fathom." "It is not necessary to go any lower," I said. "From what I was able to observe during the equinoctial tides, I should think that we are in the axis of the tunnel." "All right," he replied. Yes, it was all right, and I felt that Providence was speaking by the mouth of the officer. Certainly Providence could not have chosen a better agent to work its will. In the light of the lamp I examined him. He was about thirty years of age, cool, phlegmatic, with resolute physiognomy--the English officer in all his native impassibility--no more disturbed than if he had been on board the _Standard_, operating with extraordinary _sang-froid,_ I might even say, with the precision of a machine. "On coming through the tunnel I estimated its length at about fifty yards," he remarked. "Yes, Lieutenant, about fifty yards from one extremity to the other." This calculation must have been pretty exact, since the new tunnel cut on a level with the coast is thirty-five feet in length. The order was given to go ahead, and the _Sword_ moved forward very slowly for fear of colliding against the rocky side. Sometimes we came near enough to it to distinguish a black mass ahead of it, but a turn of the wheel put us in the right direction again. Navigating a submarine boat in the open sea is difficult enough. How much more so in the confines of a lagoon! After five minutes' manoeuvring, the _Sword_, which was kept at about a fathom below the surface, had not succeeded in sighting the orifice. "Perhaps it would be better to return to the surface, Lieutenant," I said. "We should then be able to see where we are." "I think you are right, Mr. Hart, if you can point out just about where the tunnel is located." "I think I can." "Very well, then." As a precaution the light was turned off. The engineer set the pumps in motion, and, lightened of its water ballast, the boat slowly rose in the darkness to the surface. I remained at my post so that I could peer through the lookouts. At last the ascensional movement of the _Sword_ stopped, and the periscope emerged about a foot. On one side of me, lighted by the lamp by the shore, I could see the Beehive. "What is your opinion?" demanded the lieutenant. "We are too far north. The orifice is in the west side of the cavern." "Is anybody about?" "Not a soul." "Capital, Mr. Hart. Then we will keep on a level with the surface, and when we are in front of the tunnel, and you give the signal, we will sink." It was the best thing to be done. We moved off again and the pilot kept her head towards the tunnel. When we were about twelve yards off I gave the signal to stop. As soon as the current was turned off the _Sword_ stopped, opened her water tanks and slowly sank again. Then the light in the lookout was turned on again, and there in front of us was a black circle that did not reflect the lamp's rays. "There it is, there is the tunnel!" I cried. Was it not the door by which I was going to escape from my prison? Was not liberty awaiting me on the other side? Gently the _Sword_ moved towards the orifice. Oh! the horrible mischance! How have I survived it? How is it that my heart is not broken? A dim light appeared in the depth of the tunnel, about twenty-five yards in front of us. The advancing light could be none other than that, projected through the lookout of Ker Karraje's submarine boat. "The tug! The tug!" I exclaimed. "Lieutenant, here is the tug returning to Back Cup!" "Full speed astern," ordered the officer, and the _Sword_ drew back just as she was about to enter the tunnel. One chance remained. The lieutenant had swiftly turned off the light, and it was just possible that we had not been seen by the people in the tug. Perhaps, in the dark waters of the lagoon, we should escape notice, and when the oncoming boat had risen and moored to the jetty, we should be able to slip out unperceived. We had backed close in to the south side and the _Sword_ was about to stop, but alas, for our hopes! Captain Spade had seen that another submarine boat was about to issue through the tunnel, and he was making preparations to chase us. How could a frail craft like the _Sword_ defend itself against the attacks of Ker Karraje's powerful machine? Lieutenant Davon turned to me and said: "Go back to the compartment where Thomas Roch is and shut yourself in. I will close the after-door. There is just a chance that if the tug rams us the water-tight compartments will keep us up." After shaking hands with the lieutenant, who was as cool as though we were in no danger, I went forward and rejoined Thomas Roch. I closed the door and awaited the issue in profound darkness. Then I could feel the desperate efforts made by the _Sword_ to escape from or ram her enemy. I could feel her rushing, gyrating and plunging. Now she would twist to avoid a collision. Now she would rise to the surface, then sink to the bottom of the lagoon. Can any one conceive such a struggle as that in which, like two marine monsters, these machines were engaged in beneath the troubled waters of this inland lake? A few minutes elapsed, and I began to think that the _Sword_ had eluded the tug and was rushing through the tunnel. Suddenly there was a collision. The shock was not, it seemed to me, very violent, but I could be under no illusion: the _Sword_ had been struck on her starboard quarter. Perhaps her plates had resisted, and if not, the water would only invade one of her compartments, I thought. Almost immediately after, however, there was another shock that pushed the _Sword_ with extreme violence. She was raised by the ram of the tug which sawed and ripped its way into her side. Then I could feel her heel over and sink straight down, stern foremost. Thomas Roch and I were tumbled over violently by. this movement. There was another bump, another ripping sound, and the _Sword_ lay still. Just what happened after that I am unable to say, for I lost consciousness. I have since learned that all this occurred many hours ago. I however distinctly remember that my last thought was: "If I am to die, at any rate Thomas Roch and his secret perish with me--and the pirates of Back Cup will not escape punishment for their crimes." CHAPTER XV. EXPECTATION. As soon as I recover my senses I find myself lying on my bed in my cell, where it appears I have been lying for thirty-six hours. I am not alone. Engineer Serko is near me. He has attended to me himself, not because he regards me as a friend, I surmise, but as a man from whom indispensable explanations are awaited, and who afterwards can be done away with if necessary. I am still so weak that I could not walk a step. A little more and I should have been asphyxiated in that narrow compartment of the _Sword_ at the bottom of the lagoon. Am I in condition to reply to the questions that Engineer Serko is dying to put to me? Yes--but I shall maintain the utmost reserve. In the first place I wonder what has become of Lieutenant Davon and the crew of the _Sword_. Did those brave Englishmen perish in the collision? Are they safe and sound like us--for I suppose that Thomas Roch has also survived? The first question that Engineer Serko puts to me is this: "Will you explain to me what happened, Mr. Hart?" Instead of replying it occurs to me to question him myself. "And Thomas Roch?" I inquire. "In good health, Mr. Hart." Then he adds in an imperious tone: "Tell me what occurred!" "In the first place, tell me what became of the others." "What others?" replies Serko, glancing at me savagely. "Why, those men who threw themselves upon Thomas Roch and me, who gagged, bound, and carried us off and shut us up, I know not where?" On reflection I had come to the conclusion that the best thing to do was to pretend that I had been surprised before I knew where I was or who my aggressors were. "You will know what became of them later. But first, tell me how, the thing was done." By the threatening tone of his voice, as he for the third time puts this question, I understand the nature of the suspicions entertained of me. Yet to be in the position to accuse me of having had relations with the outside he would have had to get possession of my keg. This he could not have done, seeing that it is in the hands of the Bermudan authorities. The pirates cannot, I am convinced, have a single proof to back up their suspicions. I therefore recount how about eight o'clock on the previous evening I was walking along the edge of the lagoon, after Thomas Roch had passed me, going towards his laboratory, when I felt myself seized from behind; how having been gagged, bound, and blindfolded, I felt myself carried off and lowered into a hole with another person whom I thought I recognized from his groans as Thomas Roch; how I soon felt that I was on board a boat of some description and naturally concluded that it was the tug; how I felt it sink; how I felt a shock that threw me violently against the side, and how I felt myself suffocating and lost consciousness, since I remember nothing further. Engineer Serko listens with profound attention, a stern look in his eyes and a frown on his brow; and yet he can have no reason that authorizes him to doubt my word. "You claim that three men threw themselves upon you?" he asks. "Yes. I thought they were some of your people, for I did not see them coming. Who were they?" "Strangers, as you must have known from their language." "They did not utter a word!" "Have you no idea as to their nationality?" "Not the remotest." Do you know what were their intentions in entering the cavern?" "I do not." "What is your opinion about it?" "My opinion, Mr. Serko? I repeat I thought they were two or three of your pirates who had come to throw me into the lagoon by the Count d'Artigas' orders, and that they were going to do the same thing to Thomas Roch. I supposed that having obtained his secrets--as you informed me was the case--you had no further use for him and were about to get rid of us both." "Is it possible, Mr. Hart, that you could have thought such a thing!" continued Serko in his sarcastic way. "I did, until having been able to remove the bandage from my eyes, I perceived that I was in the tug." "It was not the tug, but a boat of the same kind that had got through the tunnel." "A submarine boat?" I ejaculate. "Yes, and manned by persons whose mission was to kidnap you and Thomas Roch." "Kidnap us?" I echo, continuing to feign surprise. "And," adds Engineer Serko, "I want to know what you think about the matter." "What I think about it? Well, it appears to me that there is only one plausible explanation possible. If the secret of your retreat has not been betrayed--and I cannot conceive how you could have been betrayed or what imprudence you or yours could have committed--my opinion is that this submarine boat was exploring the bottom of the sea in this neighborhood, that she must have found her way into the tunnel, that she rose to the surface of the lagoon, that her crew, greatly surprised to find themselves inside an inhabited cavern, seized hold of the first persons they came across, Thomas Roch and myself, and others as well perhaps, for of course I do not know----" Engineer Serko has become serious again. Does he realize the inanity of the hypothesis I try to pass off on him? Does he think I know more than I will say? However this may be, he accepts my professed view, and says: "In effect, Mr. Hart, it must have happened as you suggest, and when the stranger tried to make her way out through the tunnel just as the tug was entering, there was a collision--a collision of which she was the victim. But we are not the kind of people to allow our fellow-men to perish before our eyes. Moreover, the disappearance of Thomas Roch and yourself was almost immediately discovered. Two such valuable lives had to be saved at all hazards. We set to work. There are many expert divers among our men. They hastily donned their suits and descended to the bottom of the lagoon. They passed lines around the hull of the _Sword_----" "The _Sword_?" I exclaim. "That is the name we saw painted on the bow of the vessel when we raised her to the surface. What satisfaction we experienced when we recovered you--unconscious, it is true, but still breathing--and were able to bring you back to life! Unfortunately all our attentions to the officer who commanded the _Sword_, and to his crew were useless. The shock had torn open the after and middle compartments, and they paid with their lives the misfortune--due to chance, as you observe--of having discovered our mysterious retreat." On learning that Lieutenant Davon and his companions are dead, my heart is filled with anguish; but to keep up my role--as they were persons with whom, presumably, I was not acquainted, and had never seen--I am careful not to display any emotion. I must, on no account, afford ground for the suspicion that there was any connivance between the commander of the _Sword_ and me. For aught I know, Engineer Serko may have reason to be very skeptical about the discovery of the tunnel being accidental. What, however, I am most concerned about is that the unlooked-for occasion to recover my liberty was lost. Shall I ever be afforded another chance? However this may be, my notice reached the English authorities of the archipelago, and they now know where Ker Karraje is to be found. When it is seen that the _Sword_ does not return to Bermuda, there can be no doubt that another attempt will be made to get inside Back Cup, in which, had it not been for the inopportune return of the tug, I should no longer be a prisoner. I have resumed my usual existence, and having allayed all mistrust, am permitted to wander freely about the cavern, as usual. It is patent that the adventure has had no ill effect upon Thomas Roch. Intelligent nursing brought him around, as it did me. In full possession of his mental faculties he has returned to work, and spends the entire day in his laboratory. The _Ebba_ brought back from her last trip bales, boxes, and a quantity of objects of varied origin, and I conclude that a number of ships must have been pillaged during this marauding expedition. The work on the trestles for Roch's engine goes steadily forward, and there are now no fewer than fifty engines. If Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko are under the necessity of defending Back Cup, three or four will be sufficient to render the island unapproachable, as they will cover a zone which no vessel could enter without being blown to pieces. And it occurs to me that they intend to put Back Cup in a state of defence after having argued as follows: "If the appearance of the _Sword_ in the lagoon was due to chance the situation remains unchanged, and no power, not even England, will think of seeking for the _Sword_ inside the cavern. If, on the other hand, as the result of an incomprehensible revelation, it has been learned that Back Cup is become the retreat of Ker Karraje, if the expedition of the _Sword_ was a first effort against the island, another of a different kind--either a bombardment from a distance, or an attack by a landing party--is to be expected. Therefore, ere we can quit Back Cup and carry away our plunder, we shall have to defend ourselves by means of Roch's fulgurator." In my opinion the rascals must have gone on to reason still further in this wise: "Is there any connection between the disclosure of our secret--if it was, and however it may have been made--and the double abduction from Healthful House? Is it known that Thomas Roch and his keeper are confined in Back Cup? Is it known that the abduction was effected in the interest of Ker Karraje? Have Americans, English, French, Germans, and Russians reason to fear that an attack in force against the island would be doomed to failure?" Ker Karraje must know very well that these powers would not hesitate to attack him, however great the danger might be. The destruction of his lair is an urgent duty in the interest of public security and of humanity. After sweeping the West Pacific the pirate and his companions are infesting the West Atlantic, and must be wiped out at all costs. In any case, it is imperative that the inhabitants of Back Cup should be on their guard. This fact is realized, and, from the day on which the _Sword_ was destroyed, strict watch has been kept. Thanks to the new passage, they are able to hide among the rocks without having recourse to the submarine tunnel to get there, and day and night a dozen sentries are posted about the island. The moment a ship appears in sight the fact is at once made known inside the cavern. Nothing occurs for some days, and the latter succeed each other with dreadful monotony. The pirates, however, feel that Back Cup no longer enjoys its former security. Every moment an alarm from the sentries posted outside is expected. The situation is no longer the same since the advent of the _Sword_. Gallant Lieutenant Davon, gallant crew, may England, may the civilized nations, never forget that you have sacrificed your lives in the cause of humanity! It is evident that now, however powerful may be their means of defence, even more powerful than a network of torpedoes, Engineer Serko and Captain Spade are filled with an anxiety that they vainly essay to dissemble. They hold frequent conferences together. Maybe they discuss the advisability of quitting Back Cup with their wealth, for they are aware that if the existence of the cavern is known means will be found to reduce it, even if the inmates have to be starved out. This is, of course, mere conjecture on my part. What is essential to me is that they do not suspect me of having launched the keg that was so providentially picked up at Bermuda. Never, I must say, has Engineer Serko ever made any allusion to any such probability. No, I am not even suspected. If the contrary were the case I am sufficiently acquainted with Ker Karraje to know that he would long ago have sent me to rejoin Lieutenant Davon and the _Sword_ at the bottom of the lagoon. The winter tempests have set in with a vengeance. The wind howls though the hole in the roof, and rude gusts sweep through the forest of pillars producing sonorous sounds, so sonorous, so deep, that one might sometimes almost fancy they were produced by the firing of the guns of a squadron. Flocks of seabirds take refuge in the cavern from the gale, and at intervals, when it lulls, almost deafen us with their screaming. It is to be presumed that in such weather the schooner will make no attempt to put to sea, for the stock of provisions is ample enough to last all the season. Moreover, I imagine the Count d'Artigas will not be so eager in future to show his _Ebba_ along the American coast, where he risks being received, not, as hitherto, with the consideration due to a wealthy yachtsman, but in the manner Ker Karraje so richly merits. It occurs to me that if the apparition of the _Sword_ was the commencement of a campaign against the island, a question of great moment relative to the future of Back Cup arises. Therefore, one day, prudently, so as not to excite any suspicion, I ventured to pump Engineer Serko about it. We were in the neighborhood of Thomas Roch's laboratory, and had been conversing for some time, when Engineer Serko touched upon the extraordinary apparition of an English submarine boat in the lagoon. On this occasion he seemed to incline to the view that it might have been a premeditated expedition against Ker Karraje. "That is not my opinion," I replied, in order to bring him to the question that I wanted to put to him. "Why?" he demanded. "Because if your retreat were known a fresh attempt, if not to penetrate to the cavern, at least to destroy Back Cup, would ere this have been made." "Destroy it!" cried Serko. "It would be a dangerous undertaking, in view of the means of defence of which we now dispose." "They can know nothing about this matter, Mr. Serko. It is not imagined, either in the new world or the old, that the abduction from Healthful House was effected for your especial benefit, or that you have succeeded in coming to terms with Thomas Roch for his invention." Engineer Serko made no response to this observation, which, for that matter, was unanswerable. I continued: "Therefore a squadron sent by the maritime powers who have an interest in breaking up this island would not hesitate to approach and shell it. Now, I argue from this that as this squadron has not yet appeared, it is not likely to come at all, and that nothing is known as to Ker Karraje's whereabouts, and you must admit that this hypothesis is the most cheerful one, as far as you are concerned." "That may be," Engineer Serko replied, "but what is, is. Whether they are aware of the fact or no, if warships approach within five or six miles of this island they will be sunk before they have had time to fire a single shot!" "Well, and what then?" "What then? Why the probability is that no others would care to repeat the experiment." "That, again, may be. But these warships would invest you beyond the dangerous zone, and the _Ebba_ would not be able to put in to the ports she previously visited with the Count d'Artigas. In this event, how would you be able to provision the island?" Engineer Serko remained silent. This argument, which he must already have brooded over, was too logical to be refuted or dismissed, and I have an idea that the pirates contemplate abandoning Back Cup. Nevertheless, not relishing being cornered, he continued: "We should still have the tug, and what the _Ebba_ could not do, this would." "The tug?" I cried. "But if Ker Karraje's secrets are known, do you suppose the powers are not also aware of the existence of the Count d'Artigas' submarine boat?" Engineer Serko looked at me suspiciously. "Mr. Hart," he said, "you appear to me to carry your deductions rather far." "I, Mr. Serko?" "Yes, and I think you talk about all this like a man who knows more than he ought to." This remark brought me up abruptly. It was evident that my arguments might give rise to the suspicion that I was not altogether irresponsible for the recent incident. Engineer Serko scrutinized me sharply as though he would read my innermost thoughts. "Mr. Serko," I observed, "by profession, as well as by inclination, I am accustomed to reason upon everything. This is why I communicated to you the result of my reasoning, which you can take into consideration or not, as you like." Thereupon we separate. But I fancy my lack of reserve may have excited suspicions which may not be easy to allay. From this interview, however, I gleaned a precious bit of information, namely, that the dangerous zone of Roch's fulgurator is between five and six miles off. Perhaps, during the next equinoctial tides, another notice to this effect in another keg may also reach a safe destination. But how many weary months to wait before the orifice of the tunnel will again be uncovered! The rough weather continues, and the squalls are more violent than ever. Is it the state of the sea that delays another campaign against Back Cup? Lieutenant Davon certainly assured me that if his expedition failed, if the _Sword_ did not return to St. George, another attempt under different conditions would be made with a view to breaking up this bandits' lair. Sooner or later the work of justice must be done, and Back Cup be destroyed, even though I may not survive its destruction. Ah! why can I not go and breathe, if only for a single instant, the vivifying air outside? Why am I not permitted to cast one glance over the ocean towards the distant horizon of the Bermudas? My whole life is concentrated in one desire: to get through the tunnel in the wall and hide myself among the rocks. Perchance I might be the first to catch sight of the smoke of a squadron heading for the island. This project, alas! is unrealizable, as sentries are posted day and night at each extremity of the passage. No one can enter it without Engineer Serko's authorization. Were I to attempt it, I should risk being deprived of my liberty to walk about the cavern, and even worse might happen to me. Since our last conversation, Engineer Serko's attitude towards me has undergone a change. His gaze has lost its old-time sarcasm and is distrustful, suspicious, searching and as stern as Ker Karraje's. _November 17_.--This afternoon there was a great commotion in the Beehive, and the men rushed out of their cells with loud cries. I was reclining on my bed, but immediately rose and hurried out. All the pirates were making for the passage, in front of which were Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade, Boatswain Effrondat, Engine-driver Gibson and the Count d'Artigas' big Malay attendant. I soon learn the reason for the tumult, for the sentries rush in with shouts of alarm. Several vessels have been sighted to the northwest--warships steaming at full speed in the direction of Back Cup. CHAPTER XVI. ONLY A FEW MORE HOURS. What effect this news has upon me, and what emotion it awakens within my soul! The end, I feel, is at hand. May it be such as civilization and humanity are entitled to. Up to the present I have indited my notes day by day. Henceforward it is imperative that I should inscribe them hour by hour, minute by minute. Who knows but what Thomas Roch's last secret may be revealed to me and that I shall have time to commit it to paper! Should I die during the attack God grant that the account of the five months I have passed in Back Cup may be found upon my body! At first Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade, and several of their companions took up position on the exterior base of the island. What would I not give to be able follow to them, and in the friendly shelter of a rook watch the on-coming warships! An hour later they return after having left a score of men to keep watch. As the days at this season of the year are very short there is nothing to fear before the morrow. It is not likely that the ships will attempt a night attack and land a storming party, for they must imagine that the place is in a thorough condition of defence. All night long the pirates work, installing the trestles at different points of the coast. Six have been taken through the passage to places selected in advance. This done, Engineer Serko joins Thomas Roch in his laboratory. Is he going to tell him what is passing, that a squadron is in view of Back Cup, and that his fulgurator will be employed to defend the island? What is certain is that half a hundred engines, each charged with several pounds of the explosive and of the substance that ensures a trajectory superior to that of any other projectile, are ready for their work of destruction. As to the deflagrator liquid, Thomas Roch has a certain number of phials of it, and--I know only too well--will not refuse to help Ker Karraje's pirates with it. During these preparations night has come on. Only the lamps of the Beehive are lighted and a semi-obscurity reigns in the cavern. I return to my cell. It is to my interest to keep out of the way as much as possible, for Engineer Serko's suspicions might be revived now that the squadron is approaching Back Cup. But will the vessels sighted continue on their course in this direction? May they not be merely passing on their way to Bermuda? For an instant this doubt enters my mind. No, no, it cannot be! Besides, I have just heard Captain Spade declare that they are lying to in view of the island. To what nation do they belong? Have the English, desirous of avenging the destruction of the _Sword_, alone undertaken the expedition? May not cruisers of other nations be with them? I know not, and it is impossible to ascertain. And what does it matter, after all, so long as this haunt is destroyed, even though I should perish in the ruins like the heroic Lieutenant Davon and his brave crew? Preparations for defence continue with coolness and method under Engineer Serko's superintendence. These pirates are obviously certain that they will be able to annihilate their assailants as soon as the latter enter the dangerous zone. Their confidence in Roch's fulgurator is absolute. Absorbed by the idea that these warship are powerless against them, they think neither of the difficulties nor menaces held out by the future. I surmise that the trestles have been set up on the northwest coast with the grooves turned to send the engines to the north, west, and south. On the east, as already stated, the island is defended by the chain of reefs that stretches away to the Bermudas. About nine o'clock I venture out of my cell. They will pay little attention to me, and perhaps I may escape notice in the obscurity. Ah! if I could get through that passage and hide behind some rock, so that I could witness what goes on at daybreak! And why should I not succeed now that Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, Captain Spade, and the pirates have taken their posts outside? The shores of the lake are deserted, but the entrance to the passage is kept by Count d'Artigas' Malay. I saunter, without any fixed idea, towards Thomas Roch's laboratory. This reminds me of my compatriot. I am, on reflection, disposed to think that he knows nothing about the presence of a squadron off Back Cup. Probably not until the last moment will Engineer Serko apprise him of its proximity, not till he brusquely points out to him the vengeance he can accomplish. Then I conceive the idea of enlightening Thomas Roch, myself, of the responsibility he is incurring and of revealing to him in this supreme hour the character of the men who want him to co-operate in their criminal projects. Yes, I will, attempt it, and may I succeed in fanning into a flame any spark of patriotism that may still linger in his rebellious soul! Roch is shut up in his laboratory. He must be alone, for never does he allow any one to enter while he is preparing his deflagrator. As I pass the jetty I notice that the tug is moored in its accustomed place. Here I judge it prudent to walk behind the first row of pillars and approach the laboratory laterally--which will enable me to see whether anybody is with him. When I have gone a short distance along the sombre avenue I see a bright light on the opposite side of the lagoon. It is the electric light in Roch's laboratory as seen through a narrow window in the front. Except in that particular spot, the southern shore of the lake is in darkness, whereas, in the opposite direction, the Beehive is lit up to its extremity at the northern wall. Through the opening in the dome, over the lake I can see the stars shining. The sky is clear, the tempest has abated, and the squalls no longer penetrate to the interior of Back Cup. When near the laboratory, I creep along the wall and peep in at the window. Thomas Roch is there alone. The light shines full on his face. If it is somewhat drawn, and the lines on the forehead are more pronounced, his physiognomy, at least, denotes perfect calmness and self-possession. No, he is no longer the inmate of Pavilion No. 17, the madman of Healthful House, and I ask myself whether he is not radically cured, whether there is no further danger of his reason collapsing in a final paroxysm. He has just laid two glass phials upon the table, and holds a third in his hand. He holds it up to the light, and observes the limpidity of the liquid it contains. I have half a mind to rush in, seize the tubes and smash them, but I reflect that he would have time to make some more of the stuff. Better stick to my first plan. I push the door open and enter. "Thomas Roch!" I exclaim. He has not heard, nor has he seen me. "Thomas Roch!" I repeat. He raises his head, turns and gazes at me. "Ah! it is you, Simon Hart!" he replies calmly, even indifferently. He knows my name. Engineer Serko must have informed him that it was Simon Hart, and not Keeper Gaydon who was watching over him at Healthful House. "You know who I am?" I say. "Yes, as I know what your object was in undertaking such a position. You lived in hopes of surprising a secret that they would not pay for at its just value!" Thomas Roch knows everything, and perhaps it is just as well, in view of what I am going to say. "Well, you did not succeed, Simon Hart, and as far as this is concerned," he added, flourishing the phial, "no one else has succeeded, or ever will succeed." As I conjectured, he has not, then, made known the composition of his deflagrator. Looking him straight in the face, I reply: "You know who I am, Thomas Roch, but do you know in whose place you are?" "In my own place!" he cries. That is what Ker Karraje has permitted him to believe. The inventor thinks he is at home in Back Cup, that the riches accumulated in this cavern are his, and that if an attack is made upon the place, it will be with the object of stealing what belongs to him! And he will defend it under the impression that he has the right to do so! "Thomas Roch," I continue, "listen to me." "What do you want to say to me, Simon Hart?" "This cavern into which we have been dragged, is occupied by a band of pirates, and--" Roch does not give me time to complete the sentence--I doubt even whether he has understood me. "I repeat," he interrupts vehemently, "that the treasures stored here are the price of my invention. They have paid me what I asked for my fulgurator--what I was everywhere else refused--even in my own country--which is also yours--and I will not allow myself to be despoiled!" What can I reply to such insensate assertions? I, however, go on: "Thomas Roch, do you remember Healthful House?" "Healthful House, where I was sequestrated after Warder Gaydon had been entrusted with the mission of spying upon me in order to rob me of my secret? I do, indeed." "I never dreamed of depriving you of the benefit of your secret, Thomas Roch. I would never have accepted such a mission. But you were ill, your reason was affected, and your invention was too valuable to be lost. Yes, had you disclosed the secret during one of your fits you would have preserved all the benefit and all the honor of it." "Really, Simon Hart!" Roch replies disdainfully. "Honor and benefit! Your assurances come somewhat late in the day. You forget that on the pretext of insanity, I was thrown into a dungeon. Yes, it was a pretext; for my reason has never left me, even for an hour, as you can see from what I have accomplished since I am free." "Free! Do you imagine you are free, Thomas Roch? Are you not more closely confined within the walls of this cavern than you ever were at Healthful House?" "A man who is in his own home," he replies angrily, "goes out as he likes and when he likes. I have only to say the word and all the doors will open before me. This place is mine. Count d'Artigas gave it to me with everything it contains. Woe to those who attempt to attack it. I have here the wherewithal to annihilate them, Simon Hart!" The inventor waves the phial feverishly as he speaks." "The Count d'Artigas has deceived you," I cry, "as he has deceived so many others. Under this name is dissembled one of the most formidable monsters who ever scoured the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. He is a bandit steeped in crime--he is the odious Ker Karraje!" "Ker Karraje!" echoes Thomas Roch. And I wonder if this name has not impressed him, if he remembers who the man is who bears it. If it did impress him, it was only momentarily. "I do not know this Ker Karraje," he says, pointing towards the door to order me out. "I only know the Count d'Artigas." "Thomas Roch," I persist, in a final effort, "the Count d'Artigas and Ker Karraje are one and the same person. If this man has purchased your secret, it is with the intention of ensuring impunity for his crimes and facilities for committing fresh ones. He is the chief of these pirates." "Pirates!" cries Roch, whose irritation increases the more I press him. "The real pirates are those who dare to menace me even in this retreat, who tried it on with the _Sword_--for Serko has told me everything--who sought to steal in my own home what belongs to me, what is but the just price of my discovery." "No, Thomas Roch, the pirates are those who have imprisoned you in this cavern of Back Cup, who will utilize your genius to defend it, and who will get rid of you when they are in entire possession of your secrets!" Thomas Roch here interrupts me. He does not appear to listen to what I say. He has a fixed idea, that of vengeance, which has been skilfully worked upon by Engineer Serko, and in which his hatred is concentrated to the exclusion of everything else. "The bandits," he hisses, "are those who spurned me without a hearing, who heaped injustice and ignominy upon me, who drove me from country to country, whereas I offered them superiority, invincibleness, omnipotence!" It is the eternal story of the unappreciated inventor, to whom the indifferent or envious refuse the means of testing his inventions, to pay him the value he sets upon them. I know it well--and also know all the exaggeration that has been written upon this subject. It is clearly no time for reasoning with Thomas Roch. My arguments are entirely lost upon the hapless dupe of Ker Karraje and his accomplices. In revealing to him the real name of the Count d'Artigas, and denouncing to him this band and their chief I had hoped to wean him from their influence and make him realize the criminal end they have in view. My hope was vain. He does not believe me. And then what does he care whether the brigand's name is Count 'd'Artigas or Ker Karraje? Is not he, Thomas Roch, master of Back Cup? Is he not the owner of these riches accumulated by twenty years of murder and rapine? Disarmed before such moral degeneracy, knowing not how I can touch his ulcerated, irresponsible heart, I turn towards the door. It only remains for me to withdraw. What is to be, will be, since it is out of my power to prevent the frightful _dénouement_ that will occur in a few hours. Thomas Roch takes no more notice of me. He seems to have forgotten that I am here. He has resumed his manipulations without realizing that he is not alone. There is only one means of preventing the imminent catastrophe. Throw myself upon Roch, place him beyond the power of doing harm--strike him--kill him--yes, kill him! It is my right--it is my duty! I have no arms, but on a near-by shelf I see some tools--a chisel and a hammer. What is to prevent me from knocking his brains out? Once he is dead I have but to smash the phials and his invention dies with him. The warships can approach, land their men upon the island, demolish Back Cup with their shells. Ker Karraje and his band will be killed to a man. Can I hesitate at a murder that will bring about the chastisement of so many crimes? I advance to the shelf and stretch forth my hand to seize the chisel. As I do so, Thomas Roch turns round. It is too late to strike. A struggle would ensue. The noise and his cries would be heard, for there are still some pirates not far off, I can even now hear some one approaching, and have only just time to fly if I would not be seen. Nevertheless, I make one last attempt to awaken the sentiment of patriotism within him. "Thomas Roch," I say, "warships are in sight. They have come to destroy this lair. Maybe one of them flies the French flag!" He gazes at me. He was not aware that Back Cup is going to be attacked, and I have just apprised him of the fact. His brow darkens and his eyes flash. "Thomas Roch, would you dare to fire upon your country's flag--the tricolor flag?" He raises his head, shakes it nervously, and with a disdainful gesture: "What do you mean by 'your country?' I no longer have any country, Simon Hart. The inventor spurned no longer has a country. Where he finds an asylum, there is his fatherland! They seek to take what is mine. I will defend it, and woe, woe to those who dare to attack me!" Then rushing to the door of the laboratory and throwing it violently open he shouts so loudly that he must be heard at the Beehive: "Go! Get you gone!" I have not a second to lose, and I dash out. CHAPTER XVII. ONE AGAINST FIVE. For a whole hour I wander about among Back Cup's dark vaults, amid the stone trees, to the extreme limit of the cavern. It is here that I have so often sought an issue, a crevice, a crack through which I might squeeze to the shore of the island. My search has been futile. In my present condition, a prey to indefinable hallucinations it seems to me that these walls are thicker than ever, that they are gradually closing in upon and will crush me. How long this mental trouble lasts I cannot say. But I afterwards find myself on the Beehive side, opposite the cell in which I cannot hope for either repose or sleep. Sleep, when my brain is in a whirl of excitement? Sleep, when I am near the end of a situation that threatened to be prolonged for years and years? What will the end be as far as I am personally concerned? What am I to expect from the attack upon Back Cup, the success of which I have been unable to assure by placing Thomas Roch beyond the possibility of doing harm? His engines are ready to be launched, and as soon as the vessels have reached the dangerous zone they will be blown to atoms. However this may be, I am condemned to pass the remaining hours of the night in my cell. The time has come for me to go in. At daybreak I shall see what is best for me to do. Meanwhile, for aught I know I may hear the thunder of Roch's fulgurator as it destroys the ships approaching to make a night attack. I take a last look round. On the opposite side a light, a single light, is burning. It is the lamp in Roch's laboratory and it casts its reflection upon the waters of the lake. No one is about, and it occurs to me that the pirates must have taken up their lighting positions outside and that the Beehive is empty. Then, impelled by an irresistible instinct, instead of returning to my cell, I creep along the wall, listening, spying, ready to hide if I hear voices or footsteps. I at length reach the passage. God in heaven! No one is on guard there--the passage is free! Without giving myself time to reflect I dart into the dark hole, and grope my way along it. Soon I feel a fresher air--the salt, vivifying air of the sea, that I have not breathed for five months. I inspire it with avidity, with all the power of my lungs. The outer extremity of the passage appears against the star-studded sky. There is not even a shadow in the way. Perhaps I shall be able to get outside. I lay down, and crawl along noiselessly to the orifice and peer out. Not a soul is in sight! By skirting the rocks towards the east, to the side which cannot be approached from the sea on account of the reefs and which is not likely to be watched, I reach a narrow excavation about two hundred and twenty-five yards from where the point of the coast extends towards the northwest. At last I am out of the cavern. I am not free, but it is the beginning of freedom. On the point the forms of a few sentries stand out against the clear sky, so motionless that they might be mistaken for pieces of the rock. On the horizon to the west the position lights of the warship show in a luminous line. From a few gray patches discernable in the east, I calculate that it must be about five o'clock in the morning. _November 18_.--It is now light enough for me to be able to complete my notes relating the details of my visit to Thomas Roch's laboratory--the last lines my hand will trace, perhaps. I have begun to write, and shall dot down the incidents of the attack as they occur. The light damp mist that hangs over the water soon lifts under the influence of the breeze, and at last I can distinguish the warships. There are five of them, and they are lying in a line about six miles off, and consequently beyond the range of Roch's engines. My fear that after passing in sight of the Bermudas the squadron would continue on its way to the Antilles or Mexico was therefore unfounded. No, there it is, awaiting broad daylight in order to attack Back Cup. There is a movement on the coast. Three or four pirates emerge from the rocks, the sentries are recalled and draw in, and the entire band is soon assembled. They do not seek shelter inside the cavern, knowing full well that the ships can never get near enough for the shells of the big guns to reach, the island. I run no risk of being discovered, for only my head protrudes above the hole in the rock and no one is likely to come this way. The only thing that worries me is that Serko, or somebody else may take it into his head to see if I am in my cell, and if necessary to lock me in, though what they have to fear from me I cannot conceive. At twenty-five minutes past seven: Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko and Captain Spade advance to the extremity of the point, where they sweep the north-western horizon with their telescopes. Behind them the six trestles are installed, in the grooves of which are Roch's autopropulsive engines. Thirty-five minutes past seven: Smoke arises from the stacks of the warships, which are getting under way and will soon be within range of the engines. Horrible cries of joy, salvos of hurrahs--howls of wild beasts I might more appropriately say--arise from the pirate horde. At this moment Engineer Serko quits Ker Karraje, whom he leaves with Captain Spade, and enters the cavern, no doubt to fetch Thomas Roch. When Ker Karraje orders the latter to launch his engines against the ships will he remember what I told him? Will not his crime appear to him in all its horror? Will he refuse to obey? No, I am only too convinced of the contrary. It is useless to entertain any illusion on the subject. The inventor believes he is on his own property. They are going to attack it. He will defend it. The five warships slowly advance, making for the point. Perhaps they imagine on board that Thomas Roch has not given up his last and greatest secret to the pirates--and, as a matter of fact, he had not done so when I threw the keg into the lagoon. If the commanders propose to land storming parties and the ships advance into the zone of danger there will soon be nothing left of them but bits of shapeless floating wreckage. Here comes Thomas Roch accompanied by Engineer Serko. On issuing from the passage both go to the trestle that is pointing towards the leading warship. Ker Karraje and Captain Spade are awaiting them. As far as I am able to judge, Roch is calm. He knows what he is going to do. No hesitation troubles the soul of the hapless man whom hatred has led astray. Between his fingers shines the glass phial containing the deflagrator liquid. He then gazes towards the nearest ship, which is about five miles' distant. She is a cruiser of about two thousand five hundred tons--not more. She flies no flag, but from her build I take her to belong to a nation for which no Frenchman can entertain any particular regard. The four other warships remain behind. It is this cruiser which is to begin the attack. Let her use her guns, then, since the pirates allow her to approach, and may the first of her projectiles strike Thomas Roch! While Engineer Serko is estimating the distance, Roch places himself behind the trestle. Three engines are resting on it, charged with the explosive, and which are assured a long trajectory by the fusing matter without it being necessary to impart a gyratory movement to them--as in the case of Inventor Turpin's gyroscopic projectiles. Besides, if they drop within a few hundred yards of the vessel, they will be quite near enough to utterly destroy it. The time has come. "Thomas Roch!" Engineer Serko cries, and points to the cruiser. The latter is steaming slowly towards the northwestern point of the island and is between four and five miles off. Roch nods assent, and waves them back from the trestle. Ker Karraje, Captain Spade and the others draw back about fifty paces. Thomas Roch then takes the stopper from the phial which he holds in his right hand, and successively pours into a hole in the rear-end of each engine a few drops of the liquid, which mixes with the fusing matter. Forty-five seconds elapse--the time necessary for the combination to be effected--forty-five seconds during which it seems to me that my heart ceases to beat. A frightful whistling is then heard, and the three engines tear through the air, describing a prolonged curve at a height of three hundred feet, and pass the cruiser. Have they missed it? Is the danger over? No! the engines, after the manner of Artillery Captain Chapel's discoid projectile, return towards the doomed vessel like an Australian boomerang. The next instant the air is shaken with a violence comparable to that which would be caused by the explosion of a magazine of melinite or dynamite, Back Cup Island trembles to its very foundations. The cruiser has disappeared,--blown to pieces. The effect is that of the Zalinski shell, but centupled by the infinite power of Roch's fulgurator. What shouts the bandits raise as they rush towards the extremity of the point! Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko, and Captain Spade remain rooted to the spot, hardly able to credit the evidence of their own eyes. As to Thomas Roch, he stands with folded arms, and flashing eyes, his face radiant with pride and triumph. I understand, while I abhor his feelings. If the other warships approach they will share the same fate as the cruiser. They will inevitably be destroyed. Oh! if they would but give up the struggle and withdraw to safety, even though my last hope would go with them! The nations can consult and arrive at some other plan for destroying the island. They can surround the place with a belt of ships that the pirates cannot break through and starve them to death like so many rats in a hole. But I know that the warships will not retire, even though they know they are going to certain death. One after the other they will all make the attempt. And I am right. Signals are exchanged between them. Almost immediately clouds of black smoke arise and the vessels again advance. One of them, under forced draught, distances the others in her anxiety to bring her big guns quickly into action. At all risks I issue from my hole, and gaze at the on-coming warship with feverish eyes, awaiting, without being able to prevent it, another catastrophe. This vessel, which visibly grows larger as it comes nearer, is a cruiser of about the same tonnage as the one that preceded her. No flag is flying and I cannot guess her nationality. She continues steaming at full speed in an effort to pass the zone of danger before other engines can be launched. But how can she escape them since they will swoop back upon her? Thomas Roch places himself behind the second trestle as the cruiser passes on to the surface of the abysm in which she will in turn soon be swallowed up. No sound disturbs the stillness. Suddenly the rolling of drums and the blare of bugles is heard on board the warship. I know those bugle calls: they are French bugles! Great God! She is one of the ships of my own country's navy and a French inventor is about to destroy her! No! it shall not be. I will rush towards Thomas Roch--shout to him that she is a French ship. He does not, cannot, know it. At a sign from Engineer Serko the inventor has raised the phial. The bugles sound louder and more strident. It is the salute to the flag. A flag unfurls to the breeze--the tricolor, whose blue, white and red sections stand out luminously against the sky. Ah! What is this? I understand! Thomas Roch is fascinated at the sight of his national emblem. Slowly he lowers his arm as the flag flutters up to the mast-head. Then he draws back and covers his eyes with his hand. Heavens above! All sentiment of patriotism is not then dead in his ulcerated heart, seeing that it beats at the sight of his country's flag! My emotion is not less than his. At the risk of being seen--and what do I now care if I am seen?--I creep over the rocks. I will be there to sustain Thomas Roch and prevent him from weakening. If I pay for it with my life I will once more adjure him in the name of his country. I will cry to him: "Frenchman, it is the tricolor that flies on yonder ship! Frenchman, it is a very part of France that is approaching you! Frenchman, would you be so criminal as to strike it?" But my intervention will not be necessary. Thomas Roch is not a prey to one of the fits to which he was formerly subject. He is perfectly sane. When he found himself facing the flag he understood--and drew back. A few pirates approach to lead him to the trestle again. He struggles and pushes them from him. Ker Karraje and Engineer Serko run up. They point to the rapidly advancing ship. They order him to launch his engines. Thomas Roch refuses. Captain Spade and the others, mad with rage, menace him--curse him--strike him--try to wrest the phial from him. Roch throws it on the ground and crushes it under foot. Then panic seizes upon the crowd of wretches. The cruiser has passed the zone and they cannot return her fire. Shells begin to rain all over the island, bursting the rocks in every direction. But where is Thomas Roch? Has he been killed by one of the projectiles? No, I see him for the last time as he dashes into the passage. Ker Karraje, Engineer Serko and the others follow him to seek shelter inside of Back Cup. I will not return to the cavern at any price, even if I get killed by staying where I am. I will jot down my final notes and when the French sailors land on the point I will go-- END OF ENGINEER SIMON HART'S NOTES. CHAPTER XVIII. ON BOARD THE "TONNANT." After the failure of Lieutenant Davon's mission with the _Sword_, the English authorities waited in vain for the expedition to return, and the conviction at length gained ground that the bold sailors had perished; but whether the _Sword_ had been lost by striking against a rock or had been destroyed by Ker Karraje's pirates, could not, of course, be ascertained. The object of the expedition, based upon the indications of the document found in the keg that was thrown up on the shore at St. George, was to carry off Thomas Roch ere his engines were completed. The French inventor having been recovered--without forgetting Engineer Simon Hart--he was to be handed over to the care of the Bermudan authorities. That done, there would be nothing to fear from his fulgurator when the island was attacked. When, however, the _Sword_ had been given up for lost, another expedition of a different kind, was decided upon. The time that had elapsed--nearly eight weeks--from the date of the document found in the keg, had to be taken into consideration. It was thought that during the interval, Ker Karraje might have gained possession of Roch's secrets. An _entente_ concluded between the maritime powers, resulted in the sending of five warships to Bermudan waters. As there was a vast cavern inside Back Cup mountain, it was decided to attempt to bring the latter down like the walls of a bastion, by bombarding it with powerful modern artillery. The squadron assembled at the entrance to the Chesapeake, in Virginia, and sailed for the archipelago, which was sighted on the evening of November 17. The next morning the vessel selected for the first attack, steamed forward. It was about four and a half miles from the island, when three engines, after passing the vessel, swerved round and exploded about sixty yards from her. She sank immediately. The effect of the explosion, which was superior to any previously obtained by new explosives, was instantaneous. Even at the distance they were from the spot where it occurred, the four remaining ships felt the shock severely. Two things were to be deduced from this sudden catastrophe: 1.--The pirate Ker Karraje was in possession of Roch's fulgurator. 2.--The new engine possessed the destructive power attributed to it by its inventor. After the disappearance of the unfortunate cruiser, the other vessels lowered boats to pick up a few survivors who were clinging to the floating wreckage. Then it was that the signals were exchanged and the warships started towards the island. The swiftest of them, the _Tonnant_, a French cruiser, forged ahead while the others forced their draught in an effort to catch up with her. The _Tonnant_, at the risk of being blown to pieces in turn, penetrated the danger zone half a mile, and then ran up her flag while manoeuvring to bring her heavy guns into action. From the bridge the officers could see Ker Karraje's band scattered on the rocks of the island. The occasion was an excellent one for getting a shot at them before the bombardment of their retreat was begun, and fire was opened with the result that the pirates made a rush to get into the cavern. A few minutes later there was a shock terrific enough to shake the sky down. Where the mountain had been, naught but a heap of smoking, crumbling rocks was to be seen. Back Cup had become a group of jagged reefs against which the sea, that had been thrown back like a gigantic tidal wave, was beating and frothing. What was the cause of the explosion? Had it been voluntarily caused by the pirates when they realized that escape was impossible? The _Tonnant_ had not been seriously damaged by the flying rocks. Her boats were lowered and made towards all that was left of Back Cup. The landing parties explored the ruins, and found a few horribly mangled corpses. Not a vestige of the cavern was to be seen. One body, and one only, was found intact. It was lying on the northeast side of the reefs. In one hand, tightly clasped, was a note-book, the last line of which was incomplete. A close examination showed that the man was still breathing. He was conveyed on board the _Tonnant_, where it was learned from the note-book that he was Simon Hart. For some time his life was despaired of, but he was eventually brought round, and from the answers made to the questions addressed to him the following conclusion was reached: Moved to his very soul at the sight of the tricolor flag, being at last conscious of the crime of _lèse-patrie_ he was about to commit, Thomas Roch rushed through the passage to the magazine where a considerable quantity of his explosive was stored. Then, before he could be prevented, brought about the terrible explosion which destroyed the island of Back Cup. And now Ker Karraje and his pirates have disappeared--and with them Thomas Roch and the secret of his invention. THE END. End of the Voyage Extraordinaire 
43119	----	David's Little Lad By L.T. Meade Illustrations by H. Petherick Published by John F. Shaw and Co, 48 Paternoster Row, London EC. This edition dated 1890. David's Little Lad, by L.T. Meade. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ DAVID'S LITTLE LAD, BY L.T. MEADE. CHAPTER ONE. THIS IS THE STORY WITHIN THE STORY. Yes, I, Gwladys, must write it down; the whole country has heard of it, the newspapers have been full of it, and from the highest to the lowest in the land, people have spoken of the noble deed done by a few Welsh miners. But much as the country knows, and glad and proud as the country is, I don't think she knows quite all--not exactly what mother and I know; she does not know the heart history of those ten days. This is the story within the other well-known story, which I want to write here. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ On a certain sunny afternoon in September, 1876, I was seated up in the window of the old nursery. I say _in_ the window, for I had got my body well up on the deep oak seat, had flattened my nose against the pane, and was gazing with a pair of dismal eyes down on the sea, and on some corn-fields and hay-fields, which in panoramic fashion stretched before my vision. Yes, I was feeling gloomy, and my first remark, after an interval of silence, was decidedly in keeping with my face and heart. "Gwen," I said, "what is it to be buried alive?" Gwen, who was singing her charge to sleep to a lively Welsh air, neither heeded nor heard me. "Gwen!" I repeated in a louder key. "Men are false and oft ungrateful, Derry derry dando," sang Gwen, rocking the baby, as she sang, in the most dexterous manner. Gwen had a beautiful voice, and I liked the old air, so I stayed my impatient question to listen. "Maids are coy and oft deceitful, Derry derry dando, Few there are who love sincerely, Down a derry down. Say not so, I love thee dearly, Derry derry down down, Derry down down derry." "None but thee torment and teaze me, Derry derry dando," I shouted in my impetuous manner, and leaving my seat, I went noisily to her side. "Gwen, I _will_ be heard. I have not another soul to speak to, and you are so cross and disagreeable. What is it to be buried alive?" "'Tis just like you, Gwladys," said Gwen, rising indignantly. "Just after two hours of it, when I was getting the darling precious lamb off to sleep, you've gone and awoke him. Dear, dear! good gracious! there never was such a maid!" Gwen retired with the disturbed and wailing baby into the night nursery, and I was left alone. "None but thee torment and teaze me, Derry derry dando," I sang after her. Then I returned to my seat on the window-sill, curled myself up tighter than ever, flattened my nose again against the pane, and began to think out my dismal thoughts. Yes, my thoughts were undoubtedly dismal, and very melancholy must my eyes have looked, and absurdly long and drawn down the corners of my mouth. Had anybody been there to see, they must have pronounced me sentimental in the extreme; but no one was by, and--there was the rub-- that was the reason I looked so melancholy. Even Gwen, rocking baby to sleep, could be disturbed at least by my long drawn sighs, but Gwen had retired into the night nursery, out of reach of my despondency, and though I could hear her cheerful voice in the distance, she certainly could no longer hear me. I was utterly alone. I pressed my face against the window pane, and gazed at the scene before me. It was a fair scene enough. A broad sweep of sea, the waves sparkling in the sunshine--some rugged rocks--a little patch of white sand; all this lay close. In the distance were some hills, magnificently clothed. To the right, I saw oak, ash, beech, in their autumn dress; to the left, yellow fields of corn, an orchard or two; some mowers were cutting down the corn, and laughing merrily; some children were eating apples in the orchards--over all a gentle breeze stirred, and the sun shone out of an almost cloudless sky. Yes, the scene was very fair, but I did not appreciate it. My eyes had rested on those trees, and those hills, and that sea all my life--I was tired of the unvarying monotony. Nothing wearied me so much as when visitors came to stay with mother, visitors who did not know our country, and who consequently went into raptures over our Welsh scenery. I am quite sure now that the raptures were genuine, but at the time they seemed to me very like duty talk. I always listened contemptuously; I always answered carelessly, "Oh, yes, the place is well enough;" and I always thought bitterly in my heart of hearts. It is easy for you, fine sir or madam, to speak and to admire, who need only stay in this place for a week or fortnight, but what if you had to live here _always_, from year's end to year's end. If you had to see the meadows, and orchards, and sea, and the old grey house, and the trees and sky--in short, all the fair landscape, not only in its summer glory, but in its winter desolation, would not the country then appear a little tiresome to you? Might you not then find an occasional visit to Cardiff, and an occasional ride across the fields, and a far from occasional stay at home, slightly wearying, and might it not possibly occur to you that yours was a dull life? For this was my fate. I had always lived at Tynycymmer. I had always seen the hills clothed with trees in the distance; I had always watched the ripening fruit in the orchards, and the ripening corn in the fields. In short, I was a Welsh girl who had never gone out of Wales in her life. Never had I even seen Gloucester, never had I set foot on English soil. Circumstances too many to mention had conspired to thus isolate me. I had once paid a visit, when a little child, to North Wales, but all the rest of my sixteen years had been spent with mother, at Tynycymmer, in the county of Glamorganshire. A rich country, a rambling, romantic old home, a fair scene, where gentle care had tended me, this I acknowledged, but I also knew that I was tired, weary, sick of it all. With my absurdly dismal face gazing outward, I repeated the question to myself, which nurse Gwen had refused to answer; "What is it to be buried alive?" The question had arisen in my mind from a paragraph in a local paper, which I had seen to-day. This paragraph was headed "_Buried alive_." It contained an account of some colliers in a not very distant part of Glamorganshire, who had been killed in a mining accident, truly buried in their full health and strength by the sudden giving way of a column of coal. I had read the paragraph aloud to mother and David at breakfast. I had seen David's face flush and then grow pale, had heard mother say, "That place is not far from Ffynon; I am glad the accident did not happen in our mine, David." "Thank God! and it might have been," from David. Then mother added-- "Things will mend in the old place soon, my son." "I trust so," from David. Then expressions of pity and sympathy from both pairs of lips, for the injured and killed. In this sympathy I had freely joined, for I was not hard-hearted; then I had forgotten the circumstance. The widows and children in the dismal coal country might be weeping and mourning, but I, Gwladys Morgan, in my fair home, in this fair land, had no room for them in my selfish heart. In half an hour I had ceased to remember the paragraph in the _Hereford Times_, all but its heading. But the heading, as I said, haunted me; it had another meaning besides going down into the bowels of the earth, and finding its walls close round one, and feeling oneself shut into a living tomb. It had another meaning besides the palpable and material horror of slow starvation and of coming madness. Of these things I could form no conception, but I could conceive of other things, and feel them through and through my childish and inexperienced heart. I imagined another meaning to the words, and this meaning I hunted up and pondered over, with a deeper and deeper melancholy, adding strength to my gloom. Having roused up the skeleton, I clothed it with flesh, I filled its veins with warm young blood, I made its limbs fair and round, I gave to its face the healthy hue of youth, I coloured its eyes blue, and its hair a golden brown, and I called it, when I had given it life and being, Gwladys Morgan. I took this fair young person of my creation, and buried her in a living tomb; true, the fresh air of heaven still blew upon her, the sun shone over her head, and the flowers blossomed at her feet. She could walk through lovely gardens, she could watch the coming and going of the fresh tide, on the fresh ocean, she could repose at night in the softest of beds, in a spacious oak-lined room. She could receive counsel and love, from the kind and tender lips of mother and brother. All this she could have, but still she was in a tomb, and the name of the tomb was Tynycymmer. Her body was free, as far as the walls of her prison allowed it, to roam, but her mind, with its noble aspirations, her soul, which had conceived great and possible commissions of wide and ever-widening usefulness, these were shut up in a tomb; in short, this feeling, breathing creature, with her talents and her longings, was buried alive. Having consigned Gwladys to this fate, I went on to imagine the result. She would struggle in vain for freedom, she would beat with her wings-- poor imprisoned bird--against her cage, she would pant and long for a less confined air, for emancipation from her living grave, she would suffer in uncomplaining silence, and then gradually, her mind would recoil upon itself, her aspiring soul would cease to struggle, and starved out with earth's hard fate, would soar to nobler worlds!--(here my tears began to drop). But I had not done yet; I imagined still further, and in all its minutest details, the body's decay of this suffering creature. How thin and hollow, how pale and worn the once round and rosy cheeks would become! what a pathetic and far-away look of sad yearning would enter the blue eyes! how the curling hair would begin to grow!--I did not like the idea of the hair growing thin, it was not poetical--had not nurse Gwen a great bald division in her hair, a division clefting her raven locks asunder, deep and wide as a potato ridge? No, I substituted thin locks for grey, and so completed the picture. Over my completed picture I should assuredly have wept, had not, at this opportune juncture, the blue eyes, which were certainly anything but dim as yet, descried, bowling smoothly along the road, and making swift advances to Tynycymmer, a little pony-carriage, driven by a pair of hands, very well fitted for their present task, that of keeping two spirited ponies in order. Into the long, winding avenue the carriage dashed, down the avenue it sped, and the next instant it had drawn up at the front entrance, and a large, strongly-made man was helping a delicate, stately woman to alight. The strong man was my brother, the woman was my mother. Quick as lightning, I had left my seat in the nursery window, had wreathed my face with smiles, had filled my heart with laughter, had, for the time being, banished every trace of the ugly, bad dream in which I had been indulging, had descended the stairs almost like an arrow from its bow, had lifted mother bodily up the steps, and placed her amid my own and David's laughter, in the old oak arm-chair, the family heirloom, the undoubted gift of some old Arch-Druid ancestor, which stood in the wide entrance hall. "Well! mother, what an age you've been away! Did you catch the first train this morning? Aren't you dreadfully tired? What was it like, was it glorious? Were there crowds of people? Did the Bishop preach? Is the music ringing in your ears? Doesn't your head ache? And oh! _did_ you get a new fashion for my blue silk gown?" These questions I poured out, toppling them one over the other, down on my knees the while, removing mother's boots, and encasing her dear, pretty feet in a pair of warm, fur-lined slippers. "I saw one or two nicely-dressed girls," began mother slowly, whereupon I suspended my operations with her feet, and looked up with a face of absorbed interest. "And, Gwladys," said David, laying his hand on my shoulder, "you are to come to-morrow, the Messiah is to be sung, and I will take you over." "Oh! oh! oh!" I exclaimed, beginning to dance about, but then observing that mother was gazing at me a little sadly, I stopped short, and exclaimed with a sudden burst of unselfishness-- "The pony-carriage only holds two; I don't want to take mother's place." "No, my darling, I am tired, I should not care to go again to-morrow, and I want you to hear the Messiah." "We must start even earlier than to-day, Gwladys," continued David, as he led the way to the supper-room. "We nearly missed the train this morning, and I have unfortunately failed to get reserved seats, but you don't mind a crowd?" "I _love_ a crowd," I answered energetically; looking and feeling, as I spoke, a totally different creature from the sentimental being who had gazed with dismal eyes from the nursery window, half an hour before. "What kind of voice had Madame Edith Wynne, mother, and did you hear Sims Reeves?" "Sims Reeves did not sing to-day, but he will to-morrow in the Messiah," replied mother. "And I shall be there to-morrow!" I exclaimed again, then a sudden thought darted through my brain, and I fell into a reverie. In my great excitement and delight at the prospect of going to Hereford, to the festival of the Three Choirs, I had forgotten something which now returned to my memory with painful consciousness. I had nothing to wear. My blue silk, my beautiful navy blue, mother's last present, was still unmade, and my white dress was with the laundress. My white dress, though simple and childish, was new and tolerably fashionable, and in no other could I think of appearing before the great and gay world of Hereford, on this my first visit. "Mother," I said, jumping from my seat, and upsetting a cup of hot tea over Gyp the terrier, "I must go this very moment to speak to Nancy at the lodge; she has got my frock, and she must iron it to-night." Without waiting for a reply, I ran out of the room, and bonnetless and hatless sped up the avenue. The light autumn breeze tossed my curls into wild confusion, my gay voice rose, humming a merry Welsh air. Very far away now were my gloomy thoughts, very like a child I felt, as I walked on. My mind was fully occupied with my promised treat, my dreams were all rainbow tinted, my world all tinged with sunshine and glory. The only cloud that shadowed the gay expanse of my firmament was the possibility of my white dress not being ironed in time for me to wear. CHAPTER TWO. DAVID, I AM TIRED OF TYNYCYMMER. When I reached the lodge, Nancy, a stout, red-faced Welsh woman, came out to meet me, accompanied by a troupe of wild-looking children, who stood round and stared with open eyes and mouths, for Miss Morgan of Tynycymmer was a great person in their eyes. "Is my white dress ready? Nancy; I want to wear it to-morrow morning early." "Eh! dear, dear, Miss Gwladys," dropping a profound curtsey. "Eh! goodness me! yes, I'll h'iron it to-night, miss. Get out of that, Tum," addressing her sturdy-limbed son, who had placed himself between his mother and me. "_I_ know what Tum wants," I said. "Here, Tum, Dai, Maggie, catch!" I threw some halfpence amongst the children, and turned away. As I did so, two ladies came out of the lodge; one, a handsome dark-eyed girl, a casual acquaintance of mine, came eagerly to my side. "Now, Miss Morgan, I call this provoking; what right have you to go away, just when I want to know you!" "What do you mean?" I asked, bluntly. "You are going away from Tynycymmer?" "Indeed we are not," I said. "Well, but my mother heard it from--oh! I forgot," blushing deeply and looking confused. "I was not to say. Of course it is not the case, or you would know--just idle gossip; I am sorry I mentioned it, but so glad you are not going." "Good-night," I said, holding out my hand. I had retraced a few steps home, when my little friend ran after me. "Please, please, Miss Morgan, you won't speak of this; I should get into trouble, indeed." "Oh, dear, no!" I answered, lightly; "there is nothing to repeat. Make your mind easy." The girl, satisfied, ran away, and I walked on. But I was not so cool and unconcerned as she supposed her words had excited me, her words had aroused both discontent and hope. I forgot my certain pleasure of to-morrow, in the bare possibility of a greater and a wider pleasure, and as a moth round a candle, my thoughts fluttered round the magic words, "You are going away." Could they be true? could the gossip the girl had heard be correct? How certain she looked! how startled and frightened, when she found herself mistaken. And, little fool! she had made me promise not to betray her, just too when I wanted to solve the mystery. Oh, if only she might be right! if only we might be going to leave this dull life, this stupid country existence! Could it be the case? gossip was often mistaken, but seldom utterly without foundation. I asked myself this question tremblingly and eagerly. Instantly I had a reply. Sober reason started to the forefront of all my faculties, and said-- "It is impossible; the girl has made a mistake; the gossip is false. How could you leave Tynycymmer? Is not David master here? does not the place belong to David, as it did to his father before him? and do not he and mother love every stone in the old house, every tree in the old ground? would not the idea, the most distant idea, of going away break their hearts?" Yes, it was quite out of the question that mother and David could think of leaving Tynycymmer. But my little friend had said nothing about mother and David, she had only whispered the delicious and soul-stirring words, "_You_ are going away." Perhaps I was going to school; perhaps some London cousins had asked me to pay them a visit. Oh! yes, this last thought must be right, and how pleasant, how lovely, how charming that would be! I should see the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster, and visit the Parks, and the Museums, and Madame Tussaud's. Yes, certainly this was going to happen. Mother had not told me yet, which was a little strange, but perhaps she had heard it herself very suddenly, and had met some friends, and had mentioned it to them. Yes, this must be the mystery, this must be the fire from whence the smoke of Sybil's gossip came. I felt it tingling from my throat down to my very toes. I was _not_ going to be buried alive. So cruel a fate was not in store for me. I should see the world--the world of beauty, of romance, of love, and all possible things might happen to me. I skipped along gaily. David was smoking his pipe, and pacing up and down under some trees which grew near the house. The short September sun had set, but the moon had got up, and in the little space of ground where my brother walked, it was shedding a white light, and bringing into relief his strongly marked features. David's special characteristic was strength; he possessed strength of body, and strength of--mind, I was going to say, but I shall substitute the word soul. His rugged features, his height, his muscular hands and arms, all testified to his great physical powers. And the repose on his face, the calm gentleness and sweetness that shone in his keen, dark eyes, and played round his firm lips, showed how strong his soul must be--for David had known great trouble. I mention his strength of character here, speaking of it first of all in introducing him into my story, for the simple reason that when I saw him standing under the trees, I perceived by the expression of his face, that he was yielding to a most unusual emotion; he looked anxious, even unhappy. This I took in with a kind of side thought, to be recurred to by and by, but at present I was too much excited about myself. I walked with him nearly every evening when he smoked, and now I went to my usual place, and put my hand through his arm. I longed to ask him if the surmise, which was agitating my whole being, was correct, but by doing this I should betray Sybil, and I must not even mention that I had seen her. "What bright cheeks, and what a happy face!" said David, looking at me affectionately, "are you very glad to come to the Messiah with me? little woman." "Yes," I answered absently, for to-morrow's treat had sunk into insignificance. Then out it came with a great irrepressible burst, "David, I am _longing_ to see London." David, who knew nothing of my discontent, who imagined me to be, what I always appeared to him, a child without the shadow of a care, or a sorrow, without even the ghost of a longing outside my own peaceful existence, answered in the tone of surprise which men can throw into their voices when they are not quite comfortable. "London, my dear Gwladys." "Yes, why not?" "Well, we don't live so very far away from London, you may see it some day." It was quite evident, by David's indifferent tone, that he knew nothing of any immediate visit in store for me. I bit my lips hard, and tried to say nothing. I am sure I should not have spoken but for his next words. "And in the meantime you can wait; you are very happy, are you not?" "No, I am not. I'm not a bit happy, David," and I burst into tears. "What's this?" said David in astonishment. "I am not happy," I repeated, now that the ice was broken, letting forth some of my rebellious thoughts, "I'm so dull here, I do so want to live a grand life." "Tell me, dear, tell me all about it?" said David tenderly. To judge from the tone of his voice he seemed to be taking himself to task in some strange way. The love in his voice disarmed my anger, and I spoke more gently. "You see, David, 'tis just this, you and mother have got Tynycymmer, you have the house, and the farm, and all the land, and, of course, you have plenty to do on the land, riding about and seeing to the estate, and keeping the tenants' houses in order, and 'tis very nice work, for 'tis all your own property, and of course you love it; and mother, she has the house to manage, and the schools to visit, but I, David, I have only dull, stupid lessons. I have nothing interesting to do, and oh! sometimes I am so dull and so miserable, I feel just as if I was buried alive, and I do so want to be unburied. I have no companions. I have no one to speak to, and I do long to go away from here, and to see the world." "You would like to leave Tynycymmer!" said David. "Yes, indeed, indeed I should. I should dearly love to go out into the world as Owen has done; I think Owen has such a grand life." Here I paused, and finding that David did not reply, I ventured to look into his face. The expression of his silent face was peculiar; it showed, though not a muscle moved, though not a feature stirred, the presence of some very painful thought. I could not believe that my words had given birth to this thought, but I did consider it possible that they might have called it into fuller being; quickly repentant I began to apologise, or to try to apologise, the sting out of my words. "You know, David, that you and mother are not like me, you both have plenty to interest you here. Mother has the schools, and, oh! a thousand other things, and you have the place and the farm." "And I have my little lad." "Of course--I forgot baby." "Yes, Gwladys," said David, rousing himself and shaking off his depression, "I have my son, and he won't leave me, thank God. I am sorry you find your home dull, my dear. I have always wanted you to love it, there is no place like it on earth to me." He took my hand very gently, and removed it from his arm, then walked with great strides into the house. His face and manner filled me with an undefined sense of gloom and remorse. I followed him like a guilty thing. I would not even go into the drawing-room to bid mother good-night, but went at once up to my own room. When I got there, I locked the door; this conversation had not tended to raise my spirits. As I sat on my bed, I felt very uncomfortable. What an old, old room it was, and all of oak, floor, walls, ceiling, all highly-polished, and dark with the wear of age. Other Gwladys Morgans had carved their names on the shutters, and had laid down to rest on the great four-post bedstead. Other daughters of the house had stood in the moonlight and watched the silent shining of the waves. Had they too, in their ignorance and folly, longed for the bustle and unrest of the great wide world, had they, too, felt themselves buried alive at Tynycymmer? With David's face in my memory, I did not like these thoughts. I would banish them. I opened a door which divided my room from the nursery, and went noisily in. What an awkward girl I was! I could do nothing like any one else; every door I opened, shut again with a bang, every board my foot pressed, creaked with a sharp note of vengeance. Had nurse Gwen been in the nursery, what a scolding I should have merited, but nurse Gwen was absent, and in the moonlit room I advanced and bent over a little child's cot. In the cot lay a boy of between one and two, a rosy, handsome boy, with sturdy limbs, and great dark-fringed eyes; he was sleeping peacefully, and smiling in his sleep; one little fat hand grasped a curly, woolly toy dog, the other was flung outside the bedclothes; his little pink toes were also bare. With undefined pain still in my heart, and David's face vividly before me, I bent down and kissed the child. I kissed him passionately, forgetting his peculiar sensitiveness to touch. He started from his light slumbers with a shrill baby cry, his dark eyes opened wide. I took him out of his crib, and paced up and down with him. For a wonder I managed to soothe him, skilfully addressing him in my softest tones, rubbing my forehead against his soft cheek, and patting his back. The moon had left this side of the house, and the room was in complete shadow, but I did not think of lighting a candle, for to the child in my arms the darkness was too dense for any earthly candle to remove; he was David's little lad, and he was blind. CHAPTER THREE. SOME DAY, YOU WILL SEE THAT HE IS NOBLE. I have said that David's great characteristic was strength, but by this I do not at all mean to imply that he was clever. No one ever yet had called David clever. When at school he had won only second or third class prizes, and at Oxford very few honours had come in his way. He had a low opinion of his own abilities, and considered himself a rather stupid, lumbering kind of fellow, not put into the world to make a commotion, but simply, as far as in him lay, to do his duty. David was never known to lecture any one; he never, in the whole course of his life, gave a piece of gratuitous advice; he could and did advise when his advice was directly demanded, but he was diffident of his own opinion, and did not consider it worth a great deal. To the sinners he was always intensely pitiful, and so gentle and sorrowful over the erring, that many people must have supposed he knew all about their weaknesses, and must once have been the blackest of black sheep himself. No, David possessed none of the characteristics of genius; he was neither clever nor ambitious. To be in all men's mouths, and spoken highly of by the world, would not have suited him at all; he cared, we some of us thought, almost too little for man's opinion, and I have even on one occasion heard Owen call him poor-spirited. But all the same, I am not wrong in saying that David's great, and grand, and distinguishing characteristic was strength. He possessed strength of body, soul, and spirit, to a remarkable degree. Long ago, in the past ages, there were men of our house, men who ate roast beef, and quaffed beer and cider, and knew nothing of the weak effeminacy of tea and coffee; these were the men who would laugh at a nerve ache, who possessed iron frames, and were of goodly stature. Of course we degenerated since then, our lives became less simple, and more luxurious, and our men and women in their paler cheeks and slighter frames, and bodies capable of feeling bodily suffering, bore witness to the change. But David was a Morgan of the old race--tall, upright, broad, with massive features, neither handsome nor graceful, but strong as a lion. He had never in his life known an ache, or a day's serious illness. When Owen and I suffered so much with the measles, David did not even stay in bed; so also with whooping-cough, so also with all other childish maladies. He caught them of course, but they passed over him lightly as a summer breeze, never once ruffling his brow, or taking the colour from his cheek. Yes, David was strong in body, and he was also strong in mind; without possessing talent, he had what was better, sense; he knew which path was the wisest to tread in, which course of action would lead, not to the happiest, but to the best result. His mind was of that calm and rare order, which decides quickly, and once for all; he was never troubled with indecision, and he never asked of others, "What shall I do here? There is a lion in my path at this juncture, how shall I overcome him?" No, he slew his own lions, and in a silent warfare, which gave no token of the tears and blood expended by the victorious warrior. But the strongest part of David, that which made him the man he was, was his soul; and here, he had asked for and obtained, the aid of a higher Power. His was the sort of character that never could have got on without the conscious presence of a God. His soul must be anchored upon some rock which would balance the whole equilibrium of a grand but simple nature. His faith was primitive, and undisturbed by modern doubts. He took the commandments of God in their obvious and literal meaning, he believed what the apostle said when he told men to "pray without ceasing;" he hearkened to him again, when he entreated men to "search the Scriptures;" he was a man of few rather than of many words, but he always found some to cry to God with; he cared very little for books, but he read his Bible daily. Thus his views of life were clear and unclouded. He was put into the world to do his duty. His duty was to love God better than, and his neighbour as well as, himself. This simple rule of action comprises much, and here David acted right nobly, and proved the strength of his soul. And he was early tried, for our father died when he was twelve years old, and then the most obvious part of the duty which stared him in the face lay in the text, "Bear ye one another's burdens." This was one of David's plainest and earliest duties; a duty which he performed humbly, hardly knowing that he performed it at all. Others leant upon him, and he bore their burdens, so fulfilling the law of Christ. I think I may truly say of David, that he was the most self-sacrificing man I ever met. But for all that, for all his gentleness, his kindness, his affection, he was not my favourite brother, nor was he my mother's favourite son. I remember an early incident which revealed this fact in my mother's heart, and perhaps unduly biassed my own. I was standing, shortly after my father's death, in the deep recess of the nursery window--I was standing there watching David and Owen, both home for their holidays, pacing up and down on the gravel sweep in front of the house. David was very strong, and showed his superior strength in his great size even then, but Owen was very beautiful. David was stout and clumsy, Owen slightly made and graceful. As I watched them, mother came behind me, put her arms round my tiny waist, kissed my brow, and whispered as she looked at the two lads-- "My noble boy!" "Which? mother," I asked. "My Owen," replied mother. I opened my eyes very wide, gazed again with new wisdom at the boys, perceived the superior beauty of the one, worshipped the beauty, and from this time I loved Owen best. And Owen was very lovable, Owen was beautiful, brilliant, gay, with lofty ambitions, and versatile showy talents. If his affections wanted depth, they never wanted outward warmth. His smile was a thing to remember, his caress was worth waiting six months to obtain. How well I remember those summer holidays, when he flashed like the sunshine into the dull old house, when his whistle and gay laugh sounded from parlour to cellar. When Owen was at home, Tynycymmer was the happiest place in the world to me; then mother put on her best gowns, and wore her most festive air, then my lessons, always scant and desultory, were thrown to the four winds, and I was allowed unbridled liberty. What fishing expeditions we made all round the coast! how daring were our exploits! I was much younger than my brothers, but the brothers were always gentle to the only little sister--both the brothers--but while I oftenest rode on David's broad shoulder, I received most caresses and most loving words from Owen, so I loved Owen best. So too with mother, she thought very highly of that broad-shouldered, plain-faced, sensible lad, who was so ready to fly at her slightest bidding, so anxious to execute her smallest command. She said over and over again that David was the best boy that widowed mother ever possessed, and that he was the comfort of her life. But her eye never brightened at his approach, as it did when Owen came and sat by her side; to David she gave her approval, but to Owen she gave of the fulness of her mother's love. He was an exacting boy, and from those who gave much, he demanded more. Though David was the eldest and the heir, Owen had double his allowance of pocket money when at school; but then Owen was delicate, fastidious, refined; he needed small indulgences, that would have been wasted on David's coarser strength. He was taught accomplishments, for he was an inborn artist, and his musical ear was fine. At Oxford he entered an expensive and learned college, but then his intellect was of the first order. For every indulgence he demanded, an excuse was found; and for every granted indulgence, he was only loved the more. To the worship of his women folks, Owen returned an easy, nonchalant regard; but David he loved, to David he gave his strongest and deepest affection. And yet David was the only one who opposed him, the only one who was not carried away by his fascinations, the only one who read him aright; and some of the heaviest burdens of David's youth, had been borne because of, and through Owen. I heard it dimly whispered, first in the early college days, something about Owen and his wild oats. It came to me through the servants, and I did not know what it meant. I was an innocent country child, I had never even read a novel. Owen was sowing his wild oats. I remember puzzling over the phrased I should have forgotten what was to me so meaningless an expression, but for some events that happened about the same time. Mother got some letters, which she would not show to me, which she carried away to her own room to read, returning to my presence, some time after, with her eyes red with weeping. Then there was a visit from a man, a lawyer, nurse Gwen informed me, who brought with him piles of papers, and was closeted with mother for the best part of a day; and soon after, most wonderful of all, David came home suddenly, in the middle of the term, came home without Owen, and I was informed that Owen had gone abroad for a time, and that David was not going back to Oxford any more. David settled down quietly at home, without taking his degree, and his coming of age, which took place a couple of months after, was let pass without any celebration. This made a deep impression on me, for we four, mother, David, Owen, and I, had so often spoken of it, and of the grand things that should then be done. Never a Morgan had come of age yet, without oxen being roasted whole, without beer and cider flowing freely, without dancing and festivity. But this Morgan stepped into his honours quietly; the day unnoticed, except by an extra kiss from mother and sister, his brother far away, his own brow thoughtful, and already slightly careworn. The tenants were angry, and voted him stingy--close--an unworthy son of the ancient race, no true chip of the old block, and fresh signs of what they considered closeness and nearness, were soon forthcoming. Several servants, amongst them the housekeeper, were dismissed, the establishment was put upon a smaller scale, a humble pony phaeton was substituted for the old and time-honoured family coach. I was twelve years old at that time, a good deal with nurse Gwen, and many words, unmeant for my ears, were heard by me. The substance of them all lay in this remark-- "If the young master gave the tenants any more of his closeness, he would be the least popular Squire Morgan who ever lived at Tynycymmer!" Indignant, and with tears in my eyes, I sought David, told him what I had heard, and demanded an explanation. "There is nothing to explain, dear," he replied. "We have lost some money, and are obliged to retrench for a bit. But don't repeat the servants' foolish talk to the mother, Gwladys, 'twill only pain her." After this, we settled down very quietly, no fresh event occurring for some time. David went more and more amongst the people, acquainting himself with every man, woman, and child on the estate, winning his way just in the most natural way into their hearts, learning all about their private history, finding out exactly where the shoe pinched John Thomas, and where Thomas John's sorest trouble lay, until gradually I heard nothing more of his stinginess, but much of his love, and when he took the babies in his arms, and called the tiny children by their names, the mothers prayed God to bless the young squire with a fervour they had never used for the old. This took place very naturally, and mother's face began to grow contented and happy. Still, Owen never came home; he was spoken of lovingly, hopefully, but neither mother nor David mentioned his return, and I grew tired of asking questions on this subject, and tired of wishing him back. I dreamed dreams of him instead, and imagined with pride the great deeds he must be doing, and the glory he must be winning. So far away, so little mentioned, his return so indefinite, he became clothed with a halo of romance to me. My love grew in intensity, and I magnified my beautiful and gifted brother into a hero. It was just then David's great joy, and also his great trouble, came to him. We Morgans of Tynycymmer were very proud. Why not? we were poor, old, and Welsh--quite enough to account for any haughtiness we might assume. We believed ourselves to be, if not the direct descendants, at least a collateral branch of that Morgan, son of Leir, some time a king of this land, after whom this county was named. There was a time when to be a true Morgan, of Glamorganshire, meant more to its happy possessor than many a higher sounding title. Of course that time and its glory had passed away, years had deprived us of more than the old stout hearts of our ancient ancestors; our gold had also taken to itself wings, our grey and ivy-covered home had fallen, much of it, into ruins, and our broad and goodly acres passed into the unloving hands of strangers. Still, firmly as the limpet to the rock, the poorer we grew, the more did we attach ourselves to the wild old Welsh country. Each squire of Tynycymmer bringing home, in his turn, a bride who often possessed neither money nor beauty; but always something else, without which she could never have married a Morgan of our house--she had pure, untainted Welsh blood in her veins. None of the Morgans were so foolish, so unfaithful to the old stock, as to marry an English woman; if our gold was scant, our blood at least was pure. So we went on, each fresh master of Tynycymmer a little poorer than his father, when suddenly and unexpectedly a chance came in our way. There was born into the world, a Morgan either more sensible or more lucky than his progenitors; a Morgan who, going abroad to seek a bride, brought home one who not only could boast of blue Welsh blood, but had also beauty and a fortune. This lucky Morgan was my father, his rich and lovely bride my mother. Esther Williams was the daughter of a Glamorganshire man. Her father possessed, at the other side of the county, a fine extent of coal country, and a very large fortune was he able to bestow upon his only child. The fortune consisted of some coalfields, and with the rental from these my father was able to restore Tynycymmer to much of its ancient splendour. My mother's family was not so old as ours, but being true Welsh, and having beauty and a fortune, this fact was graciously overlooked by us, and we condescended to use her money to our own aggrandisement. I have said that we were a proud family--but of us all, there was none who so upheld the family traditions, and who so rejoiced in the family honour, as the one who was herself only a Morgan by marriage, my mother. Of the days when she was only Esther Williams, she never cared to speak; her money was never "her money," but the "Morgans' money." Money that brought fresh glory to the old house, was honoured indeed--she regarded herself individually, as a humble instrument destined to do much good-- for herself, her appearance, her character, she felt little pride or satisfaction; but for the sake of the name given to her by her husband, she would indeed walk with stately mien, and uphold her dignity to the last; and well she could do it, for though a little woman, she was singularly dignified and graceful-looking, and was, in short, every inch worthy of the high position she believed herself to have attained. She possessed the dark eyes and raven locks of the true Welsh woman. How I came to be fair-haired and blue-eyed remained a mystery, and was reckoned rather a disgrace. When a tiny child, Gwen had impressed this fact upon me, and I remember blushing and looking distressed, when fair people were mentioned. Yes, my mother was a beautiful woman; I have a vivid memory of her, as she looked in my father's lifetime, dressed in the time-honoured black velvet, the old jewels flashing in her hair, as bending down her haughty dark face, until it touched my fair one, she filled my greedy and receptive little brain with the ancient stories of our house. I heard of the ghosts and the deeds of vengeance from Gwen, of the fairies and deeds of glory from mother. Yes, my mother was very beautiful, and with the exception of two specks in the fair fruit of her heart, the best woman I know. How loving she was, how tender, how strong, how brave! But the specks marred the full perfection: one speck was her pride, the other her unjust preference for Owen. At the time of which I write, I did not consider this preference unjust, for I too loved Owen best, but even then I had felt the full power of her pride. I mention it here in order to make David's sorrow and David's joy more fully understood. Those retrenchments which took place when David came of age, were no small sorrow to mother. When the housekeeper went away, and many of the servants were dismissed, when the old coach was not sold, but put out of sight in some unused coach-house, when the horses were parted with to the highest bidder;--mother felt pain, though of her feelings she never spoke, and to their expression she gave no vent; her pride was hurt by this lowering of the Morgans' importance, but her very pride was its own shield in preventing its betrayal, and _she_ knew then, though I did not, why these things were done. But a year later, that pride received another blow. I remember the beginning of it. The postman brought to us a letter. I say to _us_, for all our letters, with the exception of those few received when David returned so suddenly from Oxford, were public property. This letter contained news. A distant cousin of mother's had died in London; had died and left one orphan daughter quite unprovided for. This cousin was a Williams, but though calling himself by the well-known Welsh name, was no true Welshman: his family had long ago settled in England, had married English wives, and had become, in mother's opinion, nobodies. The unprovided daughter had not written herself, knew nothing indeed about the letter, but a friend of hers in despair how best to help her, had ventured to inform Mrs Morgan of Tynycymmer, that her cousin's child was a pauper. "Have her here on a visit," said David, promptly. Mother, her heart full of sorrow and pity for the lonely girl, assented at once. Amy Williams was invited and came. And now came mother's trouble and the shock to her pride, for David fell in love with the penniless English girl. I am not surprised at it, and looking back on it now, I am glad. Amy was the only person I ever met who understood David, and who appreciated him. I am glad for his sake, and hers, that they had one short happy year together. For however tender and considerate David was with mother, on this point he was firm; he thought more of Amy's happiness than mother's pride, and he married Amy though mother opposed it bitterly. Of course I did not hear a great deal about it. I was very young, only fourteen, at the time, and mother ever kept her feelings well under control, and not one of the servants even guessed how much she disapproved of this marriage; but I remember on David's and Amy's wedding-day, running in to mother to show her my white muslin bride's-maid's dress, and mother kissing me, and then saying, with concentrated bitterness, "Had Owen been the eldest son, whatever his faults, he would never have given me the pain David has done to-day." Fond and proud as I was of Owen, I did not quite like mother to say that of David on his wedding-day. Well, he and Amy were married; they spent a week in North Wales, another week in London, and then came home. Mother wanted to transfer the reins of authority into Amy's hands, but Amy would not take them; she was the meekest little thing I ever knew, she was quite too meek to please me. I never got to know her, I never really cared for her; but she suited our David, and he suited her. His presence was to her as the sun to the flower, and truly he was a great sun for the little fragile thing to bask in. I am sure she had a great deal in her which David alone could draw out, for after talking to her he always looked happy, his whole face in a glow. Looking back on it now, I can recall nothing brighter than David's face during that year. I have said that Amy was meek, I never remember her showing any spirit but once, but that occasion I shall not quickly forget. She and I were sitting together in the arbour overhanging the sea. She was not very well, and was lying back in a little wicker chair, and I was seated at her feet, arranging different coloured sea weeds. As I worked, I talked of Owen. I did not mean it in the least, but as I spoke of my favourite brother, of his beauty and talent, I unconsciously used David as a foil to show him off by. I was speaking more to myself than to Amy. I was not thinking of her at all. Suddenly she started to her feet, her pale face grew crimson, her soft brown eyes flashed angrily. "Gwladys," she said, "little as you think of David now, some day you will see that he is a nobler man than a thousand of your Owens." "How can you speak so, when you don't know Owen," I retorted, the hot blood of the Morgans flying into my cheeks at this unexpected show of spirit. "I know David," she replied, and she burst into tears. Poor little Amy! that night a son was born to her and David, and that night she died. Perhaps had mother and I understood Amy, and cared for her more, David might have told us something of the sorrow which followed quickly on his joy. Most of the time between Amy's death and her funeral, he spent in her room. After the funeral he went away for a week; he told neither mother nor me where he was going! we never heard how or in what part of the world he spent that week; on his return he never mentioned the subject. But his face, which on the day of Amy's funeral was convulsed with agony, was after that short absence peaceful, and, I say it without expecting to be misunderstood, even happy. It was about this time I really noticed what a religious man my brother was. With all his want of talent, he knew the Bible very well, and I think he was well acquainted with God. It must have been God who gave him power to act as he did now, for if ever a man truly loved a woman, he loved Amy; but he never showed his sorrow to mother and me; he never appeared before us with a gloomy brow. After a time even, his face awoke into that pathetic joy which follows the right reception of a great sorrow. I _did_ once see him, when he thought no one was by, dropping great tears over the baby. "My boy, my little motherless lad," I heard him say. I longed to go up and comfort him; I longed to tell him that I cared for Amy now, but I did not dare. Mother, too, who had not loved her in life, could not speak of her in death. So David could only tell his sorrow to God, and God comforted and heard him, and the baby grew, healthy, handsome, strong, worthy in his beauty and his strength of the proudest Morgan of the race, and David loved him; but, alas! the little lad was blind. CHAPTER FOUR. OWEN IS COMING HOME. I managed to hush little David into a sound sleep, before Gwen returned from her supper in the old servants' hall. When I had done so, I went back to my room and undressed quickly, hoping much that I too would soon sink into slumber, for I was in that semi-frightened and semi-excited condition, when Gwen's stories about the Green Lady--our Welsh Banshee-- and other ghostly legends, would come popping under my eyelids, and forcing me to look about the room with undefined uneasiness. I did sleep soundly, however; and in the morning the brilliant sunshine, the dancing waves which I could even see from my bed, put all my uncomfortable fears to rest. To-day I was to visit Hereford, for the first time to set my foot on English soil. Laid out on a chair close by, lay my clean white muslin dress. I must get up at once, for we were to start early, the distance from our part of Glamorganshire to Hereford being very considerable. I rose and approached the window with a dancing step; the day was perfection, a few feathery clouds floated here and there in the clear blue of the sky, the sea quivered in thousands of jubilant silver waves, the trees crimsoned into all the fulness of their autumnal beauty. My heart responded to the brightness of the morning; ages back lay the ugly dreams and discontented thoughts of yesterday. I was no longer enduring the slow torture of a death-in-life existence. I was breathing the free air of a world full of love, glory, happiness. In short, I was a gay girl of sixteen, going out for a holiday. I put on my white dress. I tied blue ribbon wherever blue ribbon could be tied. I had never worn a bonnet in my life, so I perched a broad white hat over my clustering fair curls, made a few grimaces at myself in the glass, for reflecting back a pink and white and blue-eyed image, instead of the proper dark splendour of the true Morgans; consoled myself with the thought that even blue eyes could take in the beauties of Hereford, and ears protected by a fair skin, could yet communicate to the soul some musical joys. I danced downstairs, kissed mother and David rapturously, trod on Gyp's tail, but was too much excited, and too impatient, to pat him or beg his pardon; found, under existing circumstances, the eating of a commonplace ordinary breakfast, a feat wholly impossible; seated myself in the pony-carriage full ten minutes before it started; jumped out again, at the risk of breaking my neck, to adorn the ponies' heads with a few of the last summer roses; stuck a splendid crimson bud into my own belt; hurried David off some minutes too soon for the train; forgot to kiss mother, and blew a few of those delightful salutes vigorously at her instead; finally, started with a full clear hurrah, coming from a pair of very healthy lungs, prompted by a heart filled, brimming over, leaping up with irrepressible joy. Oh! that summer morning! Oh! that young and happy heart! Could I have guessed then, what almost all men have to learn, that not under the cloudless sky, not by the summer sea, but with the pitiless rain dropping, and the angry waves leaping high, and threatening to engulf all that life holds dearest, have most of God's creation to find their Creator? Could I have guessed that on this summer day the first tiny cloud was to appear, faint as the speck of a man's hand, which was to show me, in the awful gloom of sorrow, the face of my God? From my fancied woes, I was to plunge into the stern reality, and it was all to begin to-day. When we got into the train, and were whirling away in the direction of that border county, which was to represent England to me, my excitement had so far toned down as to allow me to observe David, and David's face gave to my sensations a feeling scarcely of uneasiness, but scarcely, either, of added joy. Any one who did not know him intimately, would have said what a happy, genial-looking man my brother was. Not a wrinkle showed on his broad forehead, and no shadow lurked in his kind eyes; but I, who knew him, recognised an expression which had come into his face once or twice, but was hardly habitual to it. I could not have told, on that summer morning, what the expression meant, or what it testified. I could not have read it in my childish joy; but now, in the sober light of memory, I recall David's face as it looked on that September day, and in the knowledge born of my sorrow, I can tell something of its story. My brother had looked like this twice before--once on his unexpected return from Oxford; once, more strongly, when Amy died. The look on David's face to-day, was the look born of a resolution--the resolution of a strong man to do his duty, at the risk of personal pain. As I said, I read nothing of this at the time; but his face touched me. I remembered that I had rather pained him last night. We had the carriage to ourselves. I bent forward and kissed him; tossed my hat off, and laid my head against his breast. In this attitude, I raised to him the happiest of faces, and spoke the happiest of words. "David, the world is just delicious, and I do love you." David, a man of few words, responded with a smile, and his invariable expression-- "That's right, little woman." After a time, he began to speak of the festival. He had been at the last celebration of the Three Choirs at Hereford. He told me a few of his sensations then, and also something of what he felt yesterday; he had a true Welshman's love of music, and he spoke enthusiastically. "Yes, Gwladys, it lifts one up," he said, in conclusion, "I'd like to listen to those choirs in the old cathedral, or go to the top of the Brecon--'tis much the same, the sensation, I mean--they both lift one into finer air. And what a grand thing that is, little woman," he added, "I mean when anything lifts us right out of ourselves. I mean when we cease to look down at our feet, and cease to look for ever at our own poor sorrows, and gaze right straight away from them all into the face of God." "Yes," I said, in a puzzled voice, for of course I knew nothing of these sensations; then, still in my childish manner, "I expect to enjoy it beyond anything; for you know, David, I have never been in any cathedral except Llandaff, and I have never heard the `Messiah.'" "Well, my dear, you will enjoy it to-day; but more the second time, I doubt not." "Why? David." "Because there are depths in it, which life must teach you to understand." "But, dear David, I often have had _such_ sad thoughts." "Poor child!" a touch of his hand on my head, then no more words from either of us. Just before we reached Hereford, as I was drawing on my long white gloves, which I had thrown aside as an unpleasant restraint during the journey, David said one thing more, "When the service is over, Gwladys, we will walk round the Close, if you don't mind, for I have got something I want to tell you." It darted into my head, at these words, that perhaps I was going to London after all. The thought remained for only an instant, it was quickly crowded out, with the host of new sensations which all compressed themselves into the next few hours. No, I shall never forget it, when I have grey hairs I shall remember it. I may marry some day, and have children, and then again grandchildren, and I shall ever reserve as one of the sweetest, rarest stories, the kind of story one tells to a little sick child, or whispers on Sunday evenings, what I felt when I first listened to Handel's "Messiah." David had said that I should care more for it the second time. This was possible, for my feelings now were hardly those of pleasure, even to-day depths were stirred within me, which must respond with a tension akin to pain. I had been in a light and holiday mood, my gay heart was all in the sunshine of a butterfly and unawakened existence; and the music, while it aroused me, brought with it a sense of shadow, of oppression which mingled with my joy. Heaven ceased to be a myth, an uncertain possibility, as I listened to the full burst of the choruses, or held my breath as one single voice floated through the air in quivering notes of sweetness. What had I thought, hitherto, of Jesus Christ? I had given to His history an intellectual belief. I had assented to the fact that He had borne my sins, and "The Lord had laid on Him the iniquity of us all;" but with the ponderous notes of the heavy music, came the crushing knowledge that _my_ iniquities had added to His sorrows, and helped to make Him acquainted with grief. I was in no sense a religious girl; but when "Come unto Him, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and He will give you rest," reached my ears, I felt vibrating through my heart strings, the certainty that some day I should need this rest. "Take His yoke upon you, and learn of Him." "His yoke is easy, and His burden is light." I looked at David, the book had fallen from his hands, his fine face was full of a kind of radiance, and the burden which had taken from him Amy, and the yoke which bade him resign his own will and deny himself, seemed to be borne with a sense of rejoicing which testified to the truth of how lightly even heavy sorrow can sit on a man, when with it God gives him rest. The opening words, "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God," would bring their own message at a not very distant day; but now they only spoke to me, something as a mother addresses a too happy, too wildly-exultant child, when she says in her tenderest tones, "Come and rest here in my arms for a little while, between your play." Yes, I was only a child as yet, at play with life; but the music awoke in me the possible future, the possible working day, the possible time of rain, the possible storm, the possible need of a shelter from its blast. To heighten the effect of the music, came the effect of the cathedral itself. It is not a very beautiful English cathedral, but it was the first I had seen. Having never revelled in the glories of Westminster, I could appreciate the old grey walls of Hereford; and what man had done in the form of column and pillar, of transept and roof, the sun touched into fulness of life and colouring to-day. The grey walls had many coloured reflections from the painted windows, the grand old nave lay in a flood of light, and golden gleams penetrated into dusky corners, and brought into strong relief the symmetry and beauty of aisle and transept, triforium and clerestory. I mention all this--I try to touch it up with the colour with which it filled my own mind--because in the old cathedral of Hereford I left behind me the golden, unconsciously happy existence of childhood; because I, Gwladys, when I stepped outside into the Cathedral Close, and put my white-gloved hand inside David's arm, and looked up expectantly into David's face, was about to taste my first cup of life's sorrow. I was never again to be an unconscious child, fretting over imaginary griefs, and exulting in imaginary delights. "Gwladys," said David, looking down at me, and speaking slowly, as though the words gave him pain, "Owen is coming home." CHAPTER FIVE. WHY DID YOU HESITATE? Let no one suppose that in their delivery these words brought with them sorrow. I had been walking with my usual dancing motion, and it is true, that when David spoke, I stood still, faced round, and gazed at him earnestly, it is also true that the colour left my cheeks, and my eyes filled with tears, but my emotions were pleasurable, my tears were tears of joy. Owen coming home! Nobody quite knew how I loved Owen, how _my_ heart had longed for him, how many castles in the air I had built, with him for their hero. In all possible and impossible dreams of my own future, Owen had figured as the grand central thought. Owen would show me the world, Owen would let me live with him. He had promised me this when I was a little child, and he was a fine noble-looking youth, and I had believed him, I believed him still. I had longed and yearned for him, I had never forgotten him. My love for my good and sober brother David was very calm and sisterly, but my love for Owen was the romance of my existence. And now he was coming home, crowned with laurels, doubtless. For he had been away so long, he had left us so suddenly and mysteriously, that only could his absence be accounted for by supposing that my beautiful and noble brother had gone on some very great, and important, and dangerous mission, from which he would return now, crowned with honour and glory. "Oh, David!" I exclaimed, when I could find my voice, "is it true? How very, very happy I am." "Yes, Gwladys," replied David, "it is true; but let us walk up and down this path, it is quite quiet here, and I have a story to tell you about Owen." "How glad I am," I repeated, "I love him more than any one, and I quite knew how it would be, I always guessed it, I knew he would come back covered with glory. Yes, David, go on, tell me quickly, what did my darling do?" I was rather impatient, and I wondered why David did not reply more joyfully, why, indeed, at first he did not speak at all. I could see no reason for his silence, the crowds of men and women who had filled the cathedral had dispersed, had wandered to hotels for refreshment, or gone to explore, if strangers, the beauties and antiquities the old town possessed. There was no one to molest or disturb us, as we walked up and down in this quiet part of the Close. "Well, David," I said, "go on, tell me about my darling." "Yes," said David, "I will tell you, but I have got something else to say first." "What?" I asked, impatiently. "This; you have made a mistake about Owen, you imagine him to be what he is not." "What do I imagine him to be?" I asked, angrily, for David's tone put into my heart the falsest idea it ever entertained--namely, that he was jealous of my greater love for Owen. "What do I imagine?" I asked. "You imagine that Owen is a hero. Now, Gwladys, you cannot love Owen too much, nor ever show your love to him too much, but you can do him no good whatever, if you start with a false idea of him." I was silent, too amazed at these words to reply at once. "I tell you this, Gwladys," continued David, "because I really believe it is in your power to help Owen. Nay, more, I want you to help him." Still I said nothing, the idea suggested by David's words might be flattering, but it was too startling to be taken in its full significance at first. What did it mean? In all my dreams of Owen I had never contemplated his requiring help from me; but David had said that my ideas were false, my dreams mistaken. I woke up into full and excited listening, at his next words. "And now I mean to tell you why you have not seen Owen for so long--why he has been away from us all these years." "Four years, now," I said. "Yes, David, I have often wondered why you gave me no reason for his long, long absence. I said nothing, but I felt it a good bit--I did indeed." "It was a story you could hardly hear when you were a little child. Even now I only tell it to you because of Owen's unlooked-for and unexpected return; because, as I say, I want you to help Owen; but even now I shall only tell you its outline." "David, you speak of Owen's return as if you were not glad--as if it were not quite the happiest news in the world." "It is not that, my dear." "But why? Do you not love him?" "Most truly I love him." "Well, what is the story? How mysterious you are!" "Yes, I am glad," continued David, speaking more to himself than to me. "I suppose I ought to be _quite_ glad--to have no distrust. How faithless Amy would call me!" When he mentioned Amy, I knew he had forgotten my presence--the name made me patient. I waited quietly for his next remark. As I have said, he was a man of few words. His ideas moved slowly, and his language hardly came fluently. "There are two kinds of love," he began, still in his indirect way. "There is the love that thinks the object it loves perfection, and will see no fault in it." "Yes," I interrupted, enthusiastically; "I know of that love--it is the only kind worth having." "I cannot agree with you, dear. That love may be deep and intense, but it is not great. There is a love which sees faults in the object of its love, but loves on through all. Such--" "Such love I should not care for," I interrupted. "Such love I could not live without, Gwladys. Such is the Divine love." "But God's love is not like ours," I said. "No, dear; and I have only made the remark to justify myself--for, Gwladys, I have loved Owen through his faults." I started impatiently; but David had now launched on his tale, and would not be interrupted. "Yes," he continued, "I loved and love Owen through his faults. I know that mother thought him perfect, and so did you. I am not surprised at either of your feelings with regard to him--he was undoubtedly very brilliant, and on the surface, Gwladys, you might almost have said that so noble a form must have held a noble soul. I do not say this will _never_ be so; but this was not so when you knew him last." I would have spoken again, but David laid his hand on my arm, to silence me. "He had much of good in him; but he was not noble; he had one great weakness--pleasure was dearer to him than duty. Even when a little lad he would leave his tasks unlearned, to play for half an hour longer with you; this was a small thing, but it grew, Gwladys--it grew. And he had great temptations. It was much harder for him to do the right than for me; he was so brilliant--so--so, not clever--but so ready-witted. He was a great favourite in society, and society brought with it heaps of temptations. He struggled against the temptations, but he did not struggle hard enough; and his natural weakness, his great love for pleasure, grew on the food he gave it. "We were in different colleges, and did not see each other every day. He made some friends whose characters--well, they were not men he ought to know. I spoke to him about this; poor fellow! it has lain on my heart often, that I may have spoken harshly, taking on myself elder brother airs, and made myself a sort of mentor. I _could_ not do this intentionally, but it is possible I may have done it unintentionally. I felt hot on the subject, for the fellows I spoke against seemed to me low, in every sense beneath his notice. I did not know that even then, they had a hold on him which he could not, even if he would, shake off. He got angry, he--quarrelled with me. After this, I did not see him for some time. I blame myself again here, for I might have gone to him, but I did not. He had said some words which hurt me, and I stayed away." David paused. "Yes," he continued, taking up his narrative without any comment from me, "I remember, it was the middle of the term. I was sitting with some fellows after dinner; we were smoking in my rooms. I remember how the sun looked on the water, and how jolly I felt. We were talking of my coming of age, and I had asked all these fellows to help me to celebrate the event at Tynycymmer, when suddenly a man I knew came to the door, and called me out; he was a great friend of mine, he looked awfully white and grave; he put his arm inside mine, and we went down through Christ Church meadows to the edge of the river. There, as we stood together looking down into the river, and nodding, as if nothing were the matter, to some men of our college as they rowed past us; there, as we stood and listened to the splash of the oars, my friend told me about Owen. A long story, Gwladys. Shall I ever forget the spot where I stood and listened to it? As I said, I am not going to tell you the tale; it was one of disgrace--weakness--and sin. Evil companions had done most of it, but Owen had done some. It was a long story, dating back from the day of his first arrival; but now the climax had come--Owen had fallen--had sinned. I never knew until my friend spoke, how much I loved Owen. I blamed myself bitterly. I was his elder brother. I might have so treated him as to win his confidence, and to save him from this. He had fallen by means of the very temptations that must assail such a nature as his, and I, instead of holding out a helping hand, had stood aloof from him. In this moment of agony, when I learned all about his sin, I blamed myself as much as him. I started off at once to find him, I could not reproach him. I could only blame myself. When I did this, he burst into tears." Here David paused, and I tried to speak, but could not. "Owen had sinned," he continued, "and in such a way that the most public exposure seemed inevitable. To avoid this, to give him one chance for the future, I would do anything. There was one loophole of escape, and through that loophole, if any strength of mine could drag him, I was determined Owen should come. I could not leave Oxford, but I wrote to my mother. Her assistance was necessary, but I felt little doubt of her complying. I was not wrong. She helped me, as I knew she would. Nay, I think she was more eager than I. Between us we saved Owen." Here David paused, and taking out his handkerchief, he wiped some moisture from his brow. His words were hardly either impassioned or eloquent; but no one knew, who did not hear them, with what pain they came slowly up from his heart. Then I ventured to put the question which was hanging on the top of my lips-- "What was his sin?" "The sin of weakness, Gwladys. The sad lacking of moral courage to say no, when no should be said. The putting pleasure before duty, that was the beginning of it. Then evil companions came round; temptation was yielded to, and, at last, the very men who had ruined and tempted him, managed to escape, and he was left to bear the brunt of everything. However, my dear, this is a story you need not know. I have told you the little I have, because, now that Owen is coming home, I want you to have a truer idea of his character, so that you may help him better. I need and want you to help him, Gwladys. I have said all this to you to-day for no other reason." I said nothing. David looked into my face, and I looked into his, then he went on. "After that dreadful time at Oxford he went abroad, and I came home. Now he, too, is coming home." "To live with us at Tynycymmer?" I asked. "No, no, my dear; he is coming home with a definite purpose; I have had a long letter from Owen, I must tell you some of it. He always wrote to me while he was away, but his letters, though tolerably cheerful, and fairly hopeful, were reserved, and seemed always to have something behind. I used to fear for him. Dear fellow, dear, dear fellow, my weak heart fears for him still, and yet with it all, I am proud and thankful. There _is_ something great in Owen, otherwise this would never have so weighed on his mind. "I must tell you that to save Owen, I had to spend money; that really was no sacrifice to me, a thing not worth mentioning, but it seems to have weighed much on him. In his letter, he told me that he has never ceased working hard at his profession, learning all he can about it. He says that he is now nearly qualified to work as a mechanical engineer; and in that particular department he has made mining engineering his special study. In his letter he also said that he had done this with a definite hope and object. "There is a large coal mine on my property, a mine that has never been properly worked. Owen believes that out of this mine he can win back the gold I have spent on him; he has begged me to allow him to take the management of the mine; to live at Ffynon until this object is effected. I hesitated--I thought--at last I yielded." "Why did you hesitate? David." "Because, Gwladys, the object with which Owen works is worthless to me. I am glad he is coming to manage the mine, I have no doubt whatever as to his ability in the matter. I know in his profession he has much talent. Had he not written to me, I should have been obliged to ask a London engineer to take his place for a time. Yes, Gwladys, I like his work, but not his motive. The mine at Ffynon yields me little money, that is nothing; it also is dangerous, that is much; many accidents have taken place there, many lives have been lost. I want Owen to make the mine safe, as far as man can make it safe: I don't care for the money. And this is the object I want you to help me in, Gwladys, not in words, but in a thousand ways in which a loving and true sister can. I want you to show to Owen that we none of us care for the money." "You lay upon me an impossible task," I said; "you forget that I shall not be with Owen." "You said last night you were tired of Tynycymmer?" "So I am, very often." "You are going to leave it, at least for a time; you and mother are to live with Owen at Ffynon." CHAPTER SIX. GWEN'S DREAM. If I felt excited when starting for Hereford on the morning of that day, how much more feverishly did my heart beat when I returned home in the evening! I was in that state of mind when the need of a confidante was sore and pressing. In whom should I confide? I loved my brother David, I dearly loved my mother, but in neither of them would I now repose confidence. No, they knew too much already. Into fresh ears, but still into ears that communicated with a very affectionate and faithful heart, would I pour my tale--or rather that portion of my tale of which I wished to speak. David had given me, in the old Cathedral Close, two very distinct pieces of information--two pieces of information, either of which would have proved quite sufficient to keep my eyes wakeful for many nights, and my heart restless for many days. Mother and I were going to leave Tynycymmer! Owen was coming home! Round this last item of intelligence floated murky and shadowy words. Owen had sinned! Owen was not the spotless hero I had imagined him! With regard to this piece of news I wished to take no one into my confidence; by the sheer strength of a very strong will I pushed it into the background of my thoughts; I managed to give it a subordinate place where the full sharpness of its sting would not for the present be felt. By-and-by I would drag it to the light; by-and-by I would analyse this thing and pull it to pieces; by-and-by I would face this enemy and dare it to do its worst; by-and-by, defeated, baffled, I would writhe under its blows; but, as I said, for the present it lay in abeyance, and other thoughts pressed upon me. How much a change, even a little change, does signify to us girls! I once met a man who told me calmly, and with easy nonchalance, that he was about to visit Australia. I observed his eye never brightening at the prospect of the gay sea voyage, and the sights to be witnessed in the tropical richness of the far-off land; he had seen many changes, he had visited many lands, to him change was a thing of every day, and he told me, when I pressed him to speak, that he was weary of it all, and that there was nothing new under the sun. But to me! What did not a change, even from one end of Glamorgan to another, mean to me? How very long it would take before I could be satiated with fresh places, or my eyes grow weary of new sights. So much did this one very small change mean to me, that I almost fancied, as we were whirled back in the train, that my fellow-passengers must know something of the uprooting about to take place, and some disquieting waves from the agitation which was surging round me, must be pulsing in their own hearts. I, who had lived all my sixteen years at Tynycymmer, was going to make another place my home! It was on this item of David's news that I longed so for a confidante. When I got home, my eyes were bright and my cheeks flushed. Mother looked anxiously from David to me. "She knows, mother," said David, going over and kissing the stately and beautiful face, and looking down tenderly into the dark depths of the eyes, which were raised inquiringly to his. Mother glanced at me; but I could not speak of it to her--not then. She knew all, and of all I would not speak. I pleaded hunger as a reason for my silence. After supper, I pleaded fatigue, and made a hasty retreat to my bedroom. On my way there, I passed through the nursery. Gwen was in the nursery, knitting a long grey stocking, by little David's bedside. "Gwen," I said, "I want you--come into my room." When we got there, I locked the door, pushed Gwen down into an arm-chair, seated myself in her lap, put my arms round her neck, laid my head on her bosom, and burst into tears. These tears were my safety-valve, but they frightened Gwen. "Now, Gwladys, my maid, what is it? What is wrong? Ah! dear, dear! she's tired--the poor little maid." I wanted Gwen to soothe me. I meant her to stroke my cheek with her large, but soft hand. I meant her to pour, with her dear Welsh accent, some foolish nothings into my ear. Gwen's soothing, joined to my own tears, were, as I said, my safety-valve. When enough of the steam of strong excitement was evaporated by these means, I started up, dried my eyes, and spoke. "Gwen, we're going away. Mother and I are not going to live at Tynycymmer any more. We're going away to the black ugly coal country-- to Ffynon." "Yes, Gwladys," said Gwen; "my mistress told me to-day. She said you was to move quick, so as to have things ready for Owen. And, goodness me! Gwladys, what I says is, that little David and me should go too. What if little David was took with the croup, and me to lose my senses; and what could the Squire do? What I say is, that David and me should go--least for a year--till his h'eye teeth are down--and they do say as there's holy wells out there, what works miracles on the sight, if you dips afore sunrise." It was plain that Gwen had her own troubles in the matter. She spoke vehemently. "And who's to brush h'out your yellow hair, my maid? and who's to make things comfort for my mistress? Dear, dear Gwladys, 'tis worse nor folly me not going with you." "Well, where's the use of making a fuss about nothing?" I said, finding that I had to listen to a complaint instead of making one. "Who says you are not to come!" "My mistress, dear. She says the Squire wishes little David to stay at Tynycymmer. Dear heart! what store he do set by the little lad. Seems to me he loves the blessed lamb h'all the better for being blind." "Well, Gwen, that is all right. Of course David wishes to keep the baby--and I think," I added virtuously, "that as he _does_ wish it, it would be very selfish of us to take him away." "Dear, dear Gwladys," said the penitent Gwen, "don't think as _I_ have no thought for the Squire. _I_ don't see why the house is to be broke up for--but there! Owen and David aren't the same, Gwladys, and no one will make me think 'em the same. But if you and my mistress must go, I was only supposing what 'ud be best for the baby in case he was took with sickness. 'Tisn't _I_ as 'ud be the one to neglect the Squire, Gwladys. Course I'll stay; though dear, dear, dear! I'll be lonesome, but what of that?" As Gwen spoke, I no longer found her arms comforting. I rose to my feet, went to the window, from where I could see the silver moon reflecting glorious light on the glistening waves. "Good-night, Gwen," I said, when she had done speaking. "I'm tired; don't stay any longer--good-night." "But, Gwladys," said Gwen, looking at me with astonishment. "Good-night," I repeated, in a gentle voice; but the voice was accompanied with a little haughty gesture; and Gwen, still with a look of surprise, went slowly out of the room. I shut the door; but though I had told her I was tired, I did not go to bed. I knelt down by the open window, placed my elbows on the window-sill, leant my cheeks on my hands, gazed steadfastly out at the silver-tipped waves, and now I called up David's last item of news. I summoned my enemy to the forefront of the battle, and prepared to fight him to the death. Owen had sinned! I was a proud girl--proud with the concentrated pride of a proud race. Sin and disgrace were synonymous. I writhed under those three pregnant words--_Owen had sinned_. But for David, Owen would have been publicly disgraced. Had he been a cousin, had he been the most distantly connected member of our house, such a fact in connection with him could hardly have failed to make my cheeks burn with humiliation. But the one who brought me this agony, was not a stranger cousin, but a brother--the brother I loved, the brother I had dreamed of, the brother I had boasted of, the brother who had, hitherto, embodied to me every virtue under the sun. How well I remembered the graceful, athletic young form, the flashing, dark eyes, the ring of the clear voice, as he said to me-- "You--a Morgan! I would _scorn_ to do a dirty action, if I were you." I was the culprit then. I had been discovered by Owen, surreptitiously hiding away for private consumption some stolen cherries. I was eight years old at the time, and the sharp words had wrung from me a wail of shame and woe. I flung the fruit away. I would not show my ashamed face for the rest of the evening. I was cured for ever of underhand dealings. The next day I begged Owen's pardon--it was granted, and from that time his word was law to me. I was his slave. For the next four years, until I was twelve years old, I was Owen's faithful and devoted slave. He was my king, and my king could do no wrong. His vacations were my times of blessing, his absence my time of mourning. He ordered me about a great deal, but his commands were my pleasure. He rather took advantage of my affection, to impose hard tasks on his little slave; but the slave loved her taskmaster, and work for him was light. I was a romantic, excitable, enthusiastic child, and Owen played with a skilful hand on these strong chords in my heart. He knew what words would excite my imagination, what stories would fire my enthusiasm; these stories and these words he gave, not always--sometimes, indeed, at rare intervals--but just when he saw I needed them, when I was weary and spent after a long day of waiting on my despotic young king--standing patient while he fished, or copying with my laboured, but neat hand, his blotted exercises; then my reward would come--a few, well-selected lines from Byron, a story from history, or a fairy tale told as only Owen could tell it. I would lie at his feet then, or better still, recline with my head on his breast, while he stretched himself under the trees. Then after an hour or two of this, would come in a soft, seductive whisper in my ear-- "Now, Gwlad, you will get up at six to-morrow, and have those exercises finished for me before breakfast." Of course I did what he asked, of course I was proud of the stealthy stealing away from Nurse Gwen, of course I enjoyed the cool of the study, the romance of copying verses, and making themes appear neat and fair for Owen; and if before the hour of release came, my back ached a trifle, and my face was slightly pale, were not the fatigue and the pain well worth while for Owen's sake? For Owen, as I said, was my hero. How grandly he spoke of the noble deeds he would accomplish when he was a man--they were no idle words, they were felt through and through the graceful young frame, they came direct from the passionate heart. A thousand dreams he had of glory and ambition, and he meant them, meant them truly, as he lay in the long summer days under the great cool horse-chestnuts. Very goodly were the blossoms, and very fair to my inexperienced eyes the show of fruit, in that heart and nature. In those days, it never occurred to me that while Owen spoke, David acted. David had so few words, David never alluded to the possibility of a grand future. Once he even said, almost roughly, that he had no time to dream. Oh! how inferior he seemed, how far beneath Owen! This intercourse, and this instruction of heart and life, I had with Owen more or less from my eighth to my twelfth year; then suddenly it ceased. How little grown people remember of their own childhood! how very little most grown people understand children! There was I, twelve years old, slim, tall, awkward, gaily bright on the surface, intensely reserved within; there was I, the child of an imaginative race, great in ghost lore, great in dreams; there was I, come to an age when childhood and youth meet, when new perceptions awaken, and new thoughts arise, left to puzzle out a problem in which my own heart and life were engaged. How little the grown people guessed what thoughts were surging through my brain, what wondering ideas were taking possession of me! When mother and David told me, that for a reason they could not quite explain, Owen had gone for a time abroad, did it never occur to them that when I accepted the fact, I should also try to fathom the reason? I don't suppose it ever did. Their childhood was a thing of the past, they were pressed hard by a sorer trouble than any I could know. Could they have read my thoughts, could they have guessed my feelings, perhaps they would have smiled. And yet, I think not; for the pain of the child is a real pain: if the shadow that eclipses the sun is a little shadow, yet it falls upon little steps, and its chill presence keeps out the light of day, and the joy of hope, as effectually as the larger, darker shadow dooms the man to despair. When Owen went away, this shadow fell on me. The shadow to me lay in the pain of his absence, in the fact that no long summer days, no joyous winter evenings, were bringing him back to me. I never connected disgrace and Owen; how could I? Was he not my hero, my darling? When no reason was given for his lengthened absence, I formed a reason of my own. He had gone to win some of the glory he spoke of, to execute some of the brave deeds, the recital of which had so often caused both our eyes to sparkle, and both our hearts to glow. I could hardly guess what Owen was to do, in those distant countries where he had gone so suddenly and mysteriously, but that some day he would return covered with fame--a knight who had nobly won his spurs, I felt quite sure of. This was the silver lining to the cloud, which Owen's absence had cast upon my path, and this thought enabled me to bear the long years of his absence, with outward gaiety and inward patience. And now, kneeling by my window, looking out at the fluctuating, shifting, restless tide, I told my heart that the long probation time was over, that at last, at last, Owen was coming home; but _was_ the hero returning? was the laurel-crowned coming back with his long tale of glorious victories? Alas! Owen had sinned. This fact danced before me on the treacherous waves, floated in front of my weary eyes. Owen was no great man, gone away to perform noble deeds; Owen had gone because of his sin. Oh! my gay castle in the air! Oh! my hero-worship, with my hero lying shattered at my feet. He, a Morgan, had brought disgrace on his race; he, a Morgan, had sinned; he, my brother, had sinned bitterly. And I thought him perfect. The blow was crushing. I laid my head down on the window-sill, and sobbed bitterly. I was sobbing in this manner loudly and unrestrainedly, when a hand was laid on my shoulder, a firm cool hand that I knew too well to startle me even then. "What is it? my maid; what's the trouble?" said the tender voice of Gwen. I had been deeply hurt with Gwen for the tone in which she had spoken of Owen half an hour before, but now I was too much broken down, and too much humbled, to feel angry with any one, and I turned to my old nurse with an eager longing to let her share some of the burden which had fallen upon me. "Gwen, _do_ you know about Owen?" "Of course I do, my lamb. Dear, dear, praised be the Lord for His goodness!" Gwen was a Methodist, and I was well accustomed to her expressions, but I could hardly see their force now, and raised my tear-dimmed eyes questioningly. "And why not? Gwladys," she said, in reply to my look. "Have we not cause to praise the Lord? have we not hope that the prayer that has gone up earnestly has been answered abundantly? Don't you be foolish enough to suppose, in your poor weak little heart, that no one cared for Owen Morgan but you. Yes, my maid, others gave a thought to the lad in the far-away country, and many a strong prayer went up to the God of gods for him. Why, sweet Mistress Amy has told me how the Squire prayed, and I know she prayed, bless her dear heart! and I have had my prayers too, Gwladys, my dear, and now perhaps they're being answered." It was quite evident, from these words, that while I was in the darkness of despair with regard to Owen, Gwen was in the brightness of some hope. It was also evident that she had known for years what I only knew to-day, but I was too sore at heart to question her on this point now, though I turned eagerly to the consolation. "How do you know that your prayers are answered?" I asked. "Nay, Gwladys, I don't _say_ as they're answered, but I have a good strong hope in the matter. Don't it stand to common-sense, my maid, that I should have hope now; the lad is coming back to his own people, the lad is ready to work, honest and hard too, in the coalfields. Don't it look, Gwladys, something like the coming home again of the prodigal?" I was silent. Gwen's words might be true, and she, even if she did love Owen as I loved him, might take the comfort of them. She who had known of the sorrow and pain for four years, might be glad now if she could; but I, who until a few hours before had placed Owen far above even the elder brother in the father's house, how could I think of the repentant prodigal, in his rags and misery, without pain, how could I help failing to receive comfort! I little knew then, I little dreamt, that our rags and misery, our shame and bitter repentance, may often but lead us nearer to the Father and the Father's home. If the storm alone can bring the child to nestle in the Father's breast, surely the storm must be sent for good! "Gwen," I said, at last, "I think 'tis very hard." "What's hard? my dear." "I think 'tis hard that this should have been kept from me all these years, that I should have been dreaming of Owen, and fancying good and glory, when 'twas all shame and evil. I think 'twas very bitter to keep it from me, Gwen." "Well, my dear, _I'd_ have broke the news to you, and so I think would the Squire, but my mistress, she was so fearful that you'd fret--and-- and--she knew, we all knew, how your heart was bound up with Mr Owen." "I think it is bitter to deceive any one," I continued, "to let them waste love. Well, 'tis done now, it can't be helped." There was, I knew, a bitter tension about my lips, but my eyes were dry, they shed no more tears. I felt through and through my frame, that my hero was gone, my idol shattered into a thousand bits. "Gwen," I said, "I could not ask David to-day, but I had better know. I don't mind pain. I'm not a child, and I've got to bear pain like every one else. What was it Owen did, Gwen,--what was his sin?" "Nay, my dear, my dear, I can't rightly tell you, I don't rightly know, Gwladys. It had something to say to money, a great lot of money, and I know David saved him, David paid it h'all up and set him free. I don't know what he did rightly, Gwladys, my maid, I never heard more than one little end and another little end, but I believe there was dishonour at the bottom of it, and 'twas that cut up the Squire, and I'm quite sure too, Gwladys, that the Squire never told my mistress the half; she thought 'twas all big debts that they must cramp the estate to pay, but 'twas more." "What was it?" I said, "I don't want to be deceived again, I wish to know all." "I can't tell you, my dear, I don't know myself, 'tis only thoughts I have, and words Mistress Amy has dropped, but she did not mean me to learn anything by 'em. Only I think she felt bitter, when people called the Squire stingy, for she knew what an awful lot of money it took to clear Owen." "I must know all about it," I said; "I shall ask David to tell me if you won't." "My dear, I can't, and I think, if I was you, I'd not do that." "Why?" I asked. "My maid, isn't it better to forget what you does know, than to try to learn more." "I don't understand you, Gwen, what do you mean?" "Why, this, my lamb, don't you think when the Lord has forgiven the lad, that you may forgive him too, where's the use of knowing more of the sin than you need to know, and where's the use of 'ardening your 'art 'gainst the one you love best in the world?" "Oh! I did love him, I did love him," I sobbed passionately, all my calm suddenly giving way. "Don't say `did,' my maid, you love him still." "But, Gwen," I said, "he has sinned, the old, grand, noble Owen is never coming back. No, Gwen, I _don't_ love the man who brought disgrace and misery on us all--there--I can't help it, I don't." "Dear, dear," said Gwen, beginning to smooth down her apron, and trying to stroke my hair, which I shook away from her hand. "What weak creatures we are! dear, dear, why 'tis enough to fret the Lord h'all to nothing, to hearken to us, a-makin' idols one time o' bits o' clay, and then when we finds they ain't gods for us to worship, but poor sinnin' mortals like ourselves, a-turnin' round and hating of 'em; dear, dear, we're that weak, Gwladys, seems to me we can never have an h'easy moment unless we gets close up to the Lord." "I wish you wouldn't preach," I said, impatiently. "No, my dear, I ain't a-going, but, Gwladys, I will say this, as you're wrong; you were wrong long ago, but you're more wrong now; you did harm with the old love, but if you ain't lovin' and sisterly to Owen now, you'll do harm as you'll rue most bitter. I'm a h'ignorant, poor spoke woman, my maid, but I know as Owen will turn to you, and if you'll be lovin' to him, and not spoil him, as h'everybody but David has h'always bin a-doin', why you may help on the work the good Lord has begun. But there, you'll take what I says in good part, my dear, and now I may as well tell you what brought me in at this hour to see you." "Yes, you may tell me," I said, but I spoke wearily, there was no interest in my voice. "I thought how 'twould be," continued Gwen, "I guessed how the maid would fret and fret, and when you turned me out of your room so sharp, I was fit to cry with the fear on me that you thought poor old Gwen had turned selfish, and 'ad an h'eye to her own comfort and meant to leave the Squire. "Why, my dear, it stan's to reason I should fret. Do I not remember the old time when the old mistress was alive, and when your mother came home a bride, so grand, and rich, and beautiful; and now to know that there'll never be a woman of the house about, and only the Squire and the little blind darlin' to live at Tynycymmer; but you're right, Gwladys, 'twould never do to part the Squire and the little lad; and I was 'shamed o' myself for so much as thinkin' of it; and before I dropped asleep, with the baby close to me, so that I could see his little face, I made up my mind that I'd think no more of the lonesomeness, but stay at Tynycymmer, after you and my mistress went away. When I settled me to do that, I felt more comfort; but still, what with the feel of not seeing my maid every day, and being worried, and kissed, and made a fool of by her; and what with the thought that she had a sore heart of her own for Mr Owen's sake, who was coming back so different from what she fancied; I was no way as easy in my mind as I am most nights. And 'twas that, Gwladys, and the moon being at the full, and me only asleep for a few minutes, that made me set such store by the dream." Gwen's last words had been very impressive, and she and I believed fully in dreams. "What was it?" I asked excitedly, laying my hand on her arm. "Well, my dear; 'twas as vivid as possible; though by the clock, I couldn't 'ave bin more'n five minutes dreamin' it. I thought we had h'all gone away to the black coal country, where there's never a green leaf or a flower, only h'everything black, and dear, dear! as dismal as could be; and I thought that David went down into one of those unearthly places they calls a mine. Down he would go, into a place not fit for honest men, and only meant for those poor unfortnets as 'ave to trade by it." "I mean to go into a mine when we live at Ffynon," I interrupted. "Then, my dear, I can only say as you'll tempt Providence. Why, wot was mines invented for? Hasn't we the surface of the earth, green and pleasant, without going down into its bowels; but there, Gwladys, shall I finish the dream?" "Oh, yes!" very earnestly; "please go on." "Well, my maid; David, he went down into the mine, and we all waited on the surface to see him drawed h'up; and the chains went clankin', and one after the other everybody came up out of the pit but David; and after a while we heard that David had gone a long way into the pit, and he couldn't find his way back again; and the place where he went was very dangerous; and all the miners were cryin' for the Squire, and they went down and they tried every mortal man of 'em to get him out of the mine; but there was a wind down below in that dreadful place louder than thunder, and when the men tried to get to where David was shut up, it seemed as if it 'ud tear 'em in pieces. So at last they one and all was daunted, and they said nothing could be done. Then, Gwladys, we all cried, and we gave the Squire up for lost, when suddenly, who should come to the pit's mouth but Owen--Owen, with his breath comin' hard and fast, and his eyes shinin', and he said, `I'm not frighted; David saved me, and I'll save David, or I'll die!' And with that, before anyone could hinder him, he went down into the dark, loathsome pit!" "Well?" I said, for Gwen had paused. "That's h'all. I woke then. The rest was not revealed to me. When I woke, the cock crowed sharp and sudden, that made it certain." "What?" I asked, in an awe-struck, frightened voice. "Why, 'twill come true, my maid. 'Twas sent to us for a comfort and a warnin'. If David saved Owen, Owen will save David yet." CHAPTER SEVEN. VERY NEW AND VERY INTERESTING. It is certainly possible when one is only sixteen to go to sleep in the depths of misery, and to awake after a few hours of slumber, with a heart, if not as light as a feather, yet quite sufficiently so, to enable one to dance, not walk, to eat with an appetite, and to laugh with more than surface merriment. These easily changed feelings may be reckoned as some of the blessings of this pleasant age. At sixteen we have our sharp sorrows, but we have our equally keen pleasures, and it is quite impossible for us to be sad always. So on the morning after Gwen had related to me her dream, though there were sore places which I could not quite bear to touch, somewhere about my heart, yet the leading fact which danced before my young eyes lay concentrated in the one word--_change_. We were going away, we were going to make another place our home; we would soon be in all the grand excitement of a move. I was very childish in the matter, for this experience was so new to me, so completely novel. I had never seen a house in the chaos of a removal. I had never seen furniture ruthlessly piled up in corners, beds in packing-cases, chairs and tables upside down, carpetless and straw-littered floors. It must have been centuries since Tynycymmer had known such a revolution. Except in the attics, everything was in apple-pie order. Even the Tynycymmer attics were not half so disorderly as they should be. Regularly twice a year they were well cleaned out, and reduced to an alarming degree of niceness. The drawing-rooms, dining-room, study, library, were always destined to hold just their own furniture, and no other. And how proper and staid that old furniture looked! those chairs would never tumble down with one, those rather thread-bare carpets would fade and fade, it was true, until all brightness and beauty had left them, but how provokingly orderly they would keep, and how unnecessary it was to do anything to them except at the grand annual cleanings! I have been so put out and so tired by the everlasting sameness of Tynycymmer, that on some of these exciting occasions, I have forced my way into the dethroned and disarranged rooms, tied the housemaid's white apron over my hair, and flourished wildly about with a mop, never subsiding into rationalism until I had laid one or two articles of value in fragments at my feet. But now we were going to have confusion grand and glorious, for the cottage at Ffynon was to be furnished with some of the superabundance of Tynycymmer. Mother and David went through the old rooms many times, and everything that was small enough, and choice enough, and pretty enough, was marked to go. Mother and David both looked sad during these pilgrimages through the Tynycymmer rooms. But whenever David said, "Mother I should like you to have this, for such a corner," or, "Mother, we will put this in Owen's room," she just bent her stately head in acquiescence, and said, "It shall be as you wish, my son." So the rare cases of old china went away, and the choicest landscapes were removed from the walls; only the family portraits remained in the portrait gallery, and a painter's proof of Noel Paton's "_Mors Janua Vitae_," which David and Amy had brought home after their wedding tour, was left undisturbed in David's study. Then the waggons came, old-fashioned, slow, and cumbersome, and the furniture was stowed in, and Gwen and mother and David went to and fro. At last the cottage was ready, everything to our least belongings, packed and put away, and mother and I saw the day dawn when we were to leave Tynycymmer, and take up our abode at Owen's house. I found on the morning of that day in late October, I found on that last day, to my astonishment, that even going away had its sorrows. A mist of tears came dimming my eyes as I looked at the sea, as I wandered through the gardens and grounds, as I peeped into the no longer orderly rooms. Memories I had tried to put out of sight returned to me. That arbour overhanging the sea, where I had talked to Amy of Owen, and Amy, in a short, vivid, last flash of resentment, had told me I was wrong; that David was the brave man. Poor little gentle Amy! I had never loved her very much, I had scorned her earnest words; but they were true. I acknowledged them with a great stab at my heart, when I visited the arbour for the last time. Here was the horse-chestnut-tree where Owen and I had sat and dreamed dreams, summer after summer. I hurried away from it. Here was the cherry-tree from which I had stolen the cherries, for which Owen had reproved me. Here, crawling listlessly after me, was the lame, and half-blind terrier, which had once belonged to Owen, and had been sportive enough when Owen and I were together. Here was the study, where I had copied Owen's exercises. Here the stain, still left in the carpet, where Owen had upset the ink. Here the spot--here, by the deep, mullioned window--where, after a long labour for Owen, he had put his arm round my childish neck, looked full into my eyes, and "called me the best little sister in the world." Oh! what ailed the place this morning; it was alive with Owen, peopled with Owen in every nook. From each corner Owen started up and confronted me, as he was. _As he was_--what was he now? I dashed my blinding tears away. Kissed little David, hugged Gwen, who was absolutely speechless with her own sorrow, got into the carriage beside mother, and was off--away! For mother's sake, who was very white, and seemed to be suffering intensely, I abstained from shouting. For David's sake, who kept his hat well down, and who never spoke, I, too, remained silent. In process of time we arrived at Ffynon, and at the cottage which was to be our future home. A tree or two surrounded it; a little scrap of a garden, neat with gravel, and bright with late geraniums in pots, led up to it. Inside there was a drawing-room, low and small; a dining-room to match; behind, kitchens, a pantry, and cellars; over head, four bed-rooms. That was absolutely all. Goodness me! dear, dear! as Gwen would say, was there ever such a nutshell of a place! Why, it was a toy-house, a doll's abode. I could stand on tiptoe and touch the ceiling of the apartment set aside for my slumbers. I could stand by the bedstead at one end of the room, and nearly pull the bell at the other. But then the bedstead was so pretty, so tiny, so bright! The whole room, encased in its fairy-like pink and white, was like a little bower; the muslin curtains were partly drawn, the blinds partly down, the evening sun cast a glow over everything. I approached the window, whistling to my canary as I went. I drew up the blinds, and pushed back the curtains. My cheeks were hot, I wanted to see my waves. Perhaps from long habit, I thought I should see them. I looked out, and behold! a black country--hills, low and barren destitute of trees, clothed with coal dust; straight, red brick chimneys, from which curled volumes of ugly smoke; roads winding everywhere, of a grimy grey; a train of coal trams, whizzing up to the noisy dirty station; the roar of steam-engines filling the air; dark figures rushing here and there, and the machinery and shaft of what I afterwards learned was David's mine, quite close. The entrance to this mine lay within not many hundred yards of the house. Oh! there was noise enough and life enough here, but it was ugly! ugly! ugly! I quickly shut down the window; I drew the blinds and curtains into their former position. I would not acknowledge, even to myself, how my heart rose up in wild longing for the green trees, and the fresh, sweet, salt waves of Tynycymmer; I only said to myself, "The cottage is lovely, fairy-like; but the view is ugly!" That night I slept well in my little room, and in the morning was able to acknowledge that, though the coal country was far from beautiful, and Ffynon was not quite the home to choose, yet any change was welcome to me; and had Owen only been coming back the hero I had painted him, had dear old David's brave face not worn such a patient look, had my mother not been quite so silent, and quite so sorry for leaving Tynycymmer, and had Gwen been still to the fore to scold me, and pet me, I should have been, notwithstanding the ugly view, the happiest girl in the world. I got up early this first morning, and went out. I ran down, without anyone knowing it, to the place where the machinery roared loudest, and the black coal dust was thickest. I looked into the mouth of the shaft, watched with interest the rows of grimy miners getting into the cage, and descending into the mine; started back at first from their black faces, which, relieved by the dazzling white of teeth and eyeballs, made them look hardly human; presently gathered courage, came close, asked eager questions, made all verbal preparations for a speedy descent into the coal mine; rather laughed at the idea of fear in the matter, and returned home in time for breakfast, my light dress covered with dirty stains, my golden hair full of coal dust, my whole person very dirty indeed. "Gwladys," said mother, "you must never venture near the shaft alone again." "If you do, Gwladys, I must take you back to Tynycymmer," said David. I did not want that; if Ffynon was dirty, it was very new and very interesting. CHAPTER EIGHT. I SAID I WOULD DO MUCH FOR THESE CHILDREN. We were a fortnight at Ffynon. All my possessions were unpacked and put neatly away in the wardrobes allotted to them. My favourite books, my "Cambrian Magazine," my "Westward Ho!" my "Arabian Nights," my "Mabinogion," reflected gay colours behind polished glass doors. Packing-cases had disappeared. The cottage inside was perfection, bright with potted plants, cool with muslin drapery, glowing with rich crimson curtains. The rare and lovely Tynycymmer china filled niches in the drawing-room, exquisite landscapes from the pencils of Fielding and Cooper adorned the walls, the blackest of coal sent out the clearest flames of ruddy hue from the highly-polished grates. Every room was perfect, perfect with neatness, cleanliness, order, and perfect also with a minute, but highly-finished beauty. The tiny abode hardly needed even a fairy's touch to render it more lovely, on the day Owen was expected home. On this day mother came down in the black velvet robe which had lain by for years. It was worn high to her throat, finished off at neck and wrists with Honiton. A tiny Honiton cap rested becomingly on her shining, abundant, still raven black hair. I was lying on my bed, my face flashed, my yellow locks in confusion, a rumpled cotton dress, too soiled for July, too out of season for October, adorning my person, when mother in her massive folds, her eyes bright as stars, came in. "Make yourself nice, my darling. Owen will be here before long," she said. She kissed me and went away. When she left me I jumped up, and looked at my watch. It was not yet four o'clock. Owen could not arrive before another hour. I cared nothing about my dress. I could not sit in state in the tiny drawing-room to meet Owen. I put on a winter jacket, and my hat, ran downstairs, and went out. Mother saw me from the window, and called after me, and I called back in reply-- "I shall not be long, I shall return in time for Owen." Mother turned away with a sigh. What a rebellious, thoughtless young thing I was! Of course mother wanted me. She would like to look at me in my trim, orderly, number one gown, to arrange a ribbon here and a curl there, to sigh, and smile, and talk, to hazard a thousand sweet innocent conjectures. Should we know our darling? What would he think of me? I had been such a little one when he went away! These remarks, these touches, these looks, would have helped mother through that last trying hour of suspense, that hour which, if all _has_ been well, if all _will_ be well, is still fraught with pain through its very intensity. Yes, they would have helped mother, and driven me wild. I was selfish. I went on my way. Oh! that ugly coal country, with the wintry fading light of the first November evening over it! I kicked up coal dust with my feet, and two heavy tears fell from my eyes. Yes, Owen was coming home. Even now, each moment was bringing him nearer to us. Owen was coming home, and I was unhappy. Between this hour, and the hour six weeks before, when David had broken to me one sad fact, a strange but complete revulsion had taken place within me. I was a childish creature still, childish in heart and nature; but just, perhaps, or in part, perhaps, because I _was_ so inexperienced, so immature, I had turned from my hero, I had hardened myself against the warmest love of my life. Yes, I had made a god and worshipped it. Nothing was too good for it, no homage too great to lay at its feet, no sacrifice too worthy to offer at its shrine. Mother, David, Amy, were all as nothing in comparison of this my hero. My dream lasted through my childhood and early youth, then suddenly it vanished. My god was a clay god, my idol was dust. Owen Morgan still lived. Owen Morgan was coming back to his mother, brother, sister, but my perfect Owen was dead. A man who had sinned, who had brought disgrace on us, was coming home to-day. More and more as the time drew nearer I had shrunk from seeing, from speaking to, from touching, this altered Owen. I was intensely unmerciful, intensely severe, with the severity of the very young. No after repentance, no future deed of glory could wipe away this early stain. I had been deceived--Owen had sinned--and _my_ Owen was dead. As I walked quickly along the barren, ugly coal country, I pictured to myself what my feelings would have been to-day had this not been so. Would mother have sat alone then in her velvet and lace to meet the returning hero? Would I? ah! what would I _not_ have done to-day? I could not think of it. I dashed away another tear or two and walked on. I chose unfrequented, lonely paths, and these abounded in plenty, paths leading up to old, used-up shafts, and neglected mines; paths with thin ragged grass covering them, all equally ugly. At last I came to a huge cinder-heap, which had lain undisturbed so long, that some weak vegetation had managed now to grow up around it. Here I sat down to rest. The cinder-heap was close to the closed-up shaft of an unused pit. In this fortnight I had already learned something of mining life, and I knew where to look for the old shafts, and always examined them with curiosity. As I sat there, I heard the voices of two children, who, evidently quite unaware of my close neighbourhood, were talking eagerly together, at the other side of the cinder-heap. It was a boy's voice I heard first--high, shrill, passionate. "Yes, indeed, Nan; they'll call me a coward. No, Nan; I'll not be daunted. I will go down on Monday!" To these words the girl replied with sobs. I heard the boy kissing her; then there was silence, then the same eager voice said-- "Don't cry, Nan; Monday ain't come yet. Let's talk of something pleasant." "Don't talk at all, Miles. Let's sing." "Shall we sing `The Cross?'" "I don't--no, I do care. Yes, we'll sing that." There was a pause, then two sweet, wild voices took up the following words to a plaintive Welsh air:-- "The cross! the cross! the heavy cross! The Saviour bore for me! Which bowed Him to the earth with grief, On sad Mount Calvary. "How light, how light, this precious cross Presented now to me; And if with care I take it up, Behold a crown for me!" Here the voices ceased suddenly, and I again heard a kiss of comfort, and the sound of a girl's sob. I could bear no more. I started to my feet, ran round the cinder-heap, and confronted the children. "Please don't be frightened! I heard you sing. I want you to sing again. I want to know what's the matter. I'm Gwladys Morgan--you may have heard of me; my brother is going to manage the mine at Ffynon." Two pairs of black eyes were raised to my face, then the boy rose slowly to his feet, came forward a step or two, and after gazing at me with the most searching, penetrating glance I had ever been favoured with, said brightly, as if satisfied with the result of his scrutiny-- "I'm Miles, and this is little Nan." "And father works down in the mine," said little Nan. "Father's name is Moses Thomas--he's deputy," said the boy again, in a proud tone. "Go on," I said, seating myself close to the children; "tell me all about yourselves. I'm so glad I've met you. I am sure we shall be friends. I like you both already. Now you must let me know your whole story, from beginning to end; only first, do, _do_ sing that lovely hymn again." "I'll sing, Miss Morgan," said the boy, instantly; "but you'll forgive little Nan; little Nan's in trouble, and her voice ain't steady." Throwing back his head, looking straight before him, and clasping his hands round his knee, he sang to the same wild measure the next verse of the Methodist hymn:-- "The crown! the crown! the glorious crown! A crown of life for me. This crown of life it shall be mine, When Jesus I shall see." "When Jesus I shall see," he repeated, under his breath, looking at the girl as he spoke. As the children looked at each other they seemed to have forgotten my presence. "What's the cross you've got to bear? Nan," I asked. An old-fashioned, troubled, anxious face was raised to mine; but it was Miles who answered. "'Tis just this, Miss Morgan: 'tis nothing to fret about. I've got to go down into the mine to work on Monday. I've never been into the mine before, and little Nan's rare and timmersome; but I says to her that she's faithless. She knows, and I know, that the Lord'll be down in the mine too. 'Tis none so dark down there but He'll find me h'out, and take care on me." "He didn't find out Stephie," sobbed Nan, all her composure giving way. "He took no care on Stephie." "What is it?" I said; "do tell me about it; and who is Stephie? Miles." "Stephie is dead, Miss Morgan. There's only us two now--only us and father. Mother died arter Stephie went; she fretted a good bit, and she died too; and then there was Nan, and me, and father. We lives near Ffynon Mine, and father's deputy; and we're none so rich, and father works rare and 'ard; and he don't get much money, 'cause the times is bad; and I'm fourteen, and I'm very strong, and I says I should work." "No--no--no!" here screamed the girl, forgetting, in a perfect paroxysm of fright and grief, the presence of the stranger. She clasped her arms round the boy's neck, and her white lips worked convulsively. "There it is," said Miles; "she's sure set agen it, and yet it must be." Then bending down and speaking in a low voice, in her ear. "Shall I tell the lady about Stephie? Nan." "Yes," said Nan, unloosing her hold, and looking up into his face with a sigh. She had the scared look in her wild, bright eyes, I have seen in the hunted hare, when he flew past me--dogs and horsemen in full pursuit. Now she buried her head in her brother's rough jacket, with the momentary relief which the telling of Stephie's story would give to the tension of her fears. "Tell me about Stephie," I said. "Stephie," continued Miles--"he was our brother. Mother set great store by Stephie; he was so strong, and big, and brave. Nothing 'ud daunt 'im. Many of the lads about 'ere 'ud try; and they'd say, `Wait till the day you goes down inter the mine, and you'll show the white feather'; but he--he larfed at 'em. He 'ad no fear in 'im, and h'all the stories 'bout fire-damp, and h'all the other dangers--and worse'rn all, the ghosts of the colliers as died in the mine, they couldn't daunt him. Other lads 'ud run away, wen they come near the h'age; but he--he on'y counted the days; and `Mother,' 'e'd say--for mother war werry weakly--`Mother, wen you 'as my wage, you can buy this thing and t'other thing, and you'll be strong in no time.' Well, mother she thought a sight on Stephie, and she never wanted 'im to go down inter the mine; and she used to ask father to try and 'prentice 'im to another trade, for he war so big, and bright, and clever; but the times was bad, and father couldn't, so Stephie had to go. He _was_ clever, and fond o' readin', and a man wot lived near, lent 'im books, real minin' books, and he knew 'bout the dangers well as anybody; but nothing could daunt Stephie, and he often said that he'd work and work, and rise hisself; and he'd try then ef he couldn't find h'out something as 'ud help to lessen the danger for the colliers. At last the day came wen he was to go down." Here Miles paused, drew a long breath, and little Nan buried her head yet farther into his rough jacket. He stooped to kiss her, then raising his head, and fixing his eyes on my face, he continued. "The day 'ad come, and Stephie got h'up very early in the mornin', and he put on 'is collier's dress, and we h'all got up--Nan and h'all; and mother she give 'im 'is breakfast. Well, he was standin' by the fire, and mother's 'and on 'is shoulder, and 'er eyes on 'is face, when father, he came. "Father had h'always promised to go down the first time wid Stephie, and show 'im the mine, and put 'im wid someone as 'nd learn 'im 'is work; but now he said, `Stephie, lad, I can't go down till night. I 'as 'ad a sudden call elsewhere, so thee 'ad better wait, lad;' but Stephie answered, `No, father; there's poor little James, Black William's son, and he's going down too, to-day; and he's rare and daunted, and I ain't a bit; and Black William said as he might stay along wid me the first day, so I must go, father, and Black William ull take care on us both;' then father, he said no more--on'y mother, she cried and begged Stephie to wait. And he looked at 'er amost scornful, for h'all he loved her so; and he said, `Does _thee_ tell me to forsake the little sickly lad?' Then he kissed mother, and he kissed little Nan, and waved his hand back at 'em, and set off running to the bank, and I ran wid 'im, and he said to me, `Miles, lad, don't you h'ever be daunted when your turn comes to go down, for God takes care of h'everybody, in the earth and on the earth--'tis all the same to God.' Then he stepped on to the cage, and gripped the hand of little James, who was shakin' fit to drop, and he called h'out to me--`Tell mother as I'll be coming up wid the day crew, and to 'ave supper ready, for I'll be very 'ungry,' and the other colliers larfed to 'ear 'im so 'arty. "Well, Miss Morgan, that day mother war stronger nor ordinary, and she cleaned and scrubbed the floor, and when evening came, she got a rare and good bit of supper ready, and just wen we was looking h'out for Stephie, and mother had put a rough towel, and water in the tub, ready for him to wash hisself, who should come runnin' in but the wife of Black Bill, h'all crazy like, and 'ringin' 'er 'hands; and she said there had been a gas explosion, and h'every livin' soul in the mine was dead." Here Miles paused; speaking again in a moment, more slowly. "_That_ wasn't true. A few did escape, and was brought up next day. But Black Bill was dead, and Stephie, and little James. Black Bill was found all burnt dreadful; but Stephie and little James--it was the after-damp had done for them. They was found in one of the stalls; Stephie's arms round the little lad." Another long pause. "Mother, she never held up her head--she died three months later, and now there's on'y Nan, and father, and me. Nan is such a careful little body, and keeps the house so trim." "You are not afraid to go down into the mine?" I said. "Well, miss, it is a bit of a cross; partic'lar as it cuts up the little 'un so; but, good gracious! it ain't nothin'; there ain't bin a h'accident for h'ages--and _I_ ain't daunted." "When are you going down?" "On Monday, Miss Morgan." "Little Nan," I said, turning to the child, "I mean to come to see you at your own house on Monday. You may expect me, for I shall be sure to come; and I'll bring you pictures--lots; and if you like, I can show you how to colour them." I thought this offer must charm Nan, and make her forget the terrors of the mine; but it did not. She looked gravely, almost fretfully at me, and it was Miles who said, "Thank you." "I must go now," I said, jumping to my feet. "I have stayed too long already; but I'm very glad I have met you, Miles, and Nan. I think your Stephie a real, real hero; and, Miles, I _love_ you for being so brave, and I should like, beyond anything, to shake hands with you, and to kiss little Nan." After clasping a small brown hand, and pressing a warm salute on two trembling lips, I started home. The children's story had excited me, and warmed my heart. For the present it absorbed my thoughts, even to the exclusion of Owen. I said I would do much for these two. This boy and girl, so lonely, so interesting, with their tragic story and tragic life, should find in me a benefactor and friend. The thought was delicious and exhilarating. David, through my intervention, should rescue Miles from the miner's life, and relieve the timid little sister from her worst fears. My spirits rose high as I contemplated this event, which a word from my lips could bring about. I entered the house humming the wild sweet air which the children had set to their Methodist hymn. The music of my voice was greeted by the richer music of gay and happy laughter. I stood motionless in the hall. My heart almost ceased to beat, then bounded on wildly. The colour fled from my cheeks and lips, returning in a moment in a full tide of richest crimson. I could have given way then. I could have rushed to Owen's side, thrown my arms round his neck, and wept out on his breast, a whole flood of healing and forgiving tears. Had I done so, my soul would have been knit to his with a love strong as the old love was weak--noble as the old passionate affection was erring and idolatrous; but I did not. I conquered the emotion, which the sound of his voice, and his laughter, had stirred within me. I told myself that _that_ was not my Owen--mine, my hero was dead. Untidy, pale, agitated, but unforgiving, I opened the drawing-room door and went in. David, mother, and Owen, were standing in a loving, happy group. I went up to the group--they had not heard me come in--and touched Owen on the sleeve, and said, in a quiet voice, "Welcome home, brother." For an instant two bright, dark eyes looked expectantly into mine--one instant the brilliant eyes wore that look--one instant after, they were blank with disappointment. Then all was commonplace--a commonplace, but affectionate brother's kiss was on my cheek, and a gay voice said, laughingly-- "Why, Gwladys, you're as wild and disreputable-looking a little romp as ever." CHAPTER NINE. EARTH--AIR--FIRE--WATER. Whether Owen had come back, in my opinion, a hero, or an unpardoned and disgraced man, appeared after his first swift glance into my face to affect him very little, if at all; and I had to admit to myself that whatever else he may have failed in, he had arrived at Ffynon with a full knowledge of the duty which he had undertaken. As a boy, he had always loved engineering, and when in those bright and happy days he and I had discussed his golden future, the _pros_ had generally ended in favour of his becoming an engineer. "All things considered, I should like this best, Gwladys," he would say. And though in these very youthful days he appeared to care more for poetry and the finest of the fine arts, yet it was here, I believe, that his true talent lay. Owen had not been idle during the four years of his exile, he had studied engineering as a profession when he was at Oxford, and during these years he had gone through a course of practical training with regard to the duties of a mining engineer, not only in the German mines, but in the North of England. He now brought this knowledge to bear on the rather slow working and unprofitable mine at Ffynon. This mine, which belonged to our mother, had at one time yielded a great deal of coal and was a source of much wealth, but of late, year by year, the mine yielded less, and its expenses became greater. It was worked on an old-fashioned system; it had not the recent improvements with regard to ventilation; and many serious accidents had taken place in consequence. Neither was the manager popular, he worked the mine recklessly, and many accidents of the most fatal character were constantly taking place from the falls of roofs, this expression meaning the giving way of great portions of the coal for want of proper supports being put under it. A short time before Owen's return, the manager of the mine for some more flagrant act of carelessness than usual, had been dismissed, and it was on hearing this, that Owen had written to David, telling him of his studies and his profession, reminding him also that when a boy he had more than once gone down into the old mine at Ffynon, that with his present knowledge he believed the mine to be still rich in coal, and that it only needed to be properly worked to yield a fine return. He spoke strongly against the unprofitable and expensive system which had hitherto been adopted; and finally he begged of David to give him permission to step into the manager's shoes, and for at least a year to have absolute control of the mine: promising at the end of that time to reduce order out of chaos, to lessen current expenses, and to bring in the first instalments of what should be large profits. He had frankly told David his reason for this: he had a debt to pay, a debt of love and gratitude it was true, but still a debt that fretted his proud spirit, a debt that must be paid before he could know happiness again. But it was just on account of this reason that David hesitated to accept the services of one whose knowledge of the work he meant to undertake, was certainly great. The primary motive in Owen's heart, seemed to David, in the present state of Ffynon mine, hardly a worthy one. Coal was valuable, gold scarce, but lives were precious; it seemed to David that until all was done to insure the safety of the lives of those men and boys who worked in the mine, gold ought to weigh very low in the balance, and as he alone of us all knew something truly of his brother's character, so he hesitated to accept his offer; but while David hesitated, mother urged. Mother was ignorant of the miner's life; gold to mother was not valueless: she had dreams of the Morgans being restored to all their former riches and power, she had also, notwithstanding his one fall, still implicit faith in Owen. Owen would not only win the gold but make the mine safe. It was a grief to her to leave Tynycymmer, but it was a counterbalancing delight to live on any terms for a year with her favourite son; she urged the acceptance of his offer. Thus urged, David yielded. We moved to Ffynon. Owen arrived, eager, hopeful, enthusiastic, as of old. Handsome and brilliant as ever he looked as gay as though he had never known a sorrow. So I thought for the first week after his arrival, then I saw that his spirits were fitful, sometimes I fancied a little forced; a bad report of the mine would depress him for the day, whereas good news would send his gay laugh echoing all over the small house. Thus I found myself in the midst of mining life. Mother, hitherto profoundly ignorant of such matters, now took up the popular theme with interest and zest. She and I learned what _fire-damp_, _black-damp_, _after-damp_ meant. We learned the relative destructiveness of explosions by gas and inundations by water. Then we became great on the all-important subject of ventilation. We knew what the steam jet could do, what furnace ventilation could effect. I admired the Davy lamps, learned something of their construction, and at last, I obtained the strongest wish I at present possessed, namely, a visit to this underground region of awe and danger, myself. It is a hackneyed theme, and I need scarcely describe it at length. I remember stepping on to the cage with some of the enthusiasm which I had admired in Miles' brave hero brother, and long before I reached the bottom of the shaft, suffering from an intolerable sense of suffocation, and shivering and shaking with inward fear, such as must have overtaken poor little James on that fatal day. Finally, when I got to the bottom, recovering my courage, rejoicing in the free current of fresh air which was blown down from the great fan above, growing accustomed to the dim light of the Davy lamps, and then discovering little, by little, that the mine with its rail-roads, its levels, its drift ways, where the loaded trams of coal ran swiftly down, impelled by their own weight, its eager, grimy workers, its patient horses, destined many of them to live and die in this underground gloom, was very like a town, and had an order and method of its own. The knowledge gained by the visit, the knowledge gained by listening to Owen's and David's conversation, the knowledge perhaps greater than all, which I had won by my friendship for Miles and Nan, inspired in me the strongest respect and admiration for the brave collier. He works in the dark, his heroic deeds are little heard of beyond his own circle, and yet he is as true a hero as the soldier in the field of battle or the sailor in the storm: his battle-field is the mine, his enemies, earth, air, fire, and water. Any moment the earth can bury him in a living tomb, a vast quantity of that solid coal may give way, and crush him beneath its weight; any instant, the air, in the poisoned form of black, or after-damp, may fill his lungs, take all power from his limbs, fell him in his strength and prime to the earth, and leave him there dead; or in half an instant, through the explosion of a match, the wrong adjustment of a safety-lamp, the whole mine may from end to end become a cavern of lurid fire, destroying every living thing within its reach. Or one stroke too many of the miner's pick, may let in a volume of black and stagnant water from an unused and forgotten pit, which rising slowly at first, then gaining, in volume, in strength, in rapidity, buries the miners in a watery grave of horrible and loathsome desolation. Yes, the miners are brave; for small pay they toll unremittingly, labouring in the dark, exposed to many dangers. Day by day these men go down into the mines literally with their lives in their hands. The wives, mothers, sisters, know well what the non-arrival of a husband, father, brother means. They hope a little, fear much, weep over the mangled remains when they can even have that poor source of consolation, and then the widow who has lost her husband, dries her eyes, puts her shoulder to the wheel, and like a true Spartan woman, when his turn comes, sends down her boy to follow in his father's steps, and, if God wills it, to die bravely, as his father died before him. I visited the schools about Ffynon, and noticed the bright dark-eyed, Welsh children, each boy among them destined to become a collier as he grew up. Many of these boys shrank from it, struggled against it, feared it as a coming nightmare; some few, as the dreaded time drew near, ran away to sea, preferring the giving up of father and mother, and encountering the hardships of the sea, to the greater hardships of the mine, but most of them yielded to the inevitable fate. I found, too, on observation that the colliers of Ffynon were a religious people; the sentiments I had heard in astonishment and almost awe dropping from the lips of little Miles, I found were the sentiments rather of the many than the few. They lived an intense life, and they needed, and certainly possessed, an intense faith. The body of them were not Church people; they had a simple and impassioned service of their own, generally held in the Welsh tongue. At these services they prayed and sang and listened to fervent addresses. At these services, after an accident, slight or great, the men and women often bowed their heads and wept. Their services were alive and warm, breathing the very breath of devotion, suited to their untrained, but strong natures. They left them with the sense of a present God alive in each heart; a God who would go with them into the mine, who would accompany them through the daily toil and danger, and, if need be, and His will called them, would carry them safely, even in a chariot of fire, into the Golden City. To the religious miner, the descriptions of Heaven as written in the Apocalypse, were the very life of his life. He loved to sit by his fire on Sunday evenings, and slowly read from the well-worn page to his listening wife, and his lads and lasses, of the city sparkling with gems and rich with gold. To the man who toiled in the deepest of darkness, a land without night or shadow was a theme of rapture. To the man who knew danger and pain, who fought every day with grim death, that painless shore, that eternal calm, that home where father, mother, brother, sister, rudely parted and torn asunder here, should be together, and God with them, was as an anchor to his soul. No place on earth could be more real and present than Heaven was to the religious collier. Take it from him, and he could do no more work in the dark and dangerous mine; leave it with him, and he was a hero. The colliers had one proud motto, one badge of honour, which each father bequeathed as his most precious possession to his son--this motto was "Bravery;" one stigma of everlasting disgrace which, once earned, nothing could wipe out, "Cowardice." In the collier's creed _no_ stone was too heavy to roll away to rescue a brother from danger. Into the midst of the fire and the flood, into the fatal air of the after-damp, they must go without shrinking to save a companion who had fallen a victim to these dangers. Each man as he toiled to rescue his fellow man, knew well that he in his turn, would risk life itself for him. No man reflected credit on himself for this, no man regarded it as other than his most simple and obvious duty. Into the midst of this simple, brave, and in many ways noble people, came Owen with his science and his skill. He went down into the mine day after day, quickly mastered its intricacies, quickly discovered its defects, quickly lighted upon its still vast stores of unused treasures. At the end of a month he communicated the result to David. I was seated by the open window, and I heard, in detached sentences, something of what was spoken, as the brothers paced the little plot of ground outside, arm in arm. As I watched them, I noticed for the first time some of the old look of confidence and passion on Owen's face. The expressive eyes revealed this fact to me--the full hazel irids, the pupils instinct with fire, the whole eyes brimming with a long-lost gladness, proclaimed to me that the daring, the ambition I had loved, was not dead. "Give me but a year, David," I heard him say in conclusion. "Give me but one year, and I shall see my way to it. In a year from this time, if you but give me permission to do as I think best, the mine shall begin to pay you back what I have lost to you!" David's voice, in direct contrast to Owen's, was deep and sad. "I don't want that," he said, laying his hand on his brother's arm, "I want something else." "What?" asked Owen. "I want something else," continued David. "This is it. Owen, I want you to help me to fulfil a duty, a much neglected duty. I take myself to task very much for the gross way I have passed it by hitherto. God knows it was my ignorance, not my wilful neglect, but I ought to have known; this is no real excuse. Owen, I have lived contented at Tynycymmer, and forgotten, or almost forgotten, this old mine. I left things in the hands of the manager; I received the money it brought without either thought or comment. And all the time, God help me, the place was behind its neighbours. I had not much money to expend on it, and I was content it should be worked on the old system, never thinking, never calculating, that the old system involved danger and loss of life. The mine is not ventilated as the other mines are; in no mine in the neighbourhood do so many deaths occur. You yourself have discovered it to be full of many dangers. So, Owen, what I ask of you is this, help me to lift this sin of my neglect off my soul. I don't want the money, Owen; it is enough for me, it is more than enough, to see you as you now are; the money, I repeat, is a thing to me of no value, but the people's lives are of much. I can and will raise the sum you require to put the mine into a state of safety, to perfect the ventilation, to do all that can be done to lessen the danger for the colliers. Do your part in this as quickly as possible, Owen, and let us think nothing of money gains for the present." While David was speaking, Owen had again drawn a veil of perfect immobility over his face. Impossible, with this veil on, to guess his thoughts, or fathom his feelings. "Of course, of course," he said, "the ventilation shall be improved and all that is necessary done." CHAPTER TEN. LITTLE TWENTY. I had not forgotten my promise to visit Nan on the day her brother first went down into the mine. I selected a bundle of illustrated papers--some old copies of _Punch_-- as, judging from the delight I took in them myself, I hoped they would make little Nan laugh. I also put a sixpenny box of paints into my pocket. These sixpenny paint-boxes were the most delightful things the Tynycymmer children had ever seen, so, doubtless, they would look equally nice in the eyes of Nan. The Thomas's cottage was one of a row that stood just over the pit bank. I ascended the rather steep hill which led to it, entered the narrow path which ran in front of the whole row of houses, and where many women were now hanging out clothes to dry, and knocked at Nan's door. She did not hear me; she was moving briskly about within, and singing to her work. Her voice sounded happy, and the Welsh words and Welsh air were gay. I knocked a second time, then went in. "I am so glad to hear you singing, Nan," I said. "I was sure you would be in trouble, for I thought Miles had gone into the mine to-day!" Little Nan was arranging some crockery on the white dresser. She stopped at the sound of my voice, and turned round with the large china tea-pot in her hand. When I had seen her on Saturday, seated weeping on the old cinder-heap, I had regarded her as a very little child. Now I perceived my mistake. Nan was no child; she was a miniature woman. I began to doubt what effect my copies of _Punch_ and my sixpenny paints would produce on this odd mixture; more particularly when she said, in a quiet old-fashioned voice--"But he did go into the mine, Miss Morgan; Miles went down the shaft at five o'clock this mornin'." "You take it very calmly when the time comes," I continued; "I thought you would have been in a terrible state." "Yes, ain't I easy," said Nan, "I never thought as the Lord 'ud help me like this; why, I ain't frighted at all." "But there's just as much danger as ever there was," I said. "Your not being frightened does not make it at all safer for Miles down in the pit." I made this remark, knowing that it was both unkind and disagreeable; but I was disappointed; I had meant to turn comforter--I was provoked to find my services unnecessary. "There ain't no danger to-day," replied Nan, to my last pleasant assurance. "How can you say that?" I asked. "'Cause the Lord revealed it to me in a dream." Now I, too, believed in dreams. I was as superstitious as the most superstitious Welsh girl could possibly be. Gwen, my isolated life, my Welsh descent, had all made me this; it was, therefore, with considerable delight, that, just when I was beginning to place Nan very low in my category of friends, I found that I could claim her for a kindred spirit. "You are a very odd little girl," I said; "but I'm sure I _shall_ like you. See! I've brought you _Punch_, and the _Illustrated News_, and a box of paints, and _perhaps_ I shall show you how to colour these pictures, as the children did at Tynycymmer." Then I seated myself uninvited, and unrolled my treasures; my newspapers, my copies of _Punch_, my paint-box with the lid off, were all revealed to Nan's wondering eyes. "Get me a saucer and a cup of water," I said, "and I'll show you how to colour this picture, and then you can pin it up against the wall for your father to see when he comes home." "If you please, miss," said Nan, dropping a little curtsey, and then coming forward and examining the print in question with a critical eye, "if you please, miss, I'd rayther not." "What do you mean?" I said. "Well, miss, I'm very gratified to you; but, father, he don't like pictures pasted up on the walls, and, indeed, Miss Morgan," getting very red, her sloe-black eyes gleaming rather angrily, "I 'as no time for such child's play as lookin' at pictures, and colourin' of 'em, and makin' messes in cups and plates. I 'as enough to do to wash h'up the cups and saucers as is used for cookin', and keepin' the house tidy, and makin' the money go as far and as comfort as possible. I'm very gratified to you, miss; but I 'as no time for that nonsense. I ain't such a baby as I looks." As little Nan spoke, she grew in my eyes tall and womanly, while I felt myself getting smaller and smaller, in fact, taking the place I had hitherto allotted to her. I rolled up my despised goods hastily, rose to my feet, and spoke-- "You are not half as nice as you looked. I am very sorry that I disturbed so busy and important a person. As I see you don't want me, I shall wish you good morning." I had nearly reached the door, when Nan ran after me, laid her hand on my arm, and looked into my face with her eyes full of tears. "I ain't a wishin' you to go," she said, "I wants you to set down and talk to me woman-like." "How old are you? you strange creature," I said; but I was restored to good humour, and sat down willingly enough. "I'm ten," said Nan, "I'm small for my h'age, I know." "You are, indeed, small for your age," I said, "and your age is very small. Why, Nan, whatever you may pretend about it, you are a baby." "No, I ain't," said Nan, gravely and solemnly, "it ain't years only as makes us babies or womans, 'tis--" "What?" I said, "do go on." "Well, miss, I b'lieves as 'tis anxiety. Miles says as I has a very h'anxious mind. He says I takes it from mother, and that ages one up awful." "I've no doubt of it," I said. "I've felt it myself, 'tis overpowering." "I don't think you knows it much, miss," said Nan. "I should say from the looks o' you, that you was much younger nor me." "Mind what you're about," I said, "I'm sixteen--a young lady full grown. But come, now, Nan, with all your anxiety, you were merry enough when I came in--you did sing out in such a jolly style,--I thought you such a dear little thing; I did not know you were an old croak." "Why yes," said Nan, half-smiling, and inclined to resume her song, "I'm as light as a feather this mornin', that's the Lord's doing." "What did the Lord do for you, Nan?" "He sent me a token, miss, as sure as sure could be, and it came just in the minute before waking." "What was it?" I repeated, for little Nan had paused, her face had grown soft and almost beautiful; the hard unpleasing lines of care and anxiety had vanished, and in their stead, behold! the eyes were full of love and faith, the lips tender, trustful, but withal, triumphant. "I was sore fretted," she began, "as father couldn't go down with Miles; he had to stay to go ever the mine with the strange gentleman as is to be manager, and Miles going down h'all alone, reminded me sore of Stephie. And I was frettin', frettin', frettin', and the prayers, nor the hymns, nor nothing, couldn't do me no good, and Miles hisself, at last, he were fain to be vexed with me, and when I went to bed my heart was h'all like a lump o' lead, and I felt up to forty, at the very least, and then it was that the Lord saw the burden was too big for me, and He sent me the dream." "What was it? Nan." "I thought, miss, as I seed the Lord Hisself, all pitiful and of tender mercy. I seed Him as plain as I sees you, and He looked me through and through, very sorrowful, as I shouldn't trust Him, and Miles, he was standin' on the cage, just afore it went down, and there was an empty place near Miles, and I saw that every one had their comrade and friend with them, 'cept Miles; and then the Lord, He went and stood by Miles, on the empty space, and He put His arm round Miles, and he looked at me, and I saw the Lord and Miles going down into the dark, dark pit together." "I'm sure that was true," I said, "that was very much what Miles said himself, don't you remember? You were much better after your dream, were you not? Nan." "Yes, miss, I was light and easy in my mind, as if I was twenty!" "What _do_ you mean, now?" I said. "Well, Miss Morgan, I can't help it. I know I'm queer, the folks all say I'm queer. I know I haven't h'aged with my years. Sometimes, miss, the anxiety brings me up to fifty, and I feels my hair's a-turnin' white; then again, I'm thirty, and forty; most times I feels like thirty, but now and then, as to-day, the Lord gives me a special revelation, and then, why, I'm as light as a feather, and down to twenty, but I'm never below that, miss." And yet I meant to offer that creature toys! Such was my mental comment, but before I could speak again, the door was opened, and a tall man--coal-black--with gleaming eyeballs, and snowy teeth, came in. He took no notice of me, perhaps he did not see me, but in passing through to another room, he called out in a full cheery voice-- "I say, little lass, how do you feel?" "Fine, father, down to twenty." "Well, Twenty, bustle about, and get me some dinner; I'll be ready for it in ten minutes." "I must go away now," I said, rising. "No, miss, that you mustn't; I wants you to see father. Father's a wonderful man, Miss Morgan, he have had a sight o' trouble one way and t'other, and he's up to fifty in years; but the Lord, He keeps him that strong and full o' faith, he never passes thirty, in his mind; but there, what a chatterbox I am, and father a wantin' his dinner!" The old-fashioned mortal moved away, laid a coarse but clean cloth on a small table, dished up some bacon and potatoes in a masterly manner, and placed beside them a tin vessel--which, she informed me, was a miner's "jack"--full of cold tea. "Father will never go down into the mine without his jack o' tea," she explained; and just then the miner, his face and hands restored to their natural hue, came in. "Father," said Nan, in quite a stately fashion, "this lady is Miss Morgan; she's a very kind lady, and she spoke good words to Miles o' Saturday." "Mornin', miss," said the miner, pulling his front lock of hair, "I'm proud to see you, miss, and that I am; and now, lass," turning to his daughter, "you'll have no call to be anxious now no more, for this young lady's brother was h'all over the mine this mornin', and he and Squire Morgan promises that all that is right shall be done, and the place made as snug and tight as possible. That young gentleman, miss," again addressing me, "is very sharp; _he_ knows wot he's about, that he do!" "Is the mine dangerous?" I asked. "No, no," said the collier, winking impressively at me, while Nan was helping herself to a potato, "but might be made safer, as I says, might be made safer; another shaft let down, and wentilation made more fresh. But there! praise the Lord, 'tis all to be done, and that in no time; why, that mine will be so safe in a month or two, that little Nan might go and play there, if she so minded." As the big man spoke, looking lovingly at his tiny daughter, and the daughter replied, with anxious, knitted brows, "You know, father, as I don't play," he looked the younger of the two. "No more you does, Twenty," he replied, "but even Twenty can put away her fears and sing us a song when she hears a bit of good news." "Shall I sing a hymn? father." "Well, yes, my lass, I does feel like praisin'--there, you begin, and I'll foller up." Little Nan laid down her knife and fork, fixed her dark eyes straight before her, clasped her hands, and began-- "We shall meet beyond the river, By and by, And the darkness shall be over, By and by. With the toilsome journey done, And the glorious battle won, We shall shine forth as the sun, By and by." She paused, looked at her father, who joined her in the next verse-- "We shall strike the harps of glory, By and by. We shall sing redemption's story. By and by. And the strains for evermore Shall resound in sweetness o'er Yonder everlasting shore, By and by. "We shall see and be like Jesus By and by. Who a crown of life shall give us, By and by. All the blest ones who have gone To the land of life and song, We with gladness shall rejoin By and by!" I have given the words, but I cannot describe the fervent looks that accompanied them, nor catch any echo here, of the sweet voice of the child, or the deep and earnest tones of the man. The strong spiritual life in both their natures came leaping to the surface, the man forgot the stranger by his hearth, he saw his God; the child, too, forgot her fears and her anxieties, and as she sang she became really young. CHAPTER ELEVEN. THEY TALKED OF MONEY. Since my arrival at smoky, ugly Ffynon, I had never again to complain of being buried alive. The life I led was certainly not the life I should have chosen. I was young; I had day dreams. Had the choice been mine, I should have liked, as all other young things, to win for myself either pleasure, love, or fame. But the choice was not mine; and at Ffynon, strange as it may seem, I grew more contented than I had been now for many years at Tynycymmer. I was pleased with the people, I liked their occupation, their life. I soon found interests outside myself--a grand secret--thus I grew happy. Nan and Miles soon also became my real friends: I learned to appreciate their characters, to understand them; they were alike in many ways, but in far more ways were they different. Nan had more character and more originality than Miles, but Miles had far more simple bravery than Nan. They were both religious; but Miles's religion was the least dreamy, and the most practical. On the whole, I think the boy had the grander nature, and yet I think I loved the girl best. I made many other acquaintances amongst the colliers, but these two children were my friends. In about a fortnight after Owen's return, David went back to Tynycymmer, and we settled down quietly into our new and altered life. From morning to night Owen was busy, now making engineering plans, now down in the mine. As a boy he had been dilatory and fitful in his movements, working hard one day, dreaming or idling away the next; but now this boyish character had disappeared--now all this was changed. Now he worked unremittingly, unflinchingly; he had a goal before him, and to this goal he steadily directed his steps, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. In his present plans, whatever they may have been, mother helped him. Mother gave him of her sympathy and her interest. Long ago, dearly as they loved each other, I don't think those two natures had quite met; but this was no longer so now; the same hope animated both pairs of eyes, the same feeling actuated both breasts. They had long conferences, anxious, and yet hopeful consultations; but it was less in their words than in their faces that I read that their wishes were the same. I never saw mother look happier. Her long-lost son seemed now more her son than ever. And I--had I, too, got back my Owen? had my hero returned? was this my brother, once dead to me, now alive again? Alas! no. We were friends, Owen and I; we were outwardly affectionate, outwardly all that could be wished; but the man of the world made no advances of heart and confidence to the still childish sister; and the sister was glad that this should be so. We kissed each other affectionately night and morning, we chatted familiarly, we broached a thousand gay topics, but on the old sacred ground we neither of us ventured to set our feet. After a time I concluded that Owen had really forgotten the old days; and believing this, I yet was glad. Why so? Why was my heart thus hard and unforgiving? Had my love for Owen really died? I do not think it had. Looking back on that winter now, with the light of the present, making all things clear, I believe that this was not so. I know now what was wrong: I know that I, by my pride, by the lack of all that was really noble in my affection, had set up a thin wall of ice between my brother's heart and my own. Once, I think, Owen made an effort, though a slight one, to break it down. He had been talking to my mother for an hour or more; their interview had excited him; and with the excitement still playing in his eyes he came to my side, and stood close to me as I bent down to water some plants. "Poor little girl!" he said, laying his hand on my hair, "you are very good to come and live in this poky, out-of-the-way corner of the world; but never mind, Gwladys, soon there will be plenty of money, and you can do as you like." "How soon? Owen," I said, raising my head and looking in his face. "How soon? In a year, at farthest." "Will the mine then be safe 'n a year?" The bright look left Owen's face. "What do you know of the mine? child," he laughed. "I am speaking about money." I made no reply to this, though Owen waited for it. I watered my flowers in silence, and then walked away. Yes, there was a gulf between us. I might have broken it down then--he gave me the opportunity: he showed by his manner that the old days still occupied some dim corner of his memory; the old days were not quite forgotten; but I would not break down the wall; I would not breathe on the ice with the breath of love. I walked away, and my opportunity was gone! As I did so, I thought of David's words when he begged of me to help Owen to keep in the right path; when he expressed his fears, and asked me to aid him. I did not aid him--I neglected my duty. Owen was not the only sinner. In God's sight, was he the worst? Meanwhile, in the outside world, the people of Ffynon talked of a good time coming, of freedom from danger, of improvements about to be effected, which would enable the mothers to send down their boys into the mine without fear, and would insure the return of the fathers to the children, of the husbands to their wives. Higher wages, too, and more constant employment would follow the new, safe, and profitable system, which not only would save lives, but bring a much greater proportion of coal to the surface. Thus all parties were bright and happy--all parties happy from their own point of view; but while the miners talked of safety, mother and Owen talked of money. CHAPTER TWELVE. YOU ARE CHANGED TO ME. The events in this story followed each other quickly, I must not delay in writing of them. Hitherto I have but skirted the drama, I have scarcely ventured to lift the folds of the dark curtain, but now I hesitate no longer. Here! I push back the veil, let those who will step with me beyond its kind screen. I am going into a battle-field, and the place is gloomy. Heavy with clouds is the sky, red with blood the ground, and cold with death lie the conquered, ay, and the conquerors too. But enough! my story must tell itself, the shadows must come up one by one as they will. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We were five months at Ffynon, and the dreary winter had nearly passed, a few snowdrops and crocuses were in the little garden, and all spring flowers that money could buy and care cultivate, adorned the pretty cottage within. I had been on a long rambling expedition, and had taken Nan with me, and Nan had entertained me as I liked best to be entertained, with accounts of mining life and mining danger. Strange, how when we are young, we do like stories of danger. I came back a good deal excited, for Nan had been giving me particulars, learned from her mother's lips, of the fearful accident caused in our very mine in 1856 by fire-damp, when one hundred and fourteen lives were swept in a moment into eternity. "That was a dark day for Ffynon," said Nan, "not a house without a widow in it, not a home without a dead husband or father. Mother lost her father and brother, and our Stephie was born that very night. Mother warn't twenty then, but she got old in a minute and never grew young again. Eh! dear," added the small thing, with her heavy old world sigh, "ain't it a weary world, Miss Morgan?" "Well, I don't know," I said, "you are inclined to take a dark view of life, but things will brighten, Nan. Owen is making things so delightfully safe down in the mine, that soon you'll have no cause to be anxious, and then you'll grow young, as young as me, and enjoy your life." "I'll never be younger nor twenty," said Nan, solemnly, "never; and, Miss Morgan, I can't help telling _you_ something." "Well, my dear, what is it?" "They do say, father and Miles, not to me, for they knows I'm so anxious, but I hears 'em whispering when they thinks I'm asleep o' nights. They do say that for all Mr Morgan is so keen about saving the miners, and making things safe and compact, that he have the coal pillars what supports the roof, cut all away to nothing, and the timber what's put in, in place o' the pillars, ain't thick enough. It don't sound much I know, but it means much." "What does it mean? Nan," I asked. "Why, falls o' roofs, Miss Morgan. Oh! _I_ knows the sign of 'em, but there," seeing how white my face had grown, "may be 'tis 'cause I'm an anxious thing, and they do say there's a heap more coal bin brought up, and the ventilation twice as good." I made no reply to this. I did not say another word. When we came in sight of Nan's cottage, I bade her adieu by a single-hand shake, and ran home. On the gravel sweep outside the sunny, smiling cottage, might be seen the substantial form of Gwen, and by Gwen's side, his hat off, the breeze stirring his wavy brown hair, stood Owen. Graceful, careless, happy, handsome, looked my brother, as he raised his face to kiss David's boy, who sat astride on his shoulder. The baby was kicking, laughing, crowing, stretching his arms, catching at Owen's hair, and making a thousand happy sounds, the first indications of a language he was never to learn perfectly on earth. Alas! what _did_ the baby see in the darkness, that made his face the brightest thing I ever looked at, the brightest thing I ever shall look at in this world. The sight of the baby and Gwen caused me to forget Nan's words; I ran forward eagerly and spoke eagerly. "Gwen, what a surprise! how delighted I am! have you come to stay? Oh! you darling, darling pet!" These last words were addressed to little David, whom I took out of Owen's arms, and covered with kisses. "How much he has grown! What a beauty he is!--like a little king. There! my precious lamb; go back to Owen, for I _must_ give old Gwen a hug!" Laughing heartily, Owen received him back, perched him anew on his shoulder, while I turned to Gwen, whom I nearly strangled with the vehemence of my embrace. "There! you dear old thing. _Have_ you come to live with us? Oh! how dreadfully, dreadfully I have missed you. Oh! never mind your cap. I'll quill you another border in no time. Now, are you coming to live here? Do speak, and don't look so solemn." "Dear, dear, my maid!" said Gwen, shaking herself free, and panting for breath. "Good gracious! Gwladys, my maid, I'm a bit stout, and none so young; and you did shake me awful." A pause, pant-pant, puff-puff from Gwen. "Why, there! I'm better now, and fit to cry with the joy of seeing you, my maid; but,"--with a warding-off gesture of her fat hands--"good gracious! Gwladys, don't fall on me again." A peal of laughter from Owen, in which the baby joined. "Speak," I said, solemnly; "if you don't instantly declare your intentions, and the duration of your stay, I shall _strangle_ you." "'Twas on account o' the fever," said Gwen. At these words my hands dropped to my sides, the baby's laughter ceased to float on the air, and Owen was silent. "There's nought, to be frighted at," continued Gwen, observing these signs; "on'y a case or two at the lodge, and little Maggie and Dan, the laundress's children were rather bad. The Squire said it warn't likely to spread; but it would be best to make all safe, so he sent little David and me here for a fortnight, or so. Dear heart, he was sore down in the mouth at sayin' good-bye to the baby; but I was pleased enough, Gwladys, my maid. I wanted to get a sight o' your yellow hair, and to see my mistress, and Mr Owen." "And I'm delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, Gwen," responded Owen, heartily. "I assure you I have not forgotten you. There! take baby now," he added. "I think I hear my mother calling you." When Gwen was gone, Owen, to my surprise came to my side, and drew my hand through his arm. "I want to talk to you about the baby," he said. "What a splendid fellow he is? How sad he should be blind. Somehow I never realised it before. I always knew that David's boy was without sight, but, as I say, I never took in the meaning of it until I looked into those beautiful dark eyes. Isn't David awfully cut up about it? Gwladys." "I'm not sure," I replied. "You must remember, Owen, that he is accustomed to it; and then all about baby's birth was so sad. Indeed, David does not like even to talk much about him; and when we are by, he never takes much notice, when he is brought into the room, only Gwen tells me how he comes up every night to see him, and how he kisses him-- indeed, I know he quite lives for baby." "Gwladys, I wish you would tell me about Amy? Was she worthy of that noble fellow?" I looked at Owen in surprise--surprise from a twofold cause, for the voice that brought out the unexpected and unusual words trembled. "He is the noblest fellow I know, quite," said Owen, emphatically, looking me full in the face. "What kind of woman was his wife?" "I did not know her very well," I replied. "I don't believe I cared greatly for her. Still, I am sure, Owen--yes, I _know_ that she was worthy of David." Owen turned away his face, looked on the ground; in a moment he spoke in a different tone, on a different subject. "I was quite glad to see that little bit of enthusiasm in you; you used to be a very affectionate, warm-hearted child, and I thought it had all died out." I felt my face growing crimson. I tried not to speak, then the words burst forth-- "It has not died away; I can love still." "I make no doubt of that, my dear," continued he, carelessly, "but you have not the same pleasant way of showing it." He dropped my hand and walked towards the house, but his indifferent words had renewed the feeling with which I had parted from Nan. He too might be indifferent, but at least he should know. I would tell him Nan's words. "Owen, I want to ask you a question." "Well!" turning round, and leaning his graceful figure against the porch. "We are going to be rich again, before long?" "Perhaps; I cannot say." "But you are getting up a lot of coal now out of the mine?" "Certainly; the weekly supply is nearly double what it was six months ago." "Then of course we must be rich before long?" "There is the possibility, but mines are uncertain things." A pause, a scarcely suppressed yawn, then Owen turned on his heel. "I am going in, Gwladys; I don't care to talk business out of business hours, and I want to have a chat with mother." His tone of easy indifference, coming so soon after seeing Nan's suffering face, and hearing her words of intense anxiety, half maddened me. I know I forgot myself. I ran forward and caught his arm, and made him look me full in the face. No fear then, as he gazed at my crimsoning cheek and angry eye, that he should say I lacked my childhood's enthusiasm. "You are not going in yet," I said, "for I have got something to say to you--something, I repeat, which I _will_ say. You need not pretend to me, Owen, that we are not getting rich, for I _know_ we are. But I ask you one question, Is it right that we should have this money at the risk of the colliers' lives? is it right, in order that we should have a little more gold, that the coal pillars should be cut away, until the roofs are in danger of falling? and is it right that the timber supports should be made thinner than is safe? All this adds to our money, Owen; is it right that we should grow rich in that way?" "Good God! Gwladys;" a pause, then vehemently, "How dare you say such things to me! who has been telling you such lies?" "I won't mention the name of the person who has told me the truth, but I have heard it through the colliers; the colliers themselves are speaking of it." Owen covered his face with his hand; he was trembling, but whether with anger or pain, I could not say. I stood silent, waiting for him to speak; he did not, perhaps for two minutes; those minutes watching his trembling hand, seemed like twenty. "You and the colliers have both made a mistake," he said then; "they have exaggerated notions of the necessary thickness of the coal pillars. I never have them worked beyond what is safe. As to the timber supports, they are measured with the nicest mathematical accuracy. You and they both forget that I am an engineer, that I work the mine with a knowledge which they cannot possess. Good God! to think that I am capable of risking willingly men's lives to win gold; to think that _you_, Gwladys, should believe me capable of it; but you are not what you were. Once, such words could never have been said to _you_ of _me_. You are changed to me utterly, and I am _utterly_ disappointed in you." He pushed his hat over his eyes, and before I could reply was several paces away, walking rapidly in the direction of the still romantic and once beautiful Rhoda Vale. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. PRIDE'S PIT. During the long and dull winter months which preceded this spring, I had been gradually, yet surely, sinking into a state of indifference about Owen. What had commenced with a sense of poignant pain, had by this time subsided into at most an uncomfortable feeling of dissatisfaction. I knew there was a chord in my heart which when struck could set my whole nature out of tune. But was it not possible, in the airs which life played, she might leave this harsh note unsounded? This possibility took place. During the winter months mother, Owen, and I spent together, I grew accustomed to being near and yet far from him. Our little home was very bright, a cloud which I had but dimly and unawares partaken in for years, had been removed. Why should not I too enjoy this season of serenity and bliss? Calling pride to my aid, I did enjoy it. I even loved Owen, not in the old way, but with a very considerable affection. I tried to forget all the past, to give him a place in my heart beside mother and David. And in a measure I was successful, in a measure I put out of sight the ugly cloud, the dark disappointment which had shattered my air castle, and made my childhood's hero dust. So by the hearth on winter evenings, I listened to brilliant stories from Owen's lips, stories of his foreign experience, of things he had learned when studying in the German mines; tales of adventure, funny nothings dropped from his lips at these times, pleasant things to listen to, and to think of afterwards, when I lay curled up in my warmly-curtained bed. But though Owen's mind directed his words at these times, imagination supplying the needful colour, a due sense of either absurdity or pathos supplying the necessary point, a musical voice adding intensity to the narrative; yet I think he waited until I had gone to bed, to let his heart speak. Then how near may mother and he have drawn, how truly, in a figurative sense, did the hand of one take the hand of the other, did the soul of one respond to the soul of the other, as they whispered of hopes and fears, of a dark past to be atoned for and wiped away by a bright future! For never, never once during the winter, did Owen's heart speak to my heart; never, until now, to-day--now, when it leaped up into his eyes, and addressed me with a passionate cry of pain. My whole heart responded to those words, to that bitter cry; trembling I ran up to my room and locked myself in, trembling I threw myself on my bed, fought and wrestled for a few moments with my tears, then let them come. Strange as it may seem, my tears flowed with as much pleasure as sorrow. I had made a discovery in that bitter moment. Owen still loved me. Owen had not forgotten the old days. This was a pleasure to me, this was a joy, greater than my pain; for I had made so sure that it had all passed from him, all the old happy life, the old day dreams. Now, for the first time, holding my hands before my burning, tear-dimmed eyes, did it occur to me, that _I too had sinned_. Owen had not forgotten me, that was plain; perhaps during the sad years of his exile, some of his softest and best thoughts had been given to the child, whose warm love, whose quick appreciation and sympathy, whose unselfish attentions had won so much from him in his boyhood and youth. However or in whatever way he had sinned, he had never forgotten his home or his own people; as soon as possible he had returned to them, not to idle, but to work, and so to work that he might atone for the past. No, Owen had not returned perfect, but was I perfect? How had I treated him--with any true love, with any real sympathy? Alas! he had looked for it, and had been--he himself told me to-day--bitterly disappointed. And of what had I not accused him? How I admired him with something of the old admiration, something of the old hero-worship, as the stinging words of indignant denial dropped from his lips. _He_ do so base, so cruel, so wicked a thing! how could I possibly so misunderstand him! I sat up on my bed, I wished earnestly then to put Owen in the right, and myself in the wrong, but try as I would, I could not quite come to this wished-for conclusion. Nan's words had not been the only hints I had received. I saw daring the winter months, that the great popularity with which Owen had been received on his first arrival, had hardly abated, but still was clouded and tempered with a scarcely perceptible tone of dissatisfaction. The last manager had been most inefficient; in his time the mine was badly worked, it also was dangerous. Owen had begun promptly to remedy both these defects. The question now was, which did he care most for, the gold he would win from the mine, or the safety he would secure for the people? and the evil thought, kept coming and coming, he thinks most of the gold, he values the gold more than the lives of the men! This evil thought had been with me for weeks past; not stirring into active life, lying, indeed, so dormant that it scarcely gave me pain, but none the less had it been there. And now, to-day, this living thing had leaped to the surface of my mind, had trembled in my voice and glittered in my eye, and I had accused Owen of what I suspected. With what an agony of pain, and yet joy, I recalled his unfeigned anger, distress, reproach, that _I_ should think of him so, that any one could accuse him of so base an act. As I recalled his look, his face, his words, the old love which I had thought dead, came surging back. I had, I must have been mistaken; the colliers and I both, in our ignorance, had misunderstood Owen, the safety of their lives _was_ his first consideration. But what an unaccommodating thing is memory! how impossible it is to make her fit herself to existing circumstances, what ugly tricks she was playing me now! Event after event, each small in themselves, came crowding up before me, pointing every one of them with inexorable finger to one fact. Of wilful and purposeful neglect it would be wrong to accuse Owen. He wished to do all in his power to secure the safety of the colliers' lives, but money in his heart of hearts ranked first. I found at last a solution of the problem which relieved my pain, without satisfying me. Owen wished to do right, he meant to do right; but the easy carelessness which had characterised his boyhood had not deserted his manhood. He meant to do well for the colliers, but careless of danger for himself, he might be for them also; and yet, how fatal and disastrous, now and then, were the effects of carelessness! At this moment one very prominent instance of Owen's want of thought rose before me. There was an old used-up mine, known in the country by the name of Pride's Pit, which adjoined the mine at present being worked at Ffynon. Close to this old pit lived the under-viewer and his family. A not very desirable residence was theirs for this reason, that the old shaft leading into the pit had never been filled up; and making it all the more dangerous, it was, from long disuse and neglect, nearly covered by a thick growth of weeds and brushwood, so that an unwary traveller might step into the mine before he was aware. This old shaft for every reason was dangerous, as its open mouth let in the rain and helped to fill the pit beneath with water, which water might by an untoward accident, a boring away of too much of the coal, help at any moment to inundate the larger mine. It was at present the terror of the young wife of the under-viewer, who had three small children, and who was never weary of warding them off the dangerous ground. On the dismissal of the late manager, the young woman who lived in this cottage had come with her complaint to David, and had begged of him to use his influence with his brother to have the dangerous shaft filled up. David had assured her that this should be one of the first steps in the general reformation. When Owen came, I heard David speak to him on the subject, and Owen promised to have all that was necessary done without delay. I am quite sure Owen meant what he said, but in the absorbing interest of more engrossing work, month after month went by, and Pride's Pit still remained with its open shaft. A fortnight ago, I was walking with Owen, when poor Mrs Jones met us with tears in her eyes, "Was nothing going to be done to the shaft, her baby had nearly been killed there a few days since." Owen was really sorry, declared he had completely forgotten it, won Mrs Jones's heart by his sweet graciousness and real regret, and promised to send round men to put the whole thing straight in the morning. Of course, he had done so by this time, but how great and unnecessary was the previous delay; suppose Mrs Jones's baby had been killed, would Owen ever have forgiven himself? After thinking these and many other thoughts, I had brushed my hair, bathed my eyes, and was preparing to go downstairs, when there came a tap at my door, and Gwen, carrying little David in her arms, came in. She placed the child on the floor, came to my side, and looked hard into my face. If ever there was a purpose written in any woman's countenance it was in Gwen's at this moment. "Gwladys, my maid," she said, "will you help your old nurse at a pinch?" "Yes, that I will, Gwen," I replied, heartily; "what is it you want me to do?" "And you'll keep it a secret, and never let it out to mortal?" "Of course," rather proudly. "Well, then, 'twasn't the fever brought me over here." "Oh! Gwen," in a tone of some alarm, "what are you keeping back from me? is David ill?" "Dear, dear, no, my pet; and I don't say as there _isn't_ a fever, and that _that_ is not the reason the Squire sent us away, Gwladys. No, I'd scorn to tell a lie, and there is a fever, though it ain't much; but that wasn't what brought me and the little lad here, Gwladys." "How mysterious you are," I said, laughing. "What was the reason?" "Why, you see, my maid, I'd soon have persuaded the Squire to let us stay, for I knew he'd be lonesome without me and the baby, and, Lord bless you, _he_ (pointing to the child) wouldn't take the fever, God bless him; sweet and sound would I keep him, and free from all that low dirt, and those bad smells, which the negligent, never-me-care, unthrifty poor have, a tempting of Providence. No, it wasn't fright at no fever took me away, but a downright answer to prayer, Gwladys." Gwen paused, and I nodded to her to proceed. "Hadn't I been praying all the winter for some lucky wind to blow me to this place, and wasn't the fever the wind as God sent; so why shouldn't I come with a thankful heart?" "Poor, dear old Gwen! you wanted to see mother and me. I am sorry you were so lonely." "Well, my maid, it wasn't that; I'm none so selfish. No, Gwladys, it wasn't for myself I was praying, nor about myself I felt so happy. No, 'twas about little David. Gwladys, I mean to take little David to the eye-well." "Oh! dear me, Gwen, what is that?" "Hush, hush, child! don't speak of it lightly; just sit patient for five minutes, my dear, and you shall know the whole ins and outs of it." I have said that Gwen, though a very religious woman, was, if possible, a more superstitious one. From the fountain-head of her knowledge and wisdom I had drunk deeply; of late, when away from her, I had been deprived of these goodly draughts, but I was all the more ready now to partake of the very delicious one she had ready dished up for my benefit. "Go on," I said, in a tone of intense interest. "I mean to take the child to the eye-well," continued Gwen; "there's one within a mile or two of this place that's famed, and justly, through the whole country. Many's the blind person, or the weak-eyed body, that has been cured by it; and many and many thoughts have I cast toward it, Gwladys; not liking to speak, for sure, if you long too earnestly, you hinders, so's the belief, the cure. Now there's wells that have a `perhaps' to 'em, and there's wells that have a `certainty,' and of all the wells that ever was sure, this is the one. And I've a strong belief and faith in my mind, that though I brought the little lad here blind, I may carry him home seeing." True, oh! Gwen, dear Gwen, not in your way, perhaps in a better! As she spoke, attracted by the sound of her voice, the child toddled to his feet, came to her side, and raised his dark, sightless eyes to her face. "But it must be managed clever," continued Gwen, "and 'tis there I want you to help me. I don't want my mistress, nor a soul in the house but yourself to know, until I can bring in the laddie with the daylight let into his blessed eyes; and to have any success we must obey the rules solemn. For three mornings we must be at the well before sunrise, and when the first sunbeam dips into the water, down must go the child's head right under too, with it, and this we must do three days running, and then stop for three days, and then three days again. Ah! but I feel the Lord'll give His blessing, and there's real cure in the well." Gwen paused, and I sat still, very much excited, dazzled, and full of a kind of half belief, which falling far short of Gwen's certainty, still caused my heart to beat faster than usual. "And now, Gwladys," proceeded Gwen, "I mean to go to-morrow morning; and can you come with me, and can you show me the way?" "I can and will come with you, Gwen, but I cannot show you the way. I fancy I _have_ heard of this eye-well, but I have never been there." "Then I must find some one who can," proceeded Gwen, rising. "Stay, Gwen," I said, earnestly. "I know a little girl very well here, she has lived all her life in this place, and is sure to have heard of the well. I am sure, too, she would never tell a soul. Shall I go to her and find out if she can come with us?" "Do, my dear maid, and let me know soon, for I am sore and anxious." CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE EYE-WELL. I found that Nan knew all about the eye-well, and had a very strong belief in its curative powers; she was only too anxious and willing to accompany us, and accordingly at five o'clock next morning, Gwen, little David, and I met her, and set off to our destination with a delightful sense of secrecy and mystery. I look back on that day now, when, light-hearted, happy, not having yet met with any real sorrow, I stood and laughed at the baby's shouts of glee, when Gwen dipped his head under the cold water. I remember the reproving look of dear old Gwen's anxious face, and the expectant half-fearful, half-wondering gaze of Nan. I see again the water of the old well, trembling on the dark lashes of two sightless eyes, a little voice shouts manfully, a white brow is radiant, dimples play on rosy cheeks, golden brown curls are wet and drip great drops on the hard, worn hand of Gwen. Nan, excited and trembling, falls on her knees and prays for a blessing. Gwen prays also. I take David's little lad into my own arms, he clasps me firmly, shouts and laughs anew. I too, in a voiceless prayer, ask God to bless the noble boy. We are standing under a great tree, whose sheltering branches protect the old well, the bright sun shines in flickering light through the early spring leaves, on the boughs the birds sing, from the hedge a white rabbit peeps. Yes, I see it all, but I see it now with a precipice beyond. I see now where the sun went down and the dark night came on. I see where the storm began to beat, that took our treasure away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was the evening before the third visit to the eye-well; I heard Gwen in the room fitted up for a temporary nursery, singing little David to sleep. Hush-a-by, little dear, Hush-a-by, lovely child. It was the old Welsh lullaby song. Soft, soft, softer went her voice to the queer old measure, the quaint old words-- Hush-a-by, lovely child, Hush--hush--hush--hush! Profound stillness, no one could keep awake after that last hush of Gwen's; I felt my own eyes closing. The next moment I found myself starting up to see the singer standing before me. "David's asleep, my dear, and, Gwladys, you need not come with me in the morning." In a very sleepy tone, induced by my early rising and the lullaby song, "Oh! yes, Gwen, I don't--mind--I'd better." "No, no, my dear lamb, David and me'll go alone to-morrow; little Nan ain't coming neither." "Very well, Gwen," I said, just asleep. I was in bed when Gwen came again to me. "My maid, I'm very trouble to you to-night." "No, Gwen, what is it?" To my surprise, Gwen burst into tears; this unusual sign of emotion roused me completely. "Oh! my maid, I'm fearful and troubled, I don't know why. I've set my heart so on the baby getting his sight. If I could only take him back seeing to the Squire, I think I could die content." "Well, Gwen, perhaps you will. Of course, I don't _quite_ believe in the eye-well as much as you do, but still, who knows?" "_No_ one knows, Gwladys, that's what's troubling me; the Almighty has it all hid from us. He may think it good for the baby not to see. There's sights in this world what ain't right for mortal eyes, perhaps He have shut up his, to make and keep the little heart all the whiter." "Perhaps so, Gwen; as you say, God knows best." "Yes, only I _do_ feel troubled to-night; perhaps 'tis wrong of me to take the baby to the h'eye-well, but I did pray for a blessing. Eh! dear, but I'm faithless." "You are down-hearted anyhow," I said. "Go to bed now and dream that the baby is kissing you, and looking at you, and thanking you as he knows how, for getting him his eyesight. Good-night, dear Gwen." But Gwen did not respond to my good-night, she knelt on by my bedside; at last she said in a change of voice-- "Gwladys, have you made it up with Owen?" I was excited by Gwen's previous words, now the sore place in my heart ached longingly. I put my arms round my old nurse's neck. "Gwen, Gwen, Owen and I will never understand each other again." "I feared she'd say that," repeated Gwen, "I feared it; and yet ain't it strange, to make an idol of the dreaming boy, and to shut up the heart against the man who has suffered, repented, who will yet be noble!" "Oh! Gwen, if I could but think it! Will he ever be that?" "I said, Gwladys," continued Gwen, "that he was coming home to His Father, he was coming up out of the wilderness of all his sin and folly to the Father's house, he aren't reached it yet--not quite--when he do, he will be noble." I was silent. "'Tis often a sore bit of road," continued Gwen, "sore and rough walkin', but when the Father is waiting for us at the top of the way; waiting and smiling, with arms outstretched, why then we go on even through death itself to find Him." "And when we find Him?" I asked. "Ah! my maid, _when_ we find Him, 'tis much the same, I think, as when the shepherd overtook the lost lamb; the lamb lies down in the shepherd's arms, and the child in the Father's, 'tis much the same." I lay back again on my pillow; Gwen covered me up, kissed me tenderly, and went away. I lay quiet for a few moments, then I sat up in bed, pressed my hands on my cheeks, and looked out through the window, at the white sky and shining moon. I looked eagerly and passionately. I had been sleepy; I was not sleepy now. After a time of steady gazing into the pitiless cold heavens, I began to cry, then out of my sobs two words were wrung from me, "_My Father_." Never was there a girl more surrounded by religious influences, and yet less at heart religious than I. This was the first time in my whole life that I really felt a conscious want of God. The wish for God and the longing to understand Owen, to be reconciled to Owen, came simultaneously, but neither were very strong as yet. As yet, these two wants only stirred some surface tears, and beat on the outer circle of my heart. I knew nothing of the longing which would even go through the valley of the shadow of death to the Father, nothing of the love which would care a thousand times more for Owen _because_ he had sinned and had repented. I wanted God only a little, my cry was but from the surface of my heart, still it was a real cry, and had more of the true spirit of prayer in it than all the petitions I had made carelessly, morning and evening since my babyhood. After a time I lay down, and, tired out, went to sleep. I did not sleep easily, I had confused dreams of Owen, of little David, of Gwen. Then I had a distinct vision. I saw the children of the under-viewer, playing on the place where the shaft leading down into Pride's Pit had been; the ground was smooth, the danger was past, the children played happily and shouted gleefully. Two of them ran to tell their mother, the baby stayed to throw gravel into the air. All looked secure, but it was not so; as I watched, I suddenly perceived that the work was badly done, the place only half filled up; as I watched, I saw the loose stones and rubbish give way, and the baby sink into the loathsome pit below; although I was quite close, I could hold out no hand to save the under-viewer's baby. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. THAT MAN WAS OWEN. Tired with my two days' early rising, I did not get up until late. I had nearly finished dressing, and was standing by my window, when I heard a woman's voice calling me in muffled tones below. My room looked to the back of the house, and the woman had come to the inside of a thick fuchsia-hedge, which here divided the cottage, and its tiny surroundings, from the road. Looking out, I saw the under-viewer's wife, gazing up with clasped hands and a white face. "For the love of God, come down to me quietly, Miss Morgan." The pain and anguish in the woman's face communicated part of her intelligence to me. I knew there was great and urgent need for me to go downstairs without anybody hearing. The immediate action which this required, prevented my feeling any pain. I stood by the woman, looked hard into her eyes, and said, "Well?" "Dear heart, you must know it," she said, taking my hand. "Come with me." She almost pushed me before her through the little gate; when we got on the high road, she began to run. I knew that she was going in the direction of Pride's Pit. My strangely vivid dream returned to me. Here was a solution of the mystery. I believed in dreams--this dream was not accidental. It had been sent to me as a warning--it was true. Owen had neglected to have the shaft, leading into Pride's Pit, filled up, and the under-viewer's child had fallen a victim to this neglect. The child had fallen down the old shaft. He was dead, and the mother was bringing me now to show me face to face what my brother's carelessness had effected. The life of a little child was sacrificed. I was to see for myself what Owen had done. I felt sure of this. The woman ran very fast, and I kept pace by her side. The distance was over half a mile, and partly up-hill. When we came to the ascent, which was rather steep, we could not go quite so quickly, and I had time to look in the woman's face. It was hard and set, the lips very white, the eyes very staring. She neither looked at me nor spoke. It came into my heart that she was cruel, even though her child _was_ dead, to hurry me forward without one word of warning: to show me, without any preparation, what my brother had done. I would not be treated so. I would not face this deed without knowing what I was to see. The instant I made this resolution, I stood still. "Stop!" I said. "I _will_ know all. Is the baby dead?" The woman stood still also, pressing her hand on her labouring breast. "Dear heart! she knows," she gasped. "Yes, yes, my dear--the baby's dead." I did not say I was sorry, nor a single word. I simply, after my momentary pause, began to run harder than ever. We had now got in sight of the pit, and I saw a little crowd of people about it. Some men in their miners' dresses, a boy or two, a larger proportion of women. I half expected the men, women, and children to curse me as I drew near. We ran a little faster, and the woman's panting breath might have been heard at some distance. Suddenly a boy caught sight of us, and detaching himself from the group, ran to the woman's side. "Does she know?" he exclaimed, catching her hand almost frantically. "She must not see without knowing." The boy, who spoke in a voice of agony, was Miles Thomas. "Yes," replied the woman; "she guessed it herself. She knows that the baby's dead." "Thank God!" said the boy. I looked from one face to the other. I could not help pitying myself, as though it were _my_ sorrow. I thought the boy's tone the kindest--he should take me to see the murdered child. Suddenly I changed my mind. Why should I need or look for compassion. The mother had come all this way to punish me and mine--the mother's just revenge should not be foiled. When we got into the group, I took her hand. "You shall show him to me," I said. "You shall show me your little dead baby." There was a pause on all sides--one or two people turned aside. I saw a woman put her apron to her face, and heard a man groan. Every eye was fixed on me, and, at the same moment, the under-viewer's wife and Miles went on their knees, and began to sob. "Oh! my darling; you are wrong--you have made a mistake," began the woman. "I _felt_ she did not, could not know," sobbed Miles. The crowd opened a little more, and I went forward. Very near the mouth of the old shaft, lying on a soft bed of grass and undergrowth, was a woman--a woman with a face as white as death. I went up close to her, and gazed at her steadily. Her face looked like death, but she was not dead--a moan or two came through white lips. By the side of the woman, stretched also flat, lay a child; his hat was thrown by his side, and one little leg was bare of shoe and stocking. A white frock was also considerably soiled, and even torn. I took in all these minor details first--then my eyes rested on the face. I went down on my knees to examine the face, to note its expression more attentively. On the brow, but partly concealed by the hair, was a dark mark, like a bruise, otherwise the face was quiet, natural, life-like. A faint colour lingered in the cheeks; the lips were parted and smiling. The woman was groaning in agony. The child was quiet--looking as a child will look when he has met with a new delight. I laid my hand on the little heart--it never stirred. I felt the tiny pulse--it was still. The injured and suffering woman was Gwen. The dead baby was not the under-viewer's child, but David's little lad. I took no further notice of Gwen, but I kept on kneeling by the side of the dead child. I have not the least idea whether I was suffering at this moment; my impression is that I was not. Mind, body, spirit, were all quiet under the influence of a great shock. I knew and realised perfectly that little David was dead; but I took in, as yet, no surrounding circumstances. Finding that I was so still, that I neither sobbed nor groaned--in fact, that I did nothing but gaze steadily at the dead child, the under-viewer's wife knelt down by my side, and began to pour out her tale. She did this with considerable relief in her tone. When she began to speak, Miles also knelt very close to me, and laid his hand with a caressing movement on my dress. I was pleased with Miles' affection--glad to receive it--and found that I could follow the tale told by the under-viewer's wife, without any effort. I mention all this just to show how very quiet I not only was in body, but in mind. "No, the shaft was never filled in," began the woman. "I waited day after day, but it was never done; and little Ellen, and Gwenllynn, and the baby, they seemed just from contrariness to h'always want to go and look over the brink. And what made it more danger, was the brambles and grass, and growth of h'all kinds, which from never being cut away, has got thicker year by year; so that coming from that side," pointing west with her finger, "you might never see the old shaft at all, but tumble right in, and know nothing till you reach the bottom. Well, I was so frighted with this, and the contrariness of the children, that finding Mr Morgan had forgot again to have the shaft filled in, or closed round, only last night I spoke to my husband, and begged him to cut away some of the rankest of the growth, as it war, what it is, a sin and a shame to have the shaft like a trap, unknown to folks; but my husband, he war dead tired, and he knowed that I'm timmersome, so he only said, `Let be, woman--let be.' And this morning he was away early--down to the mine. Well," after a long pause, "I had done my bit o' work. I had dressed the baby--bless him--and given Ellen and Gwenllynn their breakfast, and I was standing by the house door, my eye on the old shaft, and my mind set on the thought that I might put up a fence round it myself, so as to ward off the children, when sudden and sharp--almost nigh to me--I heard a woman scream, and looking, I saw a woman running for her bare life, and screaming and making for my cottage; and she had a child in her arms; and sudden, when I saw her, I knew who she was, and why she was running. I knew she was the nurse of Squire Morgan's little son, and that she had the child with her. I knew she had been to the eye-well, for the cure of the sight of the baby, and that she was coming by this short cut home. And she never knew that she'd have to pass through the field with Mr Daniels' bull. Well, I saw her running, and the bull after her, but he was a good way behind; and I thought she'd reach the cottage. And I shouted out to encourage her; when all on a heap, it flashed on me, that she was making straight for the shaft, and that she'd be right down in the pit, if I couldn't stop her. Just then, two men came up, and turned the bull aside, but she didn't know it, and kept on running harder and harder. `Stop!' I shouted. `Stop! you'll be down in the mine'; but she neither heeded nor heard me, and she went right through the thicket and the underwood. I heard it cracking under her feet. I saw her fall, and scream more piercing than h'ever." Another pause from the narrator--then in a breathless kind of way, "I war at the other side o' the pit in a twinkling. She had not gone down--not quite. Her head was above the ground, and she was holding on for bare life to a bit of underwood. She could only hold with one hand; the other was round the child. In one second she'd have been down, for the weight was too much, when I threw myself on my face and hands, and grasped the baby's frock. `Hold the tree with both hands,' I said, `and I'll keep the baby.' Poor soul! she looked up at me so anguish-like; but she did what I bid her, or they'd both have gone down. I was drawing up the baby, when a loose stone came tumbling--it was not much, it but hit him sharp on the temple. He never cried out, but his head dropped all on a sudden. When I got him to the top, he was dead. I laid him on the bank, and just then the men who had turned away the bull, came up, and they lifted the woman out of the shaft--one of her legs was broke!" The under-viewer's wife paused to wipe the moisture from her brow. Just then little feet came pattering, and the living child of the under-viewer, about whom I had grieved and dreamt, came up and looked down at the dead child of my brother. The face of the living baby gazed solemnly at the face of the dead baby. Nobody interrupted him, and he sat down and put, half in play, as though expecting an answering touch, his plump hand on the little hand that was still. At this moment there was a commotion in the crowd, then profound stillness, then a giving way on all sides, and a man's hasty footsteps passed rapidly through our midst. Up straight to where the dead child was lying, the man came. He bent his head a little--he saw no other creature. This man was Owen. For about half a minute he was still. Then from his lips came one sharp cry--the sharpest cry of anguish I ever heard from mortal lips--then he rushed away. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. THE LITTLE LAD. "Mother," I said, "I will go to Tynycymmer, and tell David." "No, no, my dear child; you are not able." "Mother, some one must tell him; you have to stay here to take care of poor Gwen when they bring her home, and perhaps Owen will come back. Mother, I will tell David, only I may tell him in my own way, may I not?" "As you please, my child, my child!" Mother put her head down on the table and began to sob. I kissed her. I was not crying. From the first I had never shed a tear. I kissed mother two or three times, then I went out and asked Miles, who had followed me home, to get the horse put to Owen's dog-cart; when the dog-cart was ready, I kissed mother again and got into it. "Come with me, Miles," I said to the boy. The bright colour mounted to his cheeks, he was preparing to jump into the vacant seat by my side, when suddenly he stopped, his face grew pale, and words came out hurriedly-- "No, I mustn't, I'd give the world to, but I mustn't." "Why not, when I ask you? you needn't go into the mine to-day." "Perhaps not to work, but I must, I must wait for Mr Morgan; I must take him into the mine." "Well, I cannot stay," I said impatiently; "tell Williams to take me to the railway station at P--." As I drove away I had a passing feeling that Miles might have obliged me by coming, otherwise, I thought no more of his words. After a rapid drive I reached the railway station; I had never travelled anywhere, I had never gone by rail alone in my life, but the great pressure on my mind prevented my even remembering this fact. I procured a ticket, stepped into the railway carriage, and went as far in the direction of Tynycymmer as the train would take me. At the little roadside station where I alighted, I found that I could get a fly. I ordered one, then went into the waiting-room, and surveyed my own image in a small cracked glass. I took off my hat and arranged my hair tidily; after doing this, I was glad to perceive that I looked much as usual, if only my eyes would laugh, and my lips relax a little from their unyouthful tension? The fly was ready, I jumped in; a two-mile drive would bring me to Tynycymmer. Hitherto in my drive from Ffynon, and when in the railway carriage, I had simply let the fact lie quiescent in my heart that I was going to tell David. Now, for the first time, I had to face the question, "How shall I tell him?" The necessary thought which this required, awoke my mind out of its trance. I did not want to startle him; I wished to break this news so as to give him as little pain as possible. I believed, knowing what I did of his character, that it could be so communicated to him, that the brightness should reach him first, the shadow afterwards. This should be my task; how could I accomplish it? Would not my voice, choked and constrained from long silence, betray me? Of my face I was tolerably confident. It takes a long time for a young face like mine to show signs of grief; but would not my voice shake? I would try it on the driver, who I found knew me well, and was only waiting for me to address him. Touching his hat respectfully, the man gave me sundry odds and ends of information. "Yes, Mr Morgan was very well; but there had been a good deal of sickness about, and little Maggie at the lodge had died. Squire Morgan was so good to them all; he was with little Maggie when she died." "Did Maggie die of the fever?" I asked. "Yes, there was a good deal of it about." "And was it not infectious?" "Well, perhaps so, but only amongst children." I said nothing more, only I resolved more firmly than ever to break the news gently to David. I was received with a burst of welcome from trees and shining waves, early spring flowers, and dear birds' notes. Gyp got up from the mat where he lay in the sunshine, and wagged his tail joyfully, and looked with glad expressive eyes into my face. The servants poured out a mixture of Welsh and English. I began to tremble; I very nearly gave way. I asked for David; he was out, somewhere at the other end of the estate; he would however be back soon, as he was going on business to Chepstow. The servants offered to go and fetch him, but I said no, I would wait until he came in. I went into the house, how familiar everything looked! the old oak chairs in the hall, the flowers and ferns. I opened the drawing-room door, but did not enter, for its forlorn and dismantled condition reminded me forcibly that with familiarity had come change. A few months ago I had longed for change, but now to-day I disliked it. I knew for the first time to-day that change might mean evil as well as good. I went into David's study and sat down to wait for him; the study looked as it had done since I was a little child. No, even here there was a difference. Over the mantelpiece was an engraving, so placed that the best light might fall on it. It was Noel Paton's "_Mors Janua Vitae_." I suppose most people have seen the original. David and Amy had brought this painter's proof home after their short wedding trip. It was a great favourite of Amy's; she had said once or twice, when least shy and most communicative, that the dying knight reminded her of David. For the first time to-day, as I looked at it, I saw something of the likeness. I stood up to examine it more closely--the victorious face, humble, trustful, glad,--stirred my heart, and awoke in me, though apparently without any connection between the two, the thoughts of last night. I again began to feel the need of God. I pressed my hands to my face; "God give me strength," I said very earnestly. This was my second real prayer. I had hardly breathed it, when David's hand was on my shoulder. "So you have come to pay me a visit, little woman; that is right. I was wishing for you, and thinking of you only this morning. I have been lonely. Mother and Owen quite well?" "Yes, David." "And my boy?" "He is well." "How I have missed him, little monkey! he was just beginning to prattle; but I am glad I sent him away, there is a great deal of sickness about." "David," I said suddenly, "you are not yourself, is anything wrong?" "No, my dear, I have been in and out of these cottages a great deal, and have been rather saddened," then with a smile, "I _did_ miss the little lad, 'tis quite ridiculous." He moved away to do something at the other end of the room; he looked worn and fagged, not unhappy. I never saw him with quite _that_ expression, but wearied. I could not tell him yet, but I must speak, or my face would betray me. "How nice the old place looks?" I said. "Ah! yes; does it not? You would appreciate it after the ugly coal country; but, after all, Owen is working wonders by the mine--turning out heaps of money, and making the whole thing snug and safe." "Yes," I said. "Can you stay with me to-night? Gwladys. I must go to Ffynon to-morrow, and I will bring you back then--" "I will stay," I said. "I would ask you to give me two or three days; but am afraid of this unwholesome atmosphere for you." "Oh! I must get back to-morrow," I said. I do not know how I got out these short sentences; indeed, I had not the least idea what I was saying. "But there is no real fear, dear," added David, noticing my depression. "You shall come with me for a nice walk on the cliffs, and it will seem like old times--or stay"--pulling out his watch, while a sudden thought struck him--"you don't look quite yourself, little girl; you have got tired out with ugliness. I was just starting for Chepstow, when you arrived. Suppose you come with me. I have business there which will occupy me ten minutes, and then we can take the train and run down to Tintern. You know how often I promised to show you the Abbey." "Oh! yes, David," I said, a feverish flush on my face, which he must have mistaken for pleasure. "I will go with you. I should like it; but can we not get back to Ffynon to-night?" "A good thought. Ffynon is as near Tintern as Tynycymmer; we will do so, Gwladys, and I shall see my little lad all the sooner." He went out of the room, and I pressed my face, down on my hands. No fear now that my heart was not aching--it was throbbing so violently that I thought my self-control must give way. Far more than I ever feared death, did I at that moment, dread the taking away of a certain light out of David's eyes, when he spoke of his little lad. I could not whisper the fatal words yet: it might seem the most unnatural thing in the world, but I would go with David to Tintern. I would encourage him to talk. I would listen to what he said. He was depressed now--worn, weary, not quite himself--recurring each moment to one bright beacon star--his child. But David had never been allowed to wander alone in the wilderness without the sunlight. I would wait until God's love shone out again on his face, and filled his heart. Perhaps this would happen at Tintern. I said to myself, it will only make a difference of two or three hours, and the child is dead. Yes, I will give him that respite. I do not care what people think, or what people say. I cannot break this news to him in his home and the child's. This study where he and Amy sat together, where his boy climbed on his knee and kissed him, where he has knelt down and prayed to God, and God has visited him, shall not be the spot where the blow shall fall. He shall learn it from my lips, it is true. I myself will tell him that his last treasure has been suddenly and rudely torn away; but not yet, and never at Tynycymmer. Having made this resolve, I looked at my watch--it was between eleven and twelve then. I determined that he should learn the evil tidings by four o'clock; this would enable us to catch the return train from Chepstow to Cardiff and from thence to Ffynon. No trains ran to Ffynon in the middle of the day. By allowing David to take me to Tintern, I would, in reality, only delay his coming to Ffynon by an hour or two. Whether I acted rightly or wrongly in this matter, I have not the least idea. I never thought, at that moment, of any right or wrong. I simply obeyed an impulse. Having quite arranged in my own mind what to do, I grew instantly much stronger and more composed. My heart began to beat tranquilly. Having given myself four hours' respite, I felt relieved, and even capable of playing the part that I must play. I had been, when first I came, suppressing agitation by the most violent effort; but when David returned to tell me that the carriage was at the door, I was calm. He found me with well-assumed cheerfulness, looking over some prints. "Now, Gwladys, come. We shall just catch the train." I started up with alacrity and took my seat. As we were driving down the avenue, poor Gyp began to howl, and David, who could not bear to see a creature in distress, jumped out and patted him. "Give Gyp a good dinner," he called back to the servants; "and expect me home to-morrow." Nods and smiles from all. No tears, as there might have been--as there might have been had they known... It is not very long, measured by weeks and hours, since David and I took that drive to Tintern; but I think, as God counts time, one day being sometimes as a thousand years, it _is_ very long ago. It has pushed itself so far back now in the recesses of my memory--so many events have followed it, that I cannot tell what we spoke, or even exactly what we did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself. Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case, then some, who don't understand, may call me heartless. For when I entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of joy. I had always loved beautiful things--God's world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in the _very_ dust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country--a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream--now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren--what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one--soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm. "May I sit here," pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, "may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?" I was conscious that David's eyes were smiling into mine. "You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour." When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him. But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy--no, that is the wrong word--to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, "No, no, I have a worldly heart;" but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said "My Father," with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need. The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside--I could see their reflections--two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both--God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good. It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray. Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself. "David," I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, "it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here." "Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one." David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet. "Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?" "Yes, dear, I feel near God," he took off his hat as he spoke, "I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys." "Yes," I said. "But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern," he continued, "it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another." "What is that?" I asked. "_Thou remainest_," raising his head and looking up at the sky, "all others may leave us--all, home, earthly love--all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God." I was silent. "Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern--God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand." I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy? "And God's mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys," continued my brother; "I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not that _I_ care for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember how _nearly_ he was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I'm not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him." I looked at my watch again, it was four o'clock. I must speak. "David," I said, "do you love God better than any one?" The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David's heart at once; he turned round and looked at me. "I _do_ love Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?" "You would never be angry with God whatever He did?" I said, again. "Angry? no, no; what a strange question." "I have a reason for asking it," I said. "Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter, what is wrong?" David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which unconsciously was fierce. "There is something wrong," I whispered. "Something you have been keeping from me?" "Yes." "All day?" "Yes." "How dared--" checking himself--remaining silent for a second, then speaking with enforced composure. "Tell it to me, my dear." But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs rending me. "Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys." "No, no, she is well." "Or Owen?" "No." "The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?" "The mine is safe." A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard. "It isn't, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?" "It is him." "Not dead." "He is dead." I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward me back. "Don't speak to me," he said, "don't tell me anything more about it yet. I must be alone for a little, wait here for me." He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours; during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. SIGHT TO THE BLIND. All this time I had completely forgotten Owen. Never once during the whole of that day had I given Owen a thought. His agony and his sin were alike forgotten by me; his very name had passed from my memory. At the end of two hours David returned to my side, sat down quietly, and asked me to tell him what I knew. I did not dare look in his face. I repeated as briefly, as impassively as I could, what I had witnessed and heard this morning. To make my story intelligible, it was necessary to mention Owen's forgetfulness of the old shaft; this brought Owen back to my mind, but with only the passing thought essential to the telling of my tale. To my whole story David listened without a comment, or the putting of a single question. He sat, his head a little forward, his hands clasped round his knee. I saw that the veins had started prominently forward in the strong hands. When I came to the part of my tale where Owen appeared and bent over the dead child, he started for the first time, and looked me full in the face; then he rose to his feet, put his hand on my shoulder, and said-- "Come, my dear; we will go home. I must find Owen!" "Find Owen!" I repeated, too surprised to keep in my hasty words. "Do you want him so quickly? has he not brought this trouble upon you?" "Hush, Gwladys, in God's name--this is an awful thing for Owen!" Once or twice as we travelled back to Ffynon, as quickly as horses and steam could take us, I heard David say again under his breath, "This is an awful thing for Owen!" His first question when we got back, and mother raised her white, agitated face to his, was-- "Where is Owen? I must see Owen directly!" "Oh, my boy! he is not here; he has not been here all day. Oh, my dear, dear boy; I am so terrified about him!" "Not here all day, mother! Have you no idea where he is?" "No, my son; he left the house when he heard of the accident, and has not been back since. David, you won't be hard on him--you will--" "How can you ask me, mother? Will you never understand what I feel for Owen?" he said, impatiently, and in pain; then, turning to leave the room, "I am going to find Owen at once!--but stay! where and how is Gwen?" "Gwen is upstairs; she is very ill; she blames herself most bitterly. She has been asking for you." "I will see her for a moment before I go. Don't come with me, mother and Gwladys; I will see her alone." David had been with Gwen for five minutes, I heard Gwen sobbing, and David talking to her quietly, when at the end of that time I entered the room. "David, Miles Thomas is downstairs; he has been hanging about the place all day; he begs to see you; he knows about everything. Still, he says he _must_ see you. I hope nothing is wrong." "Who is Miles Thomas?" "A boy--one of the trappers in the mine." "Oh! of course. I will see him directly." David and the boy were together for half-an-hour; they paced up and down outside. I saw David's hand on his shoulder, and observed the boy raise entreating eyes to his face. At the end of that time Miles ran away, and David returned to the house. He entered the room where I was trying to prepare some tea for him. Mother was upstairs with Gwen. David came up and put his arm round my waist. "My dear little woman, I want to lay on you a great responsibility." "I am ready, brother," I said, looking up, bravely. "Gwladys, there is something not quite right with the mine. I am going down there to-night with Miles. I cannot look for Owen to-night. If all goes well, as I hope, I may be up in the morning. I want you, Gwladys, to try and keep all knowledge of where I have gone from mother, until the morning. She heard me say I would look for Owen; let her suppose this as long as you can." "And you--you are going into danger!" "I hope not. I hope I am going to prevent danger; but there is doubtless a possibility of my being too late." "Then, David," rising selfishly, clinging to him cowardly; "dear David-- dear, dear David, do not go." "What!" said David, holding me from him, and looking into my face. "No, my dear; that is not your real counsel, when I may save the lives of others." Then, seeing that I began to sob again, that I was trembling and broken with grief. "Come with me, darling; I should like to see the little lad before I go away." I led the way upstairs. The baby was lying on my bed--his nursery was used by Gwen. The moonlight--for it was evening--flooded the white bed, and lit up the pale check. This time last night I heard Gwen soothing him into his last earthly slumber; but now, how sweetly did Jesus his shepherd make the baby sleep; the dark-fringed eyes were hardly closed, the lips were smiling. "He sees at last, my little lad," said David, stooping down and kissing him--he was about to say something more, but checked himself; two tears splashed heavily down on the happy little face, then he went away to my writing-table, and taking out a pen, ink, and paper, wrote hastily a few lines, folded up the paper, and brought it back to me. "_Whenever_ Owen returns, give him that _at once_!" Then he was gone. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. OUR FATHER. But Owen did not come back that night. We got a nurse for Gwen, who was suffering sadly from her broken leg, and mother and I sat up together by the dining-room fire. Without saying a word to each other, but with the same thought in both our minds, we piled coals on the grate for a night watch. Mother ordered meat and wine to be laid on the table, then she told the servants to go to bed, but she gave me no such direction; on the contrary, she came close to where I had seated myself on the sofa, and laid her head on my shoulder. I began to kiss her, and she cried a little, just a tear or two; but tears never came easily with mother. Suddenly starting up, she looked me eagerly in the face. "Gwladys, how old are you?" "Sixteen--nearly seventeen, mother." "So you are. You were born on May Day. I was so pleased, after my two big boys, to have a daughter--though you _were_ fair-haired, and not like the true Morgans. Well, my daughter, you don't want me to treat you like a child--do you?" "Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can never be a child again, after to-day." "I am glad of that--two women can comfort one another." "Dear mother," I said, kissing her again. "Gwladys," catching my hand, nervously, "I have had an awful day. I have still the worst conjectures. I don't believe we are half through this trouble." "Dear mother, let us hope so--let us pray to God that it may be so." "Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was, really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I know little of the power. I don't feel as if I _could_ come to God the moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different--I wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long--but I am not like her. I am not," an emphatic shake of her head. "I am not a religious woman." "And, mother," my words coming out slowly, "I am not religious either. I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God awfully to-night." "Oh! my child," breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. "I don't; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me." "But, mother, that is very unlikely." "I don't know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me--he just got ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been back all day--never once; though that boy--young Thomas, has been asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off--so unfeeling, after all that has happened. But _why_ is Owen away? It is dreadful--the sudden death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for him; he only saw him once or twice." "Mother, I wonder you cannot guess. Do you not know that it was through Owen's--Owen's--well, mother, I _must_ tell you--it was partly through Owen that little David was killed." Mother's face grew very white, her eyes flashed, she left my side, and went over to the fire. "Gwladys, how dare you--yes, how dare you even utter such falsehoods. Did Owen take the child to the eye-well? Did Owen put the wicked bull in the field? How can you say such things of your brother?" "They are no falsehoods, mother. If Owen had kept his promise to poor Mrs Jones, and had the old shaft filled up, nothing would have happened to the baby." "It is useless talking to you, Gwladys. I would rather you said no more. Ever since his return you have been unjust to Owen." Mother, seating herself in the arm-chair by the fire, turned her back on me, and I lay down on the sofa. I was very tired--tired with the tension of my first day of real grief; but I could not sleep, my heart ached too badly. Hitherto, during the long hours that intervened since the early morning, I had, as I said, hardly thought of Owen; but now mother herself could scarcely ponder on his name, or his memory, more anxiously than I did. As I thought, it seemed to me that I, too, was guilty of the baby's death. I had turned my heart from my brother--a thousand things that I might have done I left undone. David had asked me to help him, to aid him. I had not done so. Never once since his return had I strengthened his hands in any right way. On the contrary, had I not weakened them? And much was possible for me. In many ways-- too many and small to mention--I might have kept Owen's feet in the narrow path of duty. In this particular instance might I not have reminded him of the old shaft, and so have saved little David's life? Yes, mother was right. I was unjust to Owen; but I saw now that I had _always_ been unjust to him. In the old days when I thought him perfect as well as now. I was a child then, and knew no better. Now I was a woman. Oh! how bitterly unjust was I to my brother now. Loudly, sternly did my heart reproach me, until, in my misery and self-condemnation, I felt that David and Owen could never love me again. Through the mists and clouds of my own self-accusation, Owen's true character began to dawn on me. Never wholly good, or wholly bad, had Owen been. Affectionate, generous, enthusiastic, was one side of that heart--selfish and vain the other. Carefully had mother and I nurtured that vanity--and the fall had come. All his life he had been earning these wages; at last they had been paid to him--paid to him in full and terrible measure. _The wages of sin is death_. Little David was dead. Owen's face, as I had seen it this morning, returned to me. His sharp cry of bitter agony rang again in my ears. Yes, the fruit of all that easy, careless life had appeared. I saw my brother as he was; but, strange as it may seem, at last, with all this knowledge, with the veil torn away from my eyes, I longed, prayed for, and loved him as I had never done before. I think I did this because also from my heart of hearts rose the bitter supplication-- "Have mercy on my sin too. Thou who knowest all men--Thou knowest well that my sin is as deep and black as his." The clock struck twelve, and mother, who had been sitting silent, and who I hoped was asleep, moved restlessly, turned round, and addressed me. "Has not David gone to look for Owen?" "He said he would go, mother." "My dear boy--if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before." "I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything--he seemed greatly troubled on Owen's account." "Ah! dear fellow--the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?" "Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?" "Yes, yes--well. God give me patience." Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours' silence. At two o'clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me--I saw the movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping of mother's hands. The footfall passed--all was stillness. Mother rose again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another, and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment. Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep. The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open; the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying. "Oh! Gwladys--oh! my darling, they have never come home--the whole night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter." Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother's hands. We neither of us spoke. "Say something, Gwladys," said mother. "Mother--I cannot. I have never prayed aloud." "Well, a form--some words. I am so broken--so frightened." "Our Father," I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in mother's voice, "our Father--deliver us from evil." "Ah! there it is," sobbed mother. "That's what I want. Oh! Lord, hear me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I'm a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear a mother's cry. Save my boy--deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to be--it was _my_ fault, if any one's, if my Owen forgot to see to the general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don't punish me too hard--deliver my boy--my boy from evil." Now, I don't know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an impulse I could not withstand--with a longing I could not restrain. "That is not fair--you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver David, too, from evil." "Gwladys, why--why do you say this?" "I don't know," rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. "Mother, it is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan--she may tell me something." CHAPTER NINETEEN. A RICH VEIN OF COAL. I think her prayer, which was literally a cry of agony to her true Father, brought mother some strength and comfort. She grew more composed, and when I ran away to Nan's cottage, she went up to see Gwen. I had obeyed David's message to the letter. I had not let her know of any possible danger to him. All her thoughts and fears were centred on Owen--indeed, we both had thought most of Owen during the long hours of the weary night. But now David might really seek him; the chances were that the evil he dreaded was averted, that he would come up from the mine with the night shift. He would need a few hours' rest, and then he might really seek for Owen. It had occurred to me as I lay awake in the night, that Owen, who knew nothing of my visit to Tynycymmer, might have gone there himself to tell David, this was quite a likely thing for him to do. In that case, David might go there and bring him back. I fancied his return, I fancied gentle, humble, forgiving words; I thought of mother, sister, brother, starting together on a surer, happier footing, of possible good arising out of this sorrow. In short, as I walked down to Nan's cottage, I saw a rainbow spanning this cloud. How short-sighted and ignorant I was! Did I not know that sin must bring its punishment, that however a man may repent, however fully and freely a man may be forgiven, yet in pain, sorrow and bitterness must the wages his own deeds have brought him, be paid. I entered Nan's cottage; it was early, not more than six o'clock, but Nan was up, had even eaten her breakfast, and was now, when I arrived, washing some coarse delf cups and saucers in a wooden tub. I had learned in my intercourse with this strange child to read her face almost like a book. The moment I saw it to-day my heart sank, Nan had on her very oldest and most careworn expression. "You are up to fifty, to-day. Nan," I said with the ghost of a smile. For answer, Nan looked me hard in the face, and began to cry. "Oh! I'm so sorry," she began, coming up to my side, "I've been thinking so much of you all, Miss Morgan, and I've been crying so bitter to the Lord to comfort you." "I am glad of that, Nan," I said, "but don't let us talk of our trouble now. I want you tell me all you know about the mine; and, first, has my brother come up?" "_All_ I know," repeated Nan, "but Miles said I was not to babble." "Yes, but my brother has told me there is, or was, danger; you know we always imagine danger to be worse than it is, so do tell me what is wrong; and, first, _has_ my brother come up?" "No, Miss Morgan, not with the night shift. The Squire and Miles are still down in the mine." "And all the men have gone down as usual this morning?" I asked. "Oh! yes, and father with them." "Then there cannot be danger?" "Well, I don't know--I'm that timmersome, it may seem so to me; or it may be h'all Miles's fancy, but he's rare and knowing, Miles is." "Well, dear Nan, please sit down quietly and tell me the whole story from beginning to end, what you know and what you fear." Nan had by this time wiped away all traces of her tears; she was given to sudden bursts of grief, out of which her dark eyes used to flash as bright as though the briny drops were unknown to them. Had I met Nan apart from personal tragedy, I might have considered her tiny form, her piquant old-fashioned face, and quaint words, an interesting study; but now I felt a little impatient over her long delays, and deep-drawn sighs, and anxious to launch her midway into her tale. "Miles is very knowing," began Nan, seeing I was determined, and would have my way; "Miles is very knowing, and from the time he was a little, little lad, he'd study father's plan o' the mine. I never could make out the meanin' o' it, but long before Miles ever went down into a mine he knew all about levels, and drifts, and headings, and places without number; and he used to say to me, `Why, our mine is like a town, Nan, it has its main roads, and its crossings, and its railways, and all;' he tried to make a romance out of the mine for me, seeing I was so timmersome, and he never spoke of danger, nor fall o' roofs, nor gas, nor nothing, when I was by; only when they thought I was asleep, I used to hear him and father talk and talk; and somehow, Miss Morgan, the hearing of 'em whispering, whispering of danger, made the danger, just as you say, twice as big to me, and I used to be that frightened I feared I'd die just from sheer old h'age. And at last I spoke to the Lord about it, and it seemed to me the Lord made answer loud and clear, `Resist the devil and he will flee from you;' and then I saw plain as daylight, that the devil to me now, was the fear of danger to father and Miles, and the only thing to do was to turn and face it like a man, or may be a woman, which sometimes is bravest. So I went to Miles and told him how I had prayed, and what the Lord had said, and I begged of Miles to tell me h'all about everything, all the danger of fire-damp, and explosions, and inundations. Oh! Miss Morgan, he did what I axed him, he seemed real pleased; and for a fortnight I scarce slept a wink, but then I got better, and I found the devil, now I was facing him, brave and manful, did not seem so big. Then I went to Miles again, and I made him promise not never to hide when he thought danger was going to be in the mine, and he was real glad, and said he would faithful tell me h'every thing. Well, Miss Morgan, he was very sharp and had his wits about him, and he heard people talk, and for all Mr Morgan was so pleasant, and so well liked, father said that he was so rare and anxious to win the coal, that sometimes, though he had reformed so much in the mine, he was a bit rash, and then the men grumbled about the coal pillars being struck away so much, and the supports not being thick enough." "But I spoke to Owen about that," I interrupted eagerly, "and he was so dreadfully hurt and vexed; he would not endanger the men's lives for the world, Nan; and he said that he was an engineer and must understand a great deal more about the mine than the miners. After all, Nan," I continued rather haughtily, and with feelings new and yet old stirring in my heart for Owen, "your little brother _cannot_ know, and without meaning it, he probably exaggerates the danger." "That may be so, Miss Morgan, but in the case of the coal supports it was the talk of all the men." "I know," I continued, "I have heard that miners were never contented yet with any manager; they were sure, _whatever_ the manager did, to find fault with him." "You wrong us there, Miss, you wrong us most bitter; there is not a man belonging to Ffynon mine who does not love Mr Morgan; there is not a man who does not feel for his trouble. Why, the way he looked yesterday when he saw the little baby, has been the talk of the place; and last night a lot of our men prayed for him most earnest. We all knows that it was want of thought with Mr Morgan, we all loves him." "Dear Nan, forgive me for speaking so hastily, and do go on." "Well, Miss Morgan, Miles, he always says that he must learn, if he lives, to be an engineer, he's so fond of anything belonging to it. What 'ud you say, Miss, but he drawed h'out a plan of the mine for himself, and when it was finished he showed it to me and father; it worn't exactly like father's old plan, but father said in some ways it might be more right. Well, Miss, Miles, haven't much to do in the mine, he's what they calls a trapper--that is, he has to shut and open the doors to let the trams of coal pass, so he has to stand in the dark, and plenty of time for thought has he. Well, Miss, about a month ago, Mr Morgan was down in the mine, and he said they was letting a fine seam of coal lie idle, and he said it should be cut, and it stretched away in another direction. Well, Miles, he had to act trapper at some doors close to the new seam, and it came into his head, with his knowledge of the mine, and his own plan, that they must be working away right in the direction of Pride's Pit, which you know, Miss, is full of water. Miles had this thought in his head for some days, and at last he told me, and at last he told father, and father said, being vexed a bit, `Don't fancy you have a wiser head on your shoulders than your elders, my boy; we are likely enough working in the direction of Pride's Pit, but what of that, 'tis an uncommon rich vein of coal; and, never fear, we'll stop short at the right side of the wall.' Well, Miss, Miles tried to stop his fears but he couldn't, happen what would, he couldn't, and he said to me, `Why, Nan, the men are all so pleased with the new find of coal, that they'll just stop short at nothing, and the manager is beside himself with delight, and they'll work on, Nan, until they gets to the water; why, sometimes standing there, I almost fancies I _hears_ it,' and at last, two nights ago, he said to me, `Nan, my mind is made up, I'll speak to Mr Morgan.' Then, Miss, you know what happened, and how all day long Mr Morgan never came back, and Miles, he wandered about just like a ghost, more fretted about the mine than he was about the dear little baby, so that I was fain to think him heartless: then at last, the Squire came, and he _would_ tell him everything, and the Squire said, `I'll go down with you at once, Miles; I'll see what I can for myself, and question every man in the mine, and if there appears to be the slightest truth in what you fear, all the workings shall be stopped until my brother returns.'" A long pause from Nan, then in a low sweet voice, "Late last night Miles came in, and put his arms round my neck and said, `Nan, darling, the Squire and me, we're going down; we'll put it all right, please God. Don't you be down-hearted, Nan; _whatever_ happens. Jesus loves us, and now that I've got the Squire with me, I feels bold as a lion, for I _know_ I'm right, there _is_ danger.'" Another pause, then facing round and looking me full in the face. "There, Miss, that's the whole story." "But, Nan, Nan, suppose the water does burst in?" "Why, then, Miss, every one in the mine will be drowned, or--or starved to death." "And it _may_ come in at any moment?" "I doesn't know, I means to keep h'up heart, don't let you and me frighten one another, Miss Morgan." CHAPTER TWENTY. THE JORDAN RIVER. Can I ever forget that day? It seemed the worst of all the ten. Yes, I think it was quite the worst. Before the last of those ten days came, I had grown accustomed to suffering; the burden given me to carry began to fit on my young shoulders. I lay down with it, and arose with it; under its weight I grew old in heart and spirit, as old as Nan. Laughter was far from my lips, or smiles from my eyes. But why do I speak of myself? Why do I say, I, I? I was one of many suffering women at Ffynon? Let me talk of it as _our_ sorrow! What a leveller trouble is! There was mother, laying her proud head on little Nan's neck; there was the under-viewer's wife taking me in her arms, and bidding me sob a few tears, what tears I could shed, on her bosom. Yes, in the next ten days the women of Ffynon had a common sorrow. I do not speak here of the men, the men acted nobly, but I think the women who stood still and endured, had the hardest part to play. "Heroic males the country bears, But daughters give up more than sons; Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your heaven at once. "But we; we empty heart and home. Of life's life, love! we bear to think You're gone, to feel you may not come. To hear the door-latch stir and clink, Yet no more you--nor sink." But I must tell my story. I left little Nan, I went home to mother. I told her, for I had to tell her now, something about David. She was not much alarmed, I don't think I was either. We thought it probable that David would come up out of the mine at any moment. I think our worst fears and our strongest suffering was for Owen. We sat together, dear mother and I, very anxious, very expectant, very patient. Hour after hour we sat together, waiting for David and Owen. Overhead, poor Gwen suffered and moaned; we did not tell her of our anxiety, she was too ill to hear it. In the room next to Gwen's, the little baby slept. When my fear and anxiety grew quite unbearable, I used to steal upstairs and look at David's little lad. Once I took the little icy hand and held it in my own for a long time, and tried to chafe it into life and warmth. I could not do it. No more than I could chase away the fear which was growing, growing in my own hearty From my window I could see the pit bank. It was an ugly sight, and one I seldom gazed at. I hated the appearance of the ugly steam-engines, and the dusty coal-covered figures. I hated the harsh noise, the unpleasing commotion; but to-day nothing comforted me so much as to draw the blinds, which were down, and look towards this same pit bank; the roaring steam, the appearance of quiet, rapid, regular work soothed my fears, and became a blessed and soul-sustaining sight. I felt sure as long as these signs of regular work were going on on the bank, that all must be right in the mine. Still, why did not David return? So much depended on his return, he had promised so faithfully not to remain below a moment longer than was necessary. As the day wore on, my heart sank and sank, and my fears rose and rose, and at five o'clock on that April afternoon, the blow came. I was standing by my room window, looking toward the pit bank. Suddenly I saw in that familiar scene a change. The greater number of the day crew had come up. I waited to see David's figure, taller than the rest. The men stood in groups talking eagerly, a number crowded round the mouth of the shaft; out of the houses around, women came rushing, then on the air there rose a bitter sharp cry, and one woman leaving the group, which increased each moment round the shaft, ran, clasping her hands and weeping, towards our house. I recognised her, even as she ran, as the bearer of former ill tidings, Mrs Jones. I went downstairs to meet her. I opened the dining-room door. I called to mother, who was sitting close to the window watching, watching for Owen, thinking little of David. She must know all now, better learn the worst at once. "Mother," I said, "Mrs Jones has come, and something dreadful has happened in the mine." Then I took the weeping, agitated woman's hand, and mother clasped her other hand, and we both looked hard in her face, and she looked into ours, and in broken words she told her tale. How few were her words, but how crushing her intelligence! Just as the men were leaving work, the water had burst in like the sea into the workings; most of the day crew had escaped in time, but fourteen were still below. "Which?" we asked breathlessly, "who were the doomed ones?" "Not my son?" said mother. "Not my brother?" said I. "Yes," said the woman, "Squire Morgan is still below--and--and--" bringing out the words with a great gasp, her face, her lips, growing white, "My husband--my George." She was silent then, and we three looked at each other in blank wonder and surprise; each was saying in her heart of hearts, "My sorrow is the greatest." At last I started to my feet. "I will go down to the bank and learn more," I said. Bonnetless and shawlless the next moment I was mingling with the black men, and wild-looking women; _I_ was clasping their hands, looking into their faces, and entreating them to tell me all they knew. One or two turned away from me, one or two muttered that it was the new manager's fault. Words that made my heart freeze within me, about the blood of husbands and sons being on our heads, reached my ears, then a strong hand was laid on my shoulder, and turning, I recognised through all his coal dust, and blackened face, little Nan's father, Moses Thomas. "Come round to my house, dear young lady," he said, in a gentle tone; then turning to the angry men and women, "Shame on you! cowards! has not Squire Morgan sacrificed his life for you to-day?" The people shrank back; one woman said, "God bless him!" and Moses Thomas took my hand in his. Little Nan was waiting for us. In the midst of all my own agony, I almost dreaded seeing Nan's face, but to my surprise it was quiet. When I entered the house she came up and kissed me. She had never ventured to kiss me of her own accord before, but on this occasion we were equals--nay, on this occasion Nan was greater than I. "Yes, Miss Morgan," said Thomas, seating himself and beginning his tale at once. "'Tis very like they is drowned, the Squire, and my lad, and Jones, and eleven more of 'em; and oh! Lord! some was ready, and some isn't; some was turning to the Lord, and some was just goin' on in evil; and oh! dear Lord! forgive me, and have mercy upon me!" The man covered his face with his hands, and Nan went down on her knees. "Lord, forgive father, and lay not this sin to his charge," she said. Thomas looked at her from under his shaggy brows, stretched out his hand and stroked her cheek, then making an effort to master some strong emotion, continued his tale. "Yes, my dear young lady, as I say, 'twas mostly my fault; I felt rare and h'angered this morning, when I went down into the mine, to find that the little chap, unknownst to me, had brought down the Squire. I spoke sharp to the lad, the Lord have mercy on me! The Squire, he had a long talk with me and the deputy, and he wanted the overman to be sent for, but the overman was ill, and I ranks next, and I was rare and vexed, and I laughed at the thought of danger, and I knew the Squire had no knowledge of mines, and 'twas all the little chap's conceit. So the upshot of it was we went on with the workin' of the new seam, and I had my h'eye out sharp, and to prevent all chance of danger, I made the men work, as I thought, in a new direction, away from Pride's Pit. Well, the Squire stayed down all day, and two or three times he axed me to stop working until Mr Morgan come back; but I never, no, God knows, I never _thought_ of danger. At last it was evening, and I came to the surface, but Miles, being trapper, had to stay down to the last; and the Squire, who seemed mighty taken with the lad, said they would come up together. Well, I had not been to the surface more'n ten minutes, when the news came that the water had burst out of Pride's Pit; most of the men got to the surface in time, but fourteen are below. Oh! God forgive me, God forgive me. My boy, my brave boy was right; if I had hearkened to him, all would have been saved." At these words Nan went down on her knees again, and looked into her father's face with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes. "Father, father, _do_ you call Miles brave and noble now?" "Ay, ay, little lass, brave as a lion, my noble lad; how patient he was when I nearly struck him across the face this morning, and how he spoke up so manful, `Father, I'm not afeerd, but I _know_ there's danger.'" "I'm so glad," said little Nan. "I'm so glad he was brave and noble, and not afeerd; he was follerin' of Jesus. Why, father, if Miles is drowned, he's only gone to Jesus." "True enough, Nan, he's crossed the Jordan river, and is safe on the holy hill of the better land. No fear for Miles, little lass." "But, perhaps--perhaps," I murmured, "they are not all drowned; is there no place of escape in the mine?" "Oh! God grant it, lady; yes, there are rises and levels, they may have got into them, but how are they to be got out? however are they to be got at? Well, if there's a shadow of a chance of this, we miners won't leave a stone unturned to save 'em, no, _not one_, trust us! I must see what can be done!" CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. THE LORD WAS NOT IN THE WIND. I have said that all England knows the story. Still I will tell it, dwelling most on the part that most touched my own heart and my own life. In doing this I may be selfish, but I can tell this part best. That night Moses Thomas, with several other brave volunteers, went down the shaft of the Ffynon mine. The shaft was ninety-two yards deep. They went down determined to risk life, to save life; but even with this determination, they had little hope of success. When they reached the mine, the scene that met their eyes was likely to kill that slight hope. All the workings within a few hundred yards of the bottom of the shaft, were filled with water to the roof. It seemed utterly impossible that a soul now left in the mine could be alive. The water from the old pit had truly come in like a flood, carrying all before it. This being the case, the men were about to ascend to the surface, hopeless and despairing, when suddenly faint knockings were heard on the other side of the coal, at a distance, it was thought, of about a dozen yards. These knockings sent a thrill of joy through the breasts of the brave men. Every thought of persona! danger was put out of sight, and all night they laboured to cut away the wall of coal, fondly hoping that all the men were safe, imprisoned, but not drowned, and in a few hours they would rescue them. Well, as I said before, the story is known: in the morning five men were reached; four of these five were brought in safety to the surface; but the fifth, a noble young fellow, who had worked splendidly all night for his own rescue, and that of his companions, was killed by a terrific gas explosion, which took place when the coal was worked through. I was standing by the pit bank when these four men were brought to the surface. I saw women rush forward, and welcome with tears, fervent thanks, and joy, a father, a brother, a husband. I looked in the faces of the four, and turned away with a sick heart, for David was not amongst them. Yes, I was selfish. I could not rejoice in the joy of the few, but most bitterly could I sorrow in the grief of the many. Mother, who had come down with me in the morning to the mouth of the shaft, quite sure of seeing David, was now weeping hysterically; crying feebly for Owen, who, she said, if present, would surely save David; and mother and I at that time had both that dim idea of the mine, that it seemed to us quite possible that if only men brave enough could be found, they might go even through the water to the rescue. But what if the nine remaining men were dead! drowned. I knew the colliers were working with might and main, through that slow, torturing passage, the solid coal, to reach them. But what if, after all their efforts, they were only met by death! Down on my knees in my room, beside the coffin that contained what was mortal of David's little lad, I thought these thoughts of David. Down on my knees, I say, but not to pray. I was in a wild state of rebellion; it seemed to me that the events of the last few days had put the whole world into a state of chaos--a state of confusion so great, that even God Himself could never put it straight again. As this was so, why should I pray to Him? I had never in days of happiness made myself acquainted with God. How could I go to Him in my misery? I was angry with God. He had been too hard on us. What had we done that He should crush us to the earth? In a few days what had not befallen us? The sudden and terrible death of David's only little child! Gwen's accident! Owen's disappearance! Now David himself probably dead. Yes, truly, a whirlwind of destruction had encompassed us; but the Lord was not in the wind. Raising my head with my mind full of these thoughts, my eyes again fell upon the happy, smiling face of the dead child. The little face seemed to say more eloquently than words, "Yes, God has done all this to you; but He is good--He is very good!" The face of the baby made me cry; and my tears, without then in any way turning me consciously towards my Father, eased my heart. I was wiping them away, when the handle of the door was turned, and Nan came in. This was no time for ceremony, and Nan made none. "The men are not all drowned, Miss Morgan; my father and the other workers have heard knockings, very faint like, and a long way off; but still, that is what they want." "Oh! Nan, is it possible? Is it possible that they'll all be saved? Oh! I cannot believe it!" and I burst into tears. "Now isn't that wrong and faithless?" said the little girl, taking my hand. "Ain't this a time to exercise faith? Why, there ain't a man there--no, not a _man_, as won't work with a will. Why, when father come up, he had the blood streaming from his hands. I tell you, Miss Morgan, there's no halting when we looks to bring h'out our brothers and sons!" "Then, Nan, they may be out to-night?" "No, Miss; that ain't likely--we mustn't look for impossibles. They are in a stall a long way off, called Thomas Powell's stall; and to get to that, they must work through thirty-eight yards of coal. That ain't light labour; but h'everything that men can do will be done. Why, engineers and miners from all the collieries round are on the spot." "Nan," I said, "I think I will ask God for one thing. I don't mind telling you, but I have been feeling very bitter against God; but now if He brings me back David and Owen--both of them safe and well--why, then, I will love Him and serve Him always." Nan was silent for a long time--some thought knitting anxiously her dark brows. "I don't think I'd make a bargain with the Lord," she said. "Oh! but, Nan, you cannot quite understand; I have never told you the story of my life. I see now that I never cared for either Owen or David quite in the right way. I want to change all that. Yes," I added, humbly, "I have a great deal to change. I had a beautiful home before I came here; and I grew so tired of it, I wanted to leave it. I know I vexed David--dear, dear David, by wishing to leave Tynycymmer; and then we came here; and he asked me to try, in the little ways a sister can, to help Owen; but I didn't. Oh! Nan, I have not been at all good, and I want to change all that." "Well, Miss Morgan, from your own words, it seems to me you have a deal to ask the Lord to forgive you." "Yes, I know I have," I added, humbly. "Then why don't you ask to be forgiven now--right away?" "No, I cannot ask now. God is punishing me too hard. I don't love Him now at all." "You want the lads home first?" "Oh! yes, indeed. Oh! if I might hope for that, I could love Him--I could serve Him well." "Eh! dear," said little Nan, "I think I could love Him, even if Miles was gone to Him. Seems to me, for all I'm so timmersome, and I does cling so to Miles, that even if Miles was dead, I could love the Lord. I think father and me, for all we'd grieve bitter, we'd never turn agen the Lord. Why, the Lord's our guide, Miss Morgan; and however rough the way, we'd rayther go that road with Him, than any other in the world without Him. And father and me, we'd soon see that having Miles up in the better land, only 'ud make it more home like. Oh! Miss Morgan, it don't seem to me that yours is a bit the right way." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ That night the doctor gave mother a composing draught. She had not slept for two nights; and the sleeplessness, added to her anxiety, had brought on feverish symptoms. Happen what might, sleep was necessary for her, and she was now in bed, wrapped in heavy slumber. After doing what he could for mother, the doctor looked hard into my eyes, but I assured him I was well, which was true--for in body I never felt better. He made me promise, however, to go to bed. I agreed to do so, though sleep seemed very far away. The night was still early, and for an hour or two longer I would sit by the dining-room fire. As mother had done two nights before, I made down a good fire, then sat opposite to it. I sat with my head pressed on my hands, my eyes gazing into the ruddy flames, my thoughts very busy. My thoughts were troublesome--almost agonising. For the first time in my life, my will and God's were standing opposite to one another, opposing one another in grim conflict. My young desire dared to stand up and defy its Creator. The Creator said to the thing that He had made, "_My_ will be done." The tiny atom replied, "No; not Thy will, but mine." Thus we were at variance--God and I. I knew I must submit--that God could sweep me aside to perform, independent of me, what seemed good to Him. He could do this, but still my will might rise in rebellion, might dash itself out and die against this rock; but never, no, never submit. I was quite ready, as little Nan had expressed it, to make a bargain with God. I was ready to sell my submission at a fair price. If He left to me that for which my soul longed, then my soul, with its treasures, should be His. But without them--empty, torn, and bare; could that soul go to Him?--go to Him in its desolation, and say, "You, who have taken what I love, who have emptied me in my youth of all light and joy, take me too, and do with me what you will." This I could not do--this deed of submission I could not perform. No, if God would be good to me, I would be good to Him--that was my rebellious thought. No wonder it brought me no rest. No wonder I was tossed about by this wind of desolation; and the Lord--the Lord whom I needed, the Lord who, though I knew it not, was wounding but to heal; slaying, to make me truly live--the Lord was not in the wind. I was sitting so, thinking these thoughts, wondering why trouble had awakened all these depths in me--why I, who only six months ago had been, in every sense, a child, should now feel so old and heavy at heart--when at the window of the room where I was sitting there came a very low tap. At another time such a sound, in the stillness of the night, would have frightened me; but not so now. I went directly to the window, and looked out; then, indeed, my heavy heart gave a bound, for Owen stood without. I could not raise the sash of the window without the possibility of awaking mother; but I went to the front door, and managed softly to open it. "Is my mother up? Gwladys." "No, no, Owen," clasping his hands, and trying to drag him over the threshold. "She is worn out--she is in bed, and asleep. Come in, dear Owen." "No one is up but you?" "Not a soul." "Then I will come to the fire for a moment. I am bitterly cold; and could you get me something to eat?" He crossed the threshold, entered the dining-room--shading his eyes from the light--and threw himself, with the air of one utterly spent, into the arm-chair. So worn and miserable was he, physically, that my first thought--my first thought before I could ask him a single question--was to see to his bodily comforts. I got him food and wine, then going on my knees, I unlaced and removed, as well as I could, his wet and mud-covered boots, went softly upstairs for clean, dry socks, and his favourite slippers. He did not oppose me by a single remark, he submitted to my attentions, ate eagerly and hungrily of the food I gave him. When I had done all I could, I sat down on the floor by his side, and took his hand. I must now begin to question him, for the silence between us, with my ignorance of what he did or did not know, was becoming unbearable. "Where have you been? Owen. We have wanted you here so dreadfully." "Have you? I should have been no use to you. For the last two days I have been mad--that was all." He looked like it now. His eyes bloodshot, his face deadly pale. "But, brother," I said, impelled to say the words, "our David has quite forgiven you." "Good God! Gwladys," starting upright, "do you want to put me on the rack? How dare you mention his name. _His_ name, and the name of his murdered child! Oh! my God! how that little face haunts me!" He began to pace up and down the room. I feared he would wake mother; but in his passion and agony I could do nothing to restrain him. After a time, however, he sat down more quietly. "Yes; I have been mad, or perhaps, I am sane now, and was mad all the rest of my life. In my sanity, or madness--call it what you will--I at last see myself. How _dared_ you and mother pamper and spoil me when I was a boy! How dared you foster my be setting sin, my weak ambition, my overweening vanity. I never loved you for _that_--never. I cared most for David. How could I help it--righteous, humble, noble; judging calmly and correctly; telling me my faults. But, there! how I must blame others, and lay the sin on others. I did love you, my dear,"-- laying his hand for an instant on my head--"I used to dream of you when, like the prodigal, I lived in the far country; but, as I say again, what of that! I went to Oxford--oh! it is a long story, a story of sin upon sin. My vanity, fed by petty adulation. I spent money. I got into debt, frightfully--frightfully. I did worse. I got amongst a fast set, and became the fastest of them all. At last came the crisis. I won't tell you of it. Why should you know? But for David, I should have been publicly disgraced--think of that! Your `hero' brother--you used to say that of me--the conceited lad who thought the world hardly vast enough or grand enough to hold him. David, as I say, saved me. He paid all my debts--he set me free. My debts were enormous; to pay them the estate was seriously crippled. I went abroad. I thought myself humbled then. I did not care what I put my hand to. I had one dream, to fulfil that I lived. I meant to pay back to David the money he had spent on me. I knew of this mine on his property. I knew it was badly worked; that the profits, which might be enormous, were very small. I thought this mine might prove my El Dorado; might give to me the golden treasure I needed. I always meant to be a civil engineer; to this purpose I had turned my attention during my short periods of real work at Christ Church. Now I determined to take up engineering with a will. I did this because I knew that it would qualify me to have the direction of David's mine--to get out of David's mine the gold I needed. For four years I worked for this. I gained practical knowledge; then I came here--you know that part of the story. I told David of my hopes; they excited no pleasure in him. He begged of me to make the mine safe; to use my skill in saving life. I promised him. I meant to perform my word. I did not think I should fail bitterly and utterly a second time. I did not suppose, when long ago I dreamed dreams, and saw visions, that I should rob David, first of his gold, and then of his child; and this last is murder." Owen paused here, and wiped some great drops from his brow. "Gwladys," he continued, "I see myself now. I am sane, not mad. I see myself at last. I am the greatest sinner in the world." He paused again; these words have been used hypocritically; but there was no hypocrisy in that voice--in those eyes then; the solemn, slow denunciation came with the full approval of the heart and reason. I could not contradict. I was silent. "Yes," he repeated, "I have come to that--come down to that--to be a murderer--the lowest of all. I am the greatest sinner in the world; and for two days I have been looking at God, and God has been looking at me. Face to face--with that murdered child, and all my other crimes between us--we have been viewing each other. Is it any wonder I should tell you I have been mad?" "You may be facing God," I said, slowly then. "You may be facing God with all your sins; but you must remember one thing: you, a sinner, are facing a God who died for such as you." I don't know why I said these words; they seemed to be sent to me. I appeared to be speaking outside myself. "Thank you," said Owen. Then he covered his face, and was silent for a quarter of an hour; and in that interval of quiet, the knowledge came to me that this penitent, broken man--this agonised, stricken soul, was nearer, far nearer to God than I was. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Owen rose to his feet. "I heard of the mine accident at a roadside inn, this afternoon; that brought me home. I cannot understand how the water burst in. I had no idea there was an accumulation of water in Pride's Pit. I thought it was properly pumped away--but, there! I should have _known_. I am going down into the mine at once. I know David is in the mine." "Owen," I said, suddenly remembering, "David sent you that." I put the little note, which David had written, into his hands. He read it, then threw it, open, on the table. The hard look was gone from his eyes--they were glistening. "Farewell, dear, I am going to my duty. God helping me, I will save David or die." Before I could say a word, he was out of the house; before I could call to him, his footsteps had died away on the night air. I threw myself on my knees. I did not pray in words, but I prayed in floods of healing tears. Then I read David's letter. "_Owen, there are two sides to everything. What has happened is not bad for my little lad. God has taken him--it must be good for my child to be with God. I try to fix my mind on this thought. I ask you to try to do the same. I know this is hard_. "_Owen, you have been careless, and have sinned, and your sin has been punished. The punishment is all the worse for you, because it crushes me. It shall not quite crush me, Owen; I will rise above it. My dear brother, don't despair. If I can and do forgive you, with all my heart, so assuredly will God_. "_But, Owen, you are cowardly to shirk your duty. There is danger in the mine. As soon as ever you get this come to me there. Be brave! Whatever you feel, do your duty like a man, for my sake, and for God's sake_. "David." CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE LORD WAS NOT IN THE FIRE. And now, day after day, heroic men worked nobly. Without a thought of personal danger, engineers, viewers, managers, miners, private gentlemen,--all laboured for the common cause. Brothers were perishing of slow starvation, that was enough; brothers, come what might, would go to their rescue. Perhaps there was seldom seen a grander fight between love and death. Those who had a thorough knowledge of the mine, soon perceived that thirty-eight yards of solid coal intervened between the imprisoned men and their rescuers. The only other access was completely cut away by so vast a body of water, that it was not unfitly compared to an underground ocean. The obstacles between the rescuers and the imprisoned men seemed at first insurmountable. It appeared to be beyond human strength, either to drain away the water, or to cut through the coal, in time. What was to be done? Moses Thomas, who, whenever he came to the bank, gave me all the information in his power, said that hopeless as the task appeared, the coal was to be cut away from this black tomb without delay. Every strong man in the neighbourhood volunteered for this work, and truly the work was no light one! The place sloped downwards, about four inches to every yard, and each piece of coal struck away, had to be instantly removed. But fresh and fresh shifts of men plied their mandrils unremittingly; there was no halting or turning back; for three hours, without pause, each man worked, to be instantly followed, when this allotted time had expired, by a fresh volunteer. "Sleep, Miss," said one brawny fellow, when coming to the surface, he stooped to wash his blood-covered hands. "No, I doesn't want to sleep, while the Squire, and the lad, and the others is starving. I tell you, Miss, I never cried so bitter in all my life, as when I heard them knockings!" Thus by one mode of egress, all that mortal man could do, was being tried. But scientific men who were present, were too wise to neglect any plan for rescue. It was thought possible, that by means of divers, the imprisoned men might be reached through the water; accordingly two very experienced divers were telegraphed for from a well-known London firm, and as quickly as they could, they answered the summons. I did not know at the time, though I have learned something since, of the dangers these men underwent in this attempt to rescue human life. Having learned, I should like to say a little about them here, for I think no men stood higher in that band of heroes. So great was their danger, that not a gentleman in the neighbourhood would undertake the responsibility of sending them down into the mine, and some even counselled them not to undertake so hopeless a task. But both men instantly replied, that they would never return to their firm without making the attempt, and that they would take all responsibility on themselves. They had never been in a mine before, and very different would be the diving through this black and stagnant water, full of turnings of which they knew nothing, and of obstacles too great to be overcome, from any work they had hitherto undertaken. Indeed, so great was their danger, that those who saw them enter that inky sea, never expected to see them return again; but nothing daunted, the brave men closed their helmets, and commenced the impossible task. Mother and I, with many other women, and children, stood on the pit bank, and as the man who held the line, called out at intervals "fifty feet," "eighty feet," "a hundred feet," what echoes of hope and longing were awakened in beating hearts! I had one arm round mother's waist, Nan held my other hand, and when at last "five hundred feet" was called, and this was known to be within about two hundred and fifty feet of the stall where the prisoners were confined, simultaneously we went on our knees. The hope, the brilliant hope was too dazzling. Dazzling! it seemed to have come. Mother and I had David once more; little Nan, her brother; the under-viewer's wife, her husband. But; alas! it was only the lightning flash in the dark cloud, for at length, after a long period of silence, came the hopeless words, "They are coming back!" Yes, the brave divers had done their best, but were unsuccessful. To reach the prisoners by this means was a failure. As they said themselves, "We are very sorry, we found it was impossible to get on further, owing to pieces of wood in the water, the broken road, mud, and the strength of the swell." When they appeared again, and had stumbled exhausted to the ground, their helmets, new when they entered, were battered as though they had seen twenty years' service--a convincing proof of the dangers they had undergone. Yes, this attempt was a failure; but still hope did not die, still brave men toiled, and day after day the coal was cut away so perseveringly, so unceasingly, that at last on the seventh day after the inundation, shouts were made to the entombed men, and--oh! with what thankfulness was the faint answering response hailed. That weak cry, low and death-like, would have given the necessary spur had such been needed. All this time pumps were used, without ceasing, to reduce the water in the workings. Meanwhile, as day after day went by, each day filled with more of despair, and less of hope, what had become of Owen? He had said on that evening, some days back now, that he would rescue David or die, but still the manager of the mine was not present. At this critical time he had deserted his post, and the control and direction of all that was done, rested with strangers. Suspicion was grave against my brother, he had, to say the least of it, worked the mine recklessly. Though, with the utmost care, water inundations were sometimes impossible to avert, yet in this particular instance, it seemed that with ordinary foresight, by seeing that Pride's Pit was properly drained, or at least by avoiding the working of this particular coal vein, the present accident might never have taken place. Thus, things looked grave for Owen, and he was not at his post. Yes, I knew all this, I heard ugly words about an inquest, by and by; but strange as it may seem, never since his return, had my heart felt so at rest about Owen. I had a feeling, almost an instinct, that Owen had not really deserted his post, that among the volunteers in the mine he might be found, that amongst the bravest of the rescuers he might be numbered. When, with my sisters in this deep deep trouble, I stood for long hours of every day by the pit bank, I saw once amongst the smoke-begrimed and blackened men, who rose after their herculean toil to the surface, a face and form which in their outline resembled his--any other recognition was impossible; but so sure was I that this man was Owen, that I began gradually to watch for him alone. But watch as I would, I only saw him once. I was told afterwards, on questioning eagerly, that this miner slept below, that he refused to come to the surface at all, until the work for death or life was done, and that he appeared to work with the strength and energy of ten other men. "His name!" I breathlessly demanded. "Nobody knew his name, he was a volunteer, a stranger it seemed, but there were many such present; he was a plucky fellow, worth a great deal," this was all in this awful and grim conflict his fellow-workers cared for. I told mother of Owen's visit to me that night. I think my narrative comforted her, she asked very few questions; but I think _her_ eye too, though she said nothing, had rested on the face and form of the strange miner, and that she too had an idea, and a hope, that Owen was working in the mine. I believe, I feel sure, nothing kept up mother's heart and mine, so much as this hope. Was it possible that we were then learning the truth of that great saying from the lips of the Master--"He that loseth his life for My sake, shall find it?" Ay, for My sake, though _I_ reveal myself through a brother's love. About Wednesday night, the eighth of the men's imprisonment, thirty-two yards out of the thirty-eight of coal had been cut away. There were now only six yards of coal between the prisoners and freedom, and on the men being shouted to, the joyful news was brought to mother and me from the pit bank, that David's voice was heard above the rest; but, alas! sorrow came to many, while relief and thankfulness to is: there were only five men in the stall, four were now given up for lost. Between these five men and life and liberty, there seemed to me to be but a step, it could not take long, surely, to cut through the remaining six yards of coal, and to release the entombed from a lining grave. I showed my ignorance, my hope was wrong, the trial of my faith was not yet over. Nay, I think the faith that was to be tried by fire was put to the proof during the next two days, in every heart at Ffynon. The experienced colliers said that the real danger had now but begun. The water in the mine was only kept back from the imprisoned men by a very strong pressure of air, beyond this air-tight atmosphere it could not come; five or six feet away from the imprisoned men, it stood like an inky wall, but once break through with the slightest blow of the mandril, the wall of coal at one side, and the confined air would find vent, and the water, no longer impeded, would rush forward, sweeping into certain destruction both captives and rescuers. Unless the water could be pumped away, or the air in some way exhausted, there seemed to be no hope. All the pumps in the neighbourhood were lent, and were plied without intermission, and scientific men put their heads together and agreed to raise air-tight doors, so as to keep back the full rush of the imprisoned atmosphere, when the coal was broken through. But, alas! how faint and sick grew all our hearts, for nothing could now be done rashly, and was it possible that the men could live many hours longer without food? On the eighth night, food was attempted to be passed through a tube, but this proved a failure, the rush of air through the opening was so terrible, that it was found necessary to plug the hole. The roar of air was as loud as that of a blast furnace, and twice the force of the imprisoned air dashed out the plug, which could only be replaced by efforts almost superhuman. On the ninth day, I was passing through Gwen's room; she had been in a low fever, brought on by pain, and the violent shock her whole system had undergone. I used to avoid Gwen, dreading her questions, fearing to tell her what had happened. She was taken care of by a clever and experienced nurse, and I thought it kinder to leave her to her care; but on this day she heard my step, opened her eyes, and called me to her side. "Gwladys." "Yes, dear Gwen." "Have they buried the baby yet?" "Yes, Gwen, he is lying in a little grave in the churchyard close by; he was buried last Saturday." "Eh! dear, dear, I'd like to have seen his blessed little face first, but never mind! Oh! Gwladys, ain't the Lord good to the little 'uns?" "I don't know," I said. "Dear, my maid, and h'all this fiery trial upon you, and not to know. Dear, dear, haven't I bin lying here for days and learnin' h'all about it. Seems to me I never knew _what_ the Lord Jesus Christ was like before. Haven't He that baby in His arms now; haven't He put sight into his blind eyes, and shown to him the joys of Paradise; and haven't He bin helping me to bear the pain quite wonderful? I'll _tell_ you, Gwladys," raising herself in bed, "I'll tell you what the Lord is-- tender to the babies, pitiful to the sick and weak, abundant in mercy to the sinners, and the Saviour of them that's appointed to die; and if that's not a God for a time of trouble, I don't know where you'll find a God." Gwen brought out these words in detached sentences, for she was very weak; but her feverish eyes looked into mine, and her hot hand held my hand with energy. "And, my maid," she continued, in an exhausted whisper, "I've dreamed that dream again." "Oh! Gwen--what?" "All that dream about the mine, my maid; and I know 'tis coming true. Owen will save David." I left Gwen, and went into my own room. On my knees, for a brief instant, I spoke to God. "Oh! God," I said, "if you are the only help for a dark day, deliver us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon us. Lord, out of the depths, here, we cry to Thee. Lord, deliver those who are appointed to die;" and then, before I rose from my knees, four low words rose from my heart--"_Thy will be done_;" very low, in the faintest whisper--with the cold dew of agony breaking all over me, these words were wrung from my soul; still I said them. Then I went back to the bank. There was a change there, and some commotion-- something had happened. Alas! what? My heart beat audibly. I made my way through the crowd, and found myself close to a group of colliers, who had just come up from the mine. Terrible and ominous words smote on my ear. A new danger had arisen. There were signs of the colliers' worst enemy--gas. The Davy lamps could not be lit. Again the plug was blown out of the hole, and the roar of air which came through the opening, prevented the loudest voice being heard. "There is a power in there which would blow us up the heading like dust," said one. The peril was too tremendous. Even the bravest of the brave had given way. Dear life was too precious. The men who had toiled, as only heroes could toil, for so many long days and nights, faltered at length. To go forward now, seemed certain and absolute death to both rescuers and rescued. "The boy is gone," said Moses Thomas, looking Nan in the face. "He has been nine days now without food." "God help them all; they'll soon be in eternity," said another miner, wiping the tears from his weatherbeaten face. "This last has daunted us," said a third. "We have done all that men could do," sighed a fourth, who, worn out from toil, fell half-fainting on the ground. "To go on now, would be certain death," said a fifth. Then there was silence--intense silence; not even the sound of a woman's sob. The despairing men looked at one another. All seemed over. The starving prisoners in the mine were to starve to death. They were to listen in vain for the cheering sound of the mandril--in vain for their comrades' brave voices--in vain for light, food, liberty. The rescuers could venture into no deeper peril for their sakes. Suddenly the strange miner sprang to the front; fazed his companions with flashing eyes, and called out, in a deep voice rendered almost harsh by some pent-up emotion--"I'm going on, though 'tis death. Shut the doors upon me," he added, "and I'll cut the passage through!" Quick as lightning these words chased fear from every heart. "I'll go, for another--and I--and I," said many. And back went the brave men into the dark mine, to cut away, on their hands and knees, at a passage, in many places not three feet high. I don't know how it was, but from the moment I heard that brave collier's voice, I had hope--from that moment the worst of my heart agony was over. I felt that God would save the men. That His will was to deliver them from this pit of destruction. I was able to hear of the fresh dangers that still awaited the brave workers--of that frightful gas explosion, which on Friday obliged every working collier to fly for his life, and at last to return to his noble toil in the dark. Still I was not afraid. I felt sure of seeing David again. And now the tenth day had dawned, and excitement and hope had reached their highest pitch--their last tension. The air-tight doors were fixed in the workings. The men, both prisoners and rescuers, were now working in compressed air. The pumps had much reduced the water; and at last--at last, a breach was made. The pick of a miner had broken through the wall of coal. What a moment of excitement--longing--fear! What a joy, which seemed almost too grand, and great, for earth, when, to the thousands who waited above, the news was brought that science and love were successful--that back again from the arms of a terrible death, would come to us, our brothers and friends. I hardly remember what followed next. I never left the pit bank. I stood there, between mother and Nan, and watched, with straining eyes, that could hardly see--could hardly realise, as men, borne on litters, were carried past; men with coal-black faces--rigid, immovable, as though carved in granite. Little Miles was brought first. He looked tiny and shrunken; yet I saw that he breathed. Then three men, whom I did not know; but one of whom was recognised by the under-viewer's wife. Last of all our David. His eyes were open, and fixed on the blue sky. When mother saw David, she fainted. I bent over her, and tried to raise her. No one had seen her fall. The heroes in this tragedy had kept all eyes another way. My own head, as I bent over her, was reeling, my own brain was swimming. Suddenly two strong hands were placed under her head, and the strange miner raised her tenderly in his blackened and coal-covered arms. "Gwladys, we have saved them. Thank God!" he said. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. AFTER THE FIRE--A STILL, SMALL VOICE. This is the story. The rest England knows; she knows how all the rescued men recovered, she also knows how she has honoured rescued and rescuers. The last to get well, the slowest to get back again his health and strength, was David. For a time, indeed, for David there were grave doubts and anxieties, which on the doctors' parts amounted to fears. The previous shock and sorrow may have made the ten days without food, in that gloomy prison, tell more severely on him, for originally he was the strongest man of the five. However, after a fortnight of intense watching, the dreaded fever began to abate, and the burden of life which he had so nearly laid aside, he took up again, with his old cheerfulness and courage. "I'm glad he's not going to die," said Nan, "he's wanting down on earth still. Oh! ain't he strong," she added; "oh! if you only heard Miles talk of him!" One day I did hear a little of what David had done, from the boy himself. "Yes, Miss, he was standin' by me, when the water came in, we felt it running past our feet, he took my hand and said we'd run for the shaft; we run a few steps when we met Jones and two men, Powell and Williams; they said the waters were up to the roof, then we got into Powell's stall." "Had you any light?" "Yes, for a while we had candles, then we was in the dark, the water was a few feet away; when we was thirsty we drank the water, but it was very bad. No, we was _not_ very hungry, but we was most bitter cold." "You did not think you were so long in the stall?" "No, not more'n a week." "And you were not frightened?" Here the dark eyes, preternaturally large and eager-looking, gazed hard into mine. "No, I worn't feared to die. I thought I might die, we h'all thought it. I did want to kiss Nan, and father once, but Mr Morgan--" "Well, what about Mr Morgan?" "He spoke so, he said that the Better Land were worth going through anything to reach; he said that may be there were no other road for any of us to heaven, but right through the mine, and he axed us if we was willin' to go through that road to reach it. After a bit we all said we was." "Well?" "Then he'd pray to the Lord so earnest, it seemed as if the Lord was nigh to us, and Mr Morgan said He was with us in the stall; then we'd sing." "What did you sing, Miles?" "Only one hymn, over and over. We sings it at h'our meetings." "I know it," said Nan, "I'll sing it now. "In the deep and mighty waters. No one there can hold my head; But my only Saviour Jesus, Who was slaughtered in my stead. "Friend, he is in Jordan's river. Holds above the wave my head; With His smile I'll go rejoicing, Through the regions of the dead." "Ah!" said Miles, "you never'd know wot that hymn's worth unless you was in the mine. Then we heard the men knocking, and that kep up our hearts, and Mr Morgan said we might be rescued; but any way 'twas all right. Towards the end two of the men got queer and off their heads, and Mr Morgan, and Jones, the under-viewer, had a deal of trouble with 'em; then Mr Morgan thought the water might have gone down, and on Friday he went in and tried for a bit to wade through, but it was too deep, and he did not know the mine. Jones would have tried after him, but then we was let h'out. No, I doesn't remember that part. I knows nothing until I felt Nan kiss me, and I thought 'twas Stephie, and that I was in heaven." All the time during David's slow recovery, one person nursed him day and night--one person, with hardly any intermission, remained by his bedside; this was Owen. And no hand so soothed the sick and weary man, no face brought so peaceful a smile into his eyes, as the hand and face of Owen. As David grew better they had long talks together, but I never heard what they said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I have one thing more to write here. Three weeks after the accident, on an afternoon soft with west wind, and glowing with May beauty, I went to visit little David's grave. They had laid him in a very old churchyard, and the tiny grave faced the Rhoda Vale, and could be seen with its companion graves, from the bank of the Ffynon mine below. I had brought some flowers to plant there. Having completed my task, I sat, for a few moments, by the side of the little mound to rest. As I sat there, I saw a man walking quickly along the high road. He mounted the stile and ascended the steep path which led to the graveyard. As I watched him, my heart beat loud and audibly--for this man was Owen. He was coming to visit little David's grave. He had probably never seen it yet. Still I would not go away. I had something to say to Owen, I could say it best here. He came up, saw me, started for a moment, then seated himself by my side. "Gwladys, this is a fit place for us to meet. I have something to say to you." His words, look, manner, put any speech of my own out of my head. I turned to watch him. "There is such a thing, Gwladys, as being guilty even of this-- blood-guiltiness--and yet being washed white." Silence on my part. He laid his hand on the little grave, and continued-- "David, who never told a lie in his life, says he is glad; that if only the death of his child could bring me to his God, he is glad--glad even at that price." A long pause. "I have found his God. Even by so dark a path as my own sin, I have been led to his God and Saviour." Owen pressed his head on his hands. I saw two heavy tears drop between his fingers. "You will never know, Gwladys, what the finding of God out of so awful a storm of sin and suffering is like. I looked for Him down in the mine. With every stroke of my mandril, my heart cried, `Punish me as you will. I do not care what punishment you lay upon me. My life itself is valueless. Only let me find Thee.' But I could not find Him. As I went further and further into the mine, I seemed getting further and further away from Him; my sins were between Him and me. I could not get a glimpse of Him. I was in despair. I worked with the strength of despair. It was no true courage prompted me to go back, when the other men faltered. My life was valueless to me. Then, as you know, we brought the men out. I went to David. I _was_ glad that he was saved; but my heart was as heavy as ever. I used to sit up at night and fancy myself drifting further and further from God. My whole past life was before me, and it seemed hateful. Not only the wild, reckless days at Oxford, but the months that had seemed so righteous and proper here. One evening I said to David-- "`David, can you forgive me?' "`Ay, lad,' he answered, instantly, `and so can thy God.' "`No, that He can't,' I said. `He never can forgive the death of the baby.' "`You wrong Him, lad,' continued my brother. `He took the baby away in love. He knew your eyes were shut, and a great shock must open them. Surely, Owen, if the only way He could bring you to His arms was to take the baby first, _that_ won't turn Him away now. We must go through death to Him sometimes--the death of another, if not our own.' "`And _you_ are willing to give up your child for that?' "`Willing and glad, if by so doing you may find Christ.' "`David, how you have worked and suffered for me.'" "But not in vain," said David, with a radiant smile. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "No, Gwladys, it was not in vain; the brother's love was not in vain; the death of the Son of Man was not in vain. _I have found God_. There is to be a coroner's inquest; things may go hard with me, for I have been much to blame; but I shall tell the whole story. If I am allowed, I shall remain at Ffynon; but wherever I am, I mean to devote my life-- my whole life--all my time and all my energy, to the great cause of the miners; to the lessening of their many dangers; to the furthering of their well-being. This is my life-work; I promise to devote my life to the miners of Wales, here, by this little grave." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Owen, before we leave this spot, I have something to say to you." "What is that? my dear." "I want you to forgive me." "For what?" "Do you not know--can you not guess? I shut my heart against you; I gave you no true sister's welcome when you came home." "I thought you changed; I was disappointed. Had you ceased to love me?" "No, no; never that. But I had dreamt so of you--I thought you perfect. I thought you would come back bringing honour and glory; then I was told--I--" "I see; your love could not stand the shock." "No, Owen; my old, poor, and weak love--my idolatry, could not; under the blow it died." "Go on, my dear." "Owen, can you ever forgive me? I have been cold, unloving, unsisterly. I wonder, now, looking back on it, that you did not hate me!" "No; at first I was disappointed. You hardly know how I loved you long ago; how you had managed to twine your little childish self round my heart. When away I thought of you. I longed, almost as much for your sake as for David's, to win back that wretched gold. You were much changed. At first I was much disappointed; at last, I believe, indifferent." "It is my just punishment, brother. Still, I must say something now. Owen, I love you now. I love you now as I never did long ago; I understand you now. My heart can read yours at last I love you a thousand times better than of old. I don't expect you to respond to it," I concluded, with a sob. Owen rose to his feet. "One moment," he said; "do you love me well enough not to flatter me; well enough never to flatter me again; well enough to help me?" "Oh, yes! Oh! if we might help each other!" "I do respond to your love. Come to me, Gwladys." Standing by the little grave, he held out his arms and folded them round me, and kissed my cheek; and as I looked up into the dear, beautiful, noble face--it was all that truly now--I felt that my air castle had arisen out of its ashes; my day dream was fulfilled, and I had got back my hero and my darling. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The End. 
30954	----	Transcriber's notes: Fixed typographical error: In page 427 "that he returned somehow to San Francisco and died in the hosiptal." was changed to "that he returned somehow to San Francisco and died in the HOSPITAL." Text following a carat character (^) was superscript in the original (example: a^2). THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SWANSTON EDITION VOLUME XIII _Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies have been printed, of which only Two Thousand Copies are for sale._ _This is No._ ........... [Illustration: THE BACK VERANDAH AT VAILIMA] THE WORKS OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON VOLUME THIRTEEN LONDON: PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND WINDUS: IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL AND COMPANY LIMITED: WILLIAM HEINEMANN: AND LONGMANS GREEN AND COMPANY MDCCCCXII ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS THE WRECKER PROLOGUE PAGE IN THE MARQUESAS 5 THE YARN CHAPTER I. A SOUND COMMERCIAL EDUCATION 19 II. ROUSSILLON WINE 32 III. TO INTRODUCE MR. PINKERTON 43 IV. IN WHICH I EXPERIENCE EXTREMES OF FORTUNE 58 V. IN WHICH I AM DOWN ON MY LUCK IN PARIS 71 VI. IN WHICH I GO WEST 86 VII. IRONS IN THE FIRE: _Opes Strepitumque_ 102 VIII. FACES ON THE CITY FRONT 126 IX. THE WRECK OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ 139 X. IN WHICH THE CREW VANISH 154 XI. IN WHICH JIM AND I TAKE DIFFERENT WAYS 179 XII. THE _NORAH CREINA_ 194 XIII. THE ISLAND AND THE WRECK 210 XIV. THE CABIN OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ 222 XV. THE CARGO OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ 237 XVI. IN WHICH I TURN SMUGGLER, AND THE CAPTAIN CASUIST 251 XVII. LIGHT FROM THE MAN OF WAR 264 XVIII. CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS 278 XIX. TRAVELS WITH A SHYSTER 294 XX. STALLBRIDGE-LE-CARTHEW 317 XXI. FACE TO FACE 330 XXII. THE REMITTANCE MAN 338 XXIII. THE BUDGET OF THE _CURRENCY LASS_ 363 XXIV. A HARD BARGAIN 388 XXV. A BAD BARGAIN 402 EPILOGUE TO WILL H. LOW 427 THE WRECKER WRITTEN IN COLLABORATION WITH LLOYD OSBOURNE PROLOGUE THE WRECKER PROLOGUE IN THE MARQUESAS It was about three o'clock of a winter's afternoon in Tai-o-hae, the French capital and port of entry of the Marquesas Islands. The Trades blew strong and squally; the surf roared loud on the shingle beach; and the fifty-ton schooner of war, that carries the flag and influence of France about the islands of the cannibal group, rolled at her moorings under Prison Hill. The clouds hung low and black on the surrounding amphitheatre of mountains; rain had fallen earlier in the day, real tropic rain, a waterspout for violence; and the green and gloomy brow of the mountain was still seamed with many silver threads of torrent. In these hot and healthy islands winter is but a name. The rain had not refreshed, nor could the wind invigorate, the dwellers of Tai-o-hae: away at one end, indeed, the commandant was directing some changes in the residency garden beyond Prison Hill; and the gardeners, being all convicts, had no choice but to continue to obey. All other folks slumbered and took their rest: Vaekehu, the native Queen, in her trim house under the rustling palms; the Tahitian commissary, in his beflagged official residence; the merchants, in their deserted stores; and even the club-servant in the club, his head fallen forward on the bottle-counter, under the map of the world and the cards of navy officers. In the whole length of the single shoreside street, with its scattered board houses looking to the sea, its grateful shade of palms and green jungle of puraos, no moving figure could be seen. Only, at the end of the rickety pier, that once (in the prosperous days of the American rebellion) was used to groan under the cotton of John Hart, there might have been spied upon a pile of lumber the famous tattooed white man, the living curiosity of Tai-o-hae. His eyes were open, staring down the bay. He saw the mountains droop, as they approached the entrance, and break down in cliffs: the surf boil white round the two sentinel islets; and between, on the narrow bight of blue horizon, Ua-pu upraise the ghost of her pinnacled mountain-tops. But his mind would take no account of these familiar features; as he dodged in and out along the frontier line of sleep and waking, memory would serve him with broken fragments of the past: brown faces and white, of skipper and shipmate, king and chief, would arise before his mind and vanish; he would recall old voyages, old landfalls in the hour of dawn; he would hear again the drums beat for a man-eating festival; perhaps he would summon up the form of that island princess for the love of whom he had submitted his body to the cruel hands of the tattooer, and now sat on the lumber, at the pier-end of Tai-o-hae, so strange a figure of a European. Or perhaps, from yet further back, sounds and scents of England and his childhood might assail him: the merry clamour of cathedral bells, the broom upon the foreland, the song of the river on the weir. It is bold water at the mouth of the bay; you can steer a ship about either sentinel, close enough to toss a biscuit on the rocks. Thus it chanced that, as the tattooed man sat dozing and dreaming, he was startled into wakefulness and animation by the appearance of a flying jib beyond the western islet. Two more headsails followed; and before the tattooed man had scrambled to his feet, a topsail schooner of some hundred tons had luffed about the sentinel, and was standing up the bay, close-hauled. The sleeping city awakened by enchantment. Natives appeared upon all sides, hailing each other with the magic cry "Ehippy"--ship; the Queen stepped forth on her verandah, shading her eyes under a hand that was a miracle of the fine art of tattooing; the commandant broke from his domestic convicts and ran into the residency for his glass; the harbour-master, who was also the gaoler, came speeding down the Prison Hill; the seventeen brown Kanakas and the French boatswain's mate, that make up the complement of the war-schooner, crowded on the forward deck; and the various English, Americans, Germans, Poles, Corsicans and Scots--the merchants and the clerks of Tai-o-hae--deserted their places of business, and gathered, according to invariable custom, on the road before the club. So quickly did these dozen whites collect, so short are the distances in Tai-o-hae, that they were already exchanging guesses as to the nationality and business of the strange vessel, before she had gone about upon her second board towards the anchorage. A moment after, English colours were broken out at the main truck. "I told you she was a Johnny Bull--knew it by her headsails," said an evergreen old salt, still qualified (if he could anywhere have found an owner unacquainted with his story) to adorn another quarter-deck and lose another ship. "She has American lines, anyway," said the astute Scots engineer of the gin-mill; "it's my belief she's a yacht." "That's it," said the old salt, "a yacht! look at her davits, and the boat over the stern." "A yacht in your eye!" said a Glasgow voice. "Look at her red ensign! A yacht! not much she isn't!" "You can close the store, anyway, Tom," observed a gentlemanly German. "_Bon jour, mon Prince!_" he added, as a dark, intelligent native cantered by on a neat chestnut. "_Vous allez boire un verre de bière?_" But Prince Stanila Moanatini, the only reasonably busy human creature on the island, was riding hotspur to view this morning's landslip on the mountain road; the sun already visibly declined; night was imminent; and if he would avoid the perils of darkness and precipice, and the fear of the dead, the haunters of the jungle, he must for once decline a hospitable invitation. Even had he been minded to alight, it presently appeared there would be difficulty as to the refreshment offered. "Beer!" cried the Glasgow voice. "No such a thing; I tell you there's only eight bottles in the club! Here's the first time I've seen British colours in this port! and the man that sails under them has got to drink that beer." The proposal struck the public mind as fair, though far from cheering; for some time back, indeed, the very name of beer had been a sound of sorrow in the club, and the evenings had passed in dolorous computation. "Here is Havens," said one, as if welcoming a fresh topic.--"What do you think of her, Havens?" "I don't think," replied Havens, a tall, bland, cool-looking, leisurely Englishman, attired in spotless duck, and deliberately dealing with a cigarette. "I may say I know. She's consigned to me from Auckland by Donald and Edenborough. I am on my way aboard." "What ship is she?" asked the ancient mariner. "Haven't an idea," returned Havens. "Some tramp they have chartered." With that he placidly resumed his walk, and was soon seated in the stern-sheets of a whaleboat manned by uproarious Kanakas, himself daintily perched out of the way of the least maculation, giving his commands in an unobtrusive, dinner-table tone of voice, and sweeping neatly enough alongside the schooner. A weather-beaten captain received him at the gangway. "You are consigned to us, I think," said he. "I am Mr. Havens." "That is right, sir," replied the captain, shaking hands. "You will find the owner, Mr. Dodd, below. Mind the fresh paint on the house." Havens stepped along the alley-way, and descended the ladder into the main cabin. "Mr. Dodd, I believe," said he, addressing a smallish, bearded gentleman, who sat writing at the table.--"Why," he cried, "it isn't Loudon Dodd?" "Myself, my dear fellow," replied Mr. Dodd, springing to his feet with companionable alacrity. "I had a half-hope it might be you, when I found your name on the papers. Well, there's no change in you; still the same placid, fresh-looking Britisher." "I can't return the compliment; for you seem to have become a Britisher yourself," said Havens. "I promise you, I am quite unchanged," returned Dodd. "The red tablecloth at the top of the stick is not my flag; it's my partner's. He is not dead, but sleepeth. There he is," he added, pointing to a bust which formed one of the numerous unexpected ornaments of that unusual cabin. Havens politely studied it. "A fine bust," said he; "and a very nice-looking fellow." "Yes; he's a good fellow," said Dodd. "He runs me now. It's all his money." "He doesn't seem to be particularly short of it," added the other, peering with growing wonder round the cabin. "His money, my taste," said Dodd. "The black walnut bookshelves are old English; the books all mine--mostly Renaissance French. You should see how the beach-combers wilt away when they go round them, looking for a change of seaside library novels. The mirrors are genuine Venice; that's a good piece in the corner. The daubs are mine--and his; the mudding mine." "Mudding? What is that?" asked Havens. "These bronzes," replied Dodd. "I began life as a sculptor." "Yes; I remember something about that," said the other. "I think, too, you said you were interested in Californian real estate." "Surely I never went so far as that," said Dodd. "Interested? I guess not. Involved, perhaps. I was born an artist; I never took an interest in anything but art. If I were to pile up this old schooner to-morrow," he added, "I declare I believe I would try the thing again!" "Insured?" inquired Havens. "Yes," responded Dodd. "There's some fool in 'Frisco who insures us, and comes down like a wolf on the fold on the profits; but we'll get even with him some day." "Well, I suppose it's all right about the cargo," said Havens. "O, I suppose so!" replied Dodd. "Shall we go into the papers?" "We'll have all to-morrow, you know," said Havens; "and they'll be rather expecting you at the club. _C'est l'heure de l'absinthe_. Of course, Loudon, you'll dine with me later on?" Mr. Dodd signified his acquiescence; drew on his white coat, not without a trifling difficulty, for he was a man of middle age, and well-to-do; arranged his beard and moustaches at one of the Venetian mirrors; and, taking a broad felt hat, led the way through the trade-room into the ship's waist. The stern, boat was waiting alongside--a boat of an elegant model, with cushions and polished hardwood fittings. "You steer," observed Loudon. "You know the best place to land." "I never like to steer another man's boat," replied Havens. "Call it my partner's, and cry quits," returned Loudon, getting nonchalantly down the side. Havens followed and took the yoke lines without further protest. "I am sure I don't know how you make this pay," he said. "To begin with, she is too big for the trade, to my taste; and then you carry so much style." "I don't know that she does pay," returned Loudon. "I never pretend to be a business man. My partner appears happy; and the money is all his, as I told you--I only bring the want of business habits." "You rather like the berth, I suppose?" suggested Havens. "Yes," said Loudon; "it seems odd, but I rather do." While they were yet on board, the sun had dipped; the sunset gun (a rifle) had cracked from the war-schooner, and the colours had been handed down. Dusk was deepening as they came ashore; and the _Cercle International_(as the club is officially and significantly named) began to shine, from under its low verandahs, with the light of many lamps. The good hours of the twenty-four drew on; the hateful, poisonous day-fly of Nukahiva was beginning to desist from its activity; the land-breeze came in refreshing draughts; and the club-men gathered together for the hour of absinthe. To the commandant himself, to the man whom he was then contending with at billiards--a trader from the next island, honorary member of the club, and once carpenter's mate on board a Yankee war-ship--to the doctor of the port, to the Brigadier of Gendarmerie, to the opium-farmer, and to all the white men whom the tide of commerce, or the chances of shipwreck and desertion, had stranded on the beach of Tai-o-hae, Mr. Loudon Dodd was formally presented; by all (since he was a man of pleasing exterior, smooth ways, and an unexceptionable flow of talk, whether in French or English) he was excellently well received; and presently, with one of the last eight bottles of beer on a table at his elbow, found himself the rather silent centrepiece of a voluble group on the verandah. Talk in the South Seas is all upon one pattern; it is a wide ocean, indeed, but a narrow world: you shall never talk long and not hear the name of Bully Hayes, a naval hero whose exploits and deserved extinction left Europe cold; commerce will be touched on, copra, shell, perhaps cotton or fungus; but in a far-away, dilettante fashion, as by men not deeply interested; through all, the names of schooners and their captains will keep coming and going, thick as may-flies; and news of the last shipwreck will be placidly exchanged and debated. To a stranger, this conversation will at first seem scarcely brilliant but he will soon catch the tone; and by the time he shall have moved a year or so in the island world, and come across a good number of the schooners, so that every captain's name calls up a figure in pyjamas or white duck, and becomes used to a certain laxity of moral tone which prevails (as in memory of Mr. Hayes) on smuggling, ship-scuttling, barratry, piracy, the labour trade, and other kindred fields of human activity, he will find Polynesia no less amusing and no less instructive than Pall Mall or Paris. Mr. Loudon Dodd, though he was new to the group of the Marquesas, was already an old, salted trader; he knew the ships and the captains; he had assisted, in other islands, at the first steps of some career of which he now heard the culmination, or (_vice versâ_) he had brought with him from further south the end of some story which had begun in Tai-o-hae. Among other matters of interest, like other arrivals in the South Seas, he had a wreck to announce. The _John T. Richards_, it appeared, had met the fate of other island schooners. "Dickinson piled her up on Palmerston Island," Dodd announced. "Who were the owners?" inquired one of the clubmen. "O, the usual parties!" returned Loudon, "Capsicum and Co." A smile and a glance of intelligence went round the group; and perhaps Loudon gave voice to the general sentiment by remarking-- "Talk of good business! I know nothing better than a schooner, a competent captain, and a sound reliable reef." "Good business! There's no such a thing!" said the Glasgow man. "Nobody makes anything but the missionaries--dash it!" "I don't know," said another; "there's a good deal in opium." "It's a good job to strike a tabooed pearl-island--say, about the fourth year," remarked a third, "skim the whole lagoon on the sly, and up stick and away before the French get wind of you." "A pig nokket of cold is good," observed a German. "There's something in wrecks, too," said Havens. "Look at that man in Honolulu, and the ship that went ashore on Waikiki Reef; it was blowing a kona, hard; and she began to break up as soon as she touched. Lloyd's agent had her sold inside an hour; and before dark, when she went to pieces in earnest, the man that bought her had feathered his nest. Three more hours of daylight, and he might have retired from business. As it was, he built a house on Beretania Street, and called it after the ship." "Yes, there's something in wrecks sometimes," said the Glasgow voice; "but not often." "As a general rule, there's deuced little in anything," said Havens. "Well, I believe that's a Christian fact," cried the other. "What I want is a secret, get hold of a rich man by the right place, and make him squeal." "I suppose you know it's not thought to be the ticket," returned Havens. "I don't care for that; it's good enough for me," cried the man from Glasgow, stoutly. "The only devil of it is, a fellow can never find a secret in a place like the South Seas: only in London and Paris." "M'Gibbon's been reading some dime novel, I suppose," said one club-man. "He's been reading 'Aurora Floyd,'" remarked another. "And what if I have?" cried M'Gibbon. "It's all true. Look at the newspapers! It's just your confounded ignorance that sets you snickering. I tell you, it's as much a trade as underwriting, and a dashed sight more honest." The sudden acrimony of these remarks called Loudon (who was a man of peace) from his reserve. "It's rather singular," said he, "but I seem to have practised about all these means of livelihood." "Tit you effer find a nokket?" inquired the inarticulate German, eagerly. "No. I have been most kinds of fool in my time," returned Loudon, "but not the gold-digging variety. Every man has a sane spot somewhere." "Well, then," suggested some one, "did you ever smuggle opium?" "Yes, I did," said Loudon. "Was there money in that?" "All the way," responded Loudon. "And perhaps you bought a wreck?" asked another. "Yes, sir," said Loudon. "How did that pan out?" pursued the questioner. "Well, mine was a peculiar kind of wreck," replied Loudon. "I don't know, on the whole, that I can recommend that branch of industry." "Did she break up?" asked some one. "I guess it was rather I that broke down," says Loudon. "Head not big enough." "Ever try the blackmail?" inquired Havens. "Simple as you see me sitting here!" responded Dodd. "Good business?" "Well, I'm not a lucky man, you see," returned the stranger. "It ought to have been good." "You had a secret?" asked the Glasgow man. "As big as the State of Texas." "And the other man was rich?" "He wasn't exactly Jay Gould, but I guess he could buy these islands if he wanted." "Why, what was wrong, then? Couldn't you get hands on him?" "It took time, but I had him cornered at last; and then----" "What then?" "The speculation turned bottom up. I became the man's bosom friend." "The deuce you did!" "He couldn't have been particular, you mean?" asked Dodd pleasantly. "Well, no; he's a man of rather large sympathies." "If you're done talking nonsense, Loudon," said Havens, "let's be getting to my place for dinner." Outside, the night was full of the roaring of the surf. Scattered lights glowed in the green thicket. Native women came by twos and threes out of the darkness, smiled and ogled the two whites, perhaps wooed them with a strain of laughter, and went by again, bequeathing to the air a heady perfume of palm-oil and frangipani blossom. From the club to Mr. Havens's residence was but a step or two, and to any dweller in Europe they must have seemed steps in fairyland. If such an one could but have followed our two friends into the wide-verandahed house, sat down with them in the cool trellised room, where the wine shone on the lamp-lighted tablecloth; tasted of their exotic food--the raw fish, the bread-fruit, the cooked bananas, the roast pig served with the inimitable miti, and that king of delicacies, palm-tree salad; seen and heard by fits and starts, now peering round the corner of the door, now railing within against invisible assistants, a certain comely young native lady in a sacque, who seemed too modest to be a member of the family, and too imperious to be less; and then if such an one were whisked again through space to Upper Tooting, or wherever else he honoured the domestic gods, "I have had a dream," I think he would say, as he sat up, rubbing his eyes, in the familiar chimney-corner chair, "I have had a dream of a place, and I declare I believe it must be heaven." But to Dodd and his entertainer, all this amenity of the tropic night, and all these dainties of the island table, were grown things of custom; and they fell to meat like men who were hungry, and drifted into idle talk like men who were a trifle bored. The scene in the club was referred to. "I never heard you talk so much nonsense, Loudon," said the host. "Well, it seemed to me there was sulphur in the air, so I talked for talking," returned the other. "But it was none of it nonsense." "Do you mean to say it was true?" cried Havens--"that about the opium and the wreck, and the black-mailing, and the man who became your friend?" "Every last word of it," said Loudon. "You seem to have been seeing life," returned the other. "Yes, it's a queer yarn," said his friend; "if you think you would like, I'll tell it you." Here follows the yarn of Loudon Dodd, not as he told it to his friend, but as he subsequently wrote it. THE YARN CHAPTER I A SOUND COMMERCIAL EDUCATION The beginning of this yarn is my poor father's character. There never was a better man, nor a handsomer, nor (in my view) a more unhappy--unhappy in his business, in his pleasures, in his place of residence, and (I am sorry to say it) in his son. He had begun life as a land-surveyor, soon became interested in real estate, branched off into many other speculations, and had the name of one of the smartest men in the State of Muskegon. "Dodd has a big head," people used to say; but I was never so sure of his capacity. His luck, at least, was beyond doubt for long; his assiduity, always. He fought in that daily battle of money-grubbing, with a kind of sad-eyed loyalty like a martyr's; rose early, ate fast, came home dispirited and over-weary, even from success; grudged himself all pleasure, if his nature was capable of taking any, which I sometimes wondered; and laid out, upon some deal in wheat or corner in aluminium, the essence of which was little better than highway robbery, treasures of conscientiousness and self-denial. Unluckily, I never cared a cent for anything but art, and never shall. My idea of man's chief end was to enrich the world with things of beauty, and have a fairly good time myself while doing so. I do not think I mentioned that second part, which is the only one I have managed to carry out; but my father must have suspected the suppression, for he branded the whole affair as self-indulgence. "Well," I remember crying once, "and what is your life? You are only trying to get money, and to get it from other people at that." He sighed bitterly (which was very much his habit), and shook his poor head at me. "Ah, Loudon, Loudon!" said he, "you boys think yourselves very smart. But, struggle as you please, a man has to work in this world. He must be an honest man or a thief, Loudon." You can see for yourself how vain it was to argue with my father. The despair that seized upon me after such an interview was, besides, embittered by remorse; for I was at times petulant, but he invariably gentle; and I was fighting, after all, for my own liberty and pleasure, he singly for what he thought to be my good. And all the time he never despaired. "There is good stuff in you, Loudon," he would say; "there is the right stuff in you. Blood will tell, and you will come right in time. I am not afraid my boy will ever disgrace me; I am only vexed he should sometimes talk nonsense." And then he would pat my shoulder or my hand with a kind of motherly way he had, very affecting in a man so strong and beautiful. As soon as I had graduated from the high school, he packed me off to the Muskegon Commercial Academy. You are a foreigner, and you will have a difficulty in accepting the reality of this seat of education. I assure you before I begin that I am wholly serious. The place really existed, possibly exists to-day: we were proud of it in the State, as something exceptionally nineteenth-century and civilised; and my father, when he saw me to the cars, no doubt considered he was putting me in a straight line for the Presidency and the New Jerusalem. "Loudon," said he, "I am now giving you a chance that Julius Cæsar could not have given to his son--a chance to see life as it is, before your own turn comes to start in earnest. Avoid rash speculation, try to behave like a gentleman; and if you will take my advice, confine yourself to a safe, conservative business in railroads. Breadstuffs are tempting, but very dangerous; I would not try breadstuffs at your time of life; but you may feel your way a little in other commodities. Take a pride to keep your books posted, and never throw good money after bad. There, my dear boy, kiss me good-bye; and never forget that you are an only chick, and that your dad watches your career with fond suspense." The commercial college was a fine, roomy establishment, pleasantly situate among woods. The air was healthy, the food excellent, the premium high. Electric wires connected it (to use the words of the prospectus) with "the various world centres." The reading-room was well supplied with "commercial organs." The talk was that of Wall Street; and the pupils (from fifty to a hundred lads) were principally engaged in rooking or trying to rook one another for nominal sums in what was called "college paper." We had class hours, indeed, in the morning, when we studied German, French, book-keeping, and the like goodly matters; but the bulk of our day and the gist of the education centred in the exchange, where we were taught to gamble in produce and securities. Since not one of the participants possessed a bushel of wheat or a dollar's worth of stock, legitimate business was of course impossible from the beginning. It was cold-drawn gambling, without colour or disguise. Just that which is the impediment and destruction of all genuine commercial enterprise, just that we were taught with every luxury of stage effect. Our simulacrum of a market was ruled by the real markets outside, so that we might experience the course and vicissitude of prices. We must keep books, and our ledgers were overhauled at the month's end by the principal or his assistants. To add a spice of verisimilitude, "college paper" (like poker chips) had an actual marketable value. It was bought for each pupil by anxious parents and guardians at the rate of one cent for the dollar. The same pupil, when his education was complete, resold, at the same figure, so much as was left him to the college; and even in the midst of his curriculum, a successful operator would sometimes realise a proportion of his holding, and stand a supper on the sly in the neighbouring hamlet. In short, if there was ever a worse education it must have been in that academy where Oliver met Charles Bates. When I was first guided into the exchange to have my desk pointed out by one of the assistant teachers, I was overwhelmed by the clamour and confusion. Certain blackboards at the other end of the building were covered with figures continually replaced. As each new set appeared, the pupils swayed to and fro, and roared out aloud with a formidable and to me quite meaningless vociferation; leaping at the same time upon the desks and benches, signalling with arms and heads, and scribbling briskly in note-books. I thought I had never beheld a scene more disagreeable; and when I considered that the whole traffic was illusory, and all the money then upon the market would scarce have sufficed to buy a pair of skates, I was at first astonished, although not for long. Indeed, I had no sooner called to mind how grown-up men and women of considerable estate will lose their temper about halfpenny points, than (making an immediate allowance for my fellow-students) I transferred the whole of my astonishment to the assistant teacher, who--poor gentleman--had quite forgot to show me to my desk, and stood in the midst of this hurly-burly, absorbed and seemingly transported. "Look, look," he shouted in my ear; "a falling market! The bears have had it all their own way since yesterday." "It can't matter," I replied, making him hear with difficulty, for I was unused to speak in such a babel, "since it is all fun." "True," said he; "and you must always bear in mind that the real profit is in the book-keeping. I trust, Dodd, to be able to congratulate you upon your books. You are to start in with ten thousand dollars of college paper, a very liberal figure, which should see you through the whole curriculum, if you keep to a safe, conservative business.... Why, what's that?" he broke off, once more attracted by the changing figures on the board. "Seven, four, three! Dodd, you are in luck: this is the most spirited rally we have had this term. And to think that the same scene is now transpiring in New York, Chicago, St. Louis, and rival business centres! For two cents, I would try a flutter with the boys myself," he cried, rubbing his hands; "only it's against the regulations." "What would you do, sir?" I asked. "Do?" he cried, with glittering eyes. "Buy for all I was worth!" "Would that be a safe, conservative business?" I inquired, as innocent as a lamb. He looked daggers at me. "See that sandy-haired man in glasses?" he asked, as if to change the subject. "That's Billson, our most prominent undergraduate. We build confidently on Billson's future. You could not do better, Dodd, than follow Billson." Presently after, in the midst of a still growing tumult, the figures coming and going more busily than ever on the board, and the hall resounding like Pandemonium with the howls of operators, the assistant teacher left me to my own resources at my desk. The next boy was posting up his ledger, figuring his morning's loss, as I discovered later on; and from this ungenial task he was readily diverted by the sight of a new face. "Say, Freshman," he said, "what's your name? What? Son of Big Head Dodd? What's your figure? Ten thousand! O, you're away up! What a soft-headed clam you must be to touch your books!" I asked him what else I could do, since the books were to be examined once a month. "Why, you galoot, you get a clerk!" cries he. "One of our dead beats--that's all they're here for. If you're a successful operator, you need never do a stroke of work in this old college." The noise had now become deafening; and my new friend, telling me that some one had certainly "gone down," that he must know the news, and that he would bring me a clerk when he returned, buttoned his coat and plunged into the tossing throng. It proved that he was right: some one had gone down; a prince had fallen in Israel; the corner in lard had proved fatal to the mighty; and the clerk who was brought back to keep my books, spare me all work, and get all my share of the education, at a thousand dollars a month, college paper (ten dollars, United States currency), was no other than the prominent Billson whom I could do no better than follow. The poor lad was very unhappy. It's the only good thing I have to say for Muskegon Commercial College, that we were all, even the small fry, deeply mortified to be posted as defaulters; and the collapse of a merchant prince like Billson, who had ridden pretty high in his days of prosperity, was, of course, particularly hard to bear. But the spirit of make-believe conquered even the bitterness of recent shame; and my clerk took his orders, and fell to his new duties, with decorum and civility. Such were my first impressions in this absurd place of education; and, to be frank, they were far from disagreeable. As long as I was rich, my evenings and afternoons would be my own; the clerk must keep my books, the clerk could do the jostling and bawling in the exchange; and I could turn my mind to landscape-painting and Balzac's novels, which were then my two pre-occupations. To remain rich, then, became my problem; or, in other words, to do a safe, conservative line of business. I am looking for that line still; and I believe the nearest thing to it in this imperfect world is the sort of speculation sometimes insidiously proposed to childhood, in the formula, "Heads I win; tails you lose." Mindful of my father's parting words, I turned my attention timidly to railroads; and for a month or so maintained a position of inglorious security, dealing for small amounts in the most inert stocks, and bearing (as best I could) the scorn of my hired clerk. One day I ventured a little further by way of experiment; and, in the sure expectation they would continue to go down, sold several thousand dollars of Pan-Handle Preference (I think it was). I had no sooner made this venture than some fools in New York began to bull the market; Pan-Handles rose like a balloon; and in the inside of half an hour I saw my position compromised. Blood will tell, as my father said; and I stuck to it gallantly: all afternoon I continued selling that infernal stock, all afternoon it continued skying. I suppose I had come (a frail cockle-shell) athwart the hawse of Jay Gould; and, indeed, I think I remember that this vagary in the market proved subsequently to be the first move in a considerable deal. That evening, at least, the name of H. Loudon Dodd held the first rank in our collegiate gazette, and I and Billson (once more thrown upon the world) were competing for the same clerkship. The present object takes the present eye. My disaster, for the moment, was the more conspicuous; and it was I that got the situation. So, you see, even in Muskegon Commercial College there were lessons to be learned. For my own part, I cared very little whether I lost or won at a game so random, so complex, and so dull; but it was sorry news to write to my poor father, and I employed all the resources of my eloquence. I told him (what was the truth) that the successful boys had none of the education; so that, if he wished me to learn, he should rejoice at my misfortune. I went on (not very consistently) to beg him to set me up again, when I would solemnly promise to do a safe business in reliable railroads. Lastly (becoming somewhat carried away), I assured him I was totally unfit for business, and implored him to take me away from this abominable place, and let me go to Paris to study art. He answered briefly, gently, and sadly, telling me the vacation was near at hand, when we could talk things over. When the time came, he met me at the depot, and I was shocked to see him looking older. He seemed to have no thought but to console me and restore (what he supposed I had lost) my courage. I must not be down-hearted; many of the best men had made a failure in the beginning. I told him I had no head for business, and his kind face darkened. "You must not say that, Loudon," he replied; "I will never believe my son to be a coward." "But I don't like it," I pleaded. "It hasn't got any interest for me, and art has. I know I could do more in art," and I reminded him that a successful painter gains large sums; that a picture of Meissonier's would sell for many thousand dollars. "And do you think, Loudon," he replied, "that a man who can paint a thousand-dollar picture has not grit enough to keep his end up in the stock market? No, sir; this Mason (of whom you speak) or our own American Bierstadt--if you were to put them down in a wheat-pit to-morrow, they would show their mettle. Come, Loudon, my dear; Heaven knows I have no thought but your own good, and I will offer you a bargain. I start you again next term with ten thousand dollars; show yourself a man, and double it, and then (if you still wish to go to Paris, which I know you won't) I'll let you go. But to let you run away as if you were whipped, is what I am too proud to do." My heart leaped at this proposal, and then sank again. It seemed easier to paint a Meissonier on the spot than to win ten thousand dollars on that mimic stock exchange. Nor could I help reflecting on the singularity of such a test for a man's capacity to be a painter. I ventured even to comment on this. He sighed deeply. "You forget, my dear," said he, "I am a judge of the one, and not of the other. You might have the genius of Bierstadt himself, and I would be none the wiser." "And then," I continued, "it's scarcely fair. The other boys are helped by their people, who telegraph and give them pointers. There's Jim Costello, who never budges without a word from his father in New York. And then, don't you see, if anybody is to win, somebody must lose?" "I'll keep you posted," cried my father, with unusual animation; "I did not know it was allowed. I'll wire you in the office cipher, and we'll make it a kind of partnership business, Loudon:--Dodd and Son, eh?" and he patted my shoulder and repeated, "Dodd and Son, Dodd and Son," with the kindliest amusement. If my father was to give me pointers, and the commercial college was to be a stepping-stone to Paris, I could look my future in the face. The old boy, too, was so pleased at the idea of our association in this foolery, that he immediately plucked up spirit. Thus it befell that those who had met at the depot like a pair of mutes, sat down to table with holiday faces. And now I have to introduce a new character that never said a word nor wagged a finger, and yet shaped my whole subsequent career. You have crossed the States, so that in all likelihood you have seen the head of it, parcel-gilt and curiously fluted, rising among trees from a wide plain; for this new character was no other than the State capitol of Muskegon, then first projected. My father had embraced the idea with a mixture of patriotism and commercial greed, both perfectly genuine. He was of all the committees, he had subscribed a great deal of money, and he was making arrangements to have a finger in most of the contracts. Competitive plans had been sent in; at the time of my return from college my father was deep in their consideration; and as the idea entirely occupied his mind, the first evening did not pass away before he had called me into council. Here was a subject at last into which I could throw myself with pleasurable zeal. Architecture was new to me, indeed; but it was at least an art; and for all the arts I had a taste naturally classical, and that capacity to take delighted pains which some famous idiot has supposed to be synonymous with genius. I threw myself headlong into my father's work, acquainted myself with all the plans, their merits and defects, read besides in special books, made myself a master of the theory of strains, studied the current prices of materials, and (in one word) "devilled" the whole business so thoroughly, that when the plans came up for consideration, Big Head Dodd was supposed to have earned fresh laurels. His arguments carried the day, his choice was approved by the committee, and I had the anonymous satisfaction to know that arguments and choice were wholly mine. In the re-casting of the plan which followed, my part was even larger; for I designed and cast with my own hand a hot-air grating for the offices, which had the luck or merit to be accepted. The energy and aptitude which I displayed throughout delighted and surprised my father, and I believe, although I say it, whose tongue should be tied, that they alone prevented Muskegon capitol from being the eyesore of my native State. Altogether, I was in a cheery frame of mind when I returned to the commercial college; and my earlier operations were crowned with a full measure of success. My father wrote and wired to me continually. "You are to exercise your own judgment, Loudon," he would say. "All that I do is to give you the figures; but whatever operation you take up must be upon your own responsibility, and whatever you earn will be entirely due to your own dash and forethought." For all that, it was always clear what he intended me to do, and I was always careful to do it. Inside of a month I was at the head of seventeen or eighteen thousand dollars, college paper. And here I fell a victim to one of the vices of the system. The paper (I have already explained) had a real value of one per cent.; and cost, and could be sold for, currency. Unsuccessful speculators were thus always selling clothes, books, banjos, and sleeve-links, in order to pay their differences; the successful, on the other hand, were often tempted to realise, and enjoy some return upon their profits. Now I wanted thirty dollars' worth of artist truck, for I was always sketching in the woods; my allowance was for the time exhausted; I had begun to regard the exchange (with my father's help) as a place where money was to be got for stooping; and in an evil hour I realised three thousand dollars of the college paper and bought my easel. It was a Wednesday morning when the things arrived, and set me in the seventh heaven of satisfaction. My father (for I can scarcely say myself) was trying at this time a "straddle" in wheat between Chicago and New York; the operation so called, is, as you know, one of the most tempting and least safe upon the chess-board of finance. On the Thursday, luck began to turn against my father's calculations; and by the Friday evening I was posted on the boards as a defaulter for the second time. Here was a rude blow: my father would have taken it ill enough in any case; for however much a man may resent the incapacity of an only son, he will feel his own more sensibly. But it chanced that, in our bitter cup of failure, there was one ingredient that might truly be called poisonous. He had been keeping the run of my position; he missed the three thousand dollars, paper; and in his view, I had stolen thirty dollars, currency. It was an extreme view perhaps; but in some senses, it was just: and my father, although (to my judgment) quite reckless of honesty in the essence of his operations, was the soul of honour as to their details. I had one grieved letter from him, dignified and tender; and during the rest of that wretched term, working as a clerk, selling my clothes and sketches to make futile speculations, my dream of Paris quite vanished. I was cheered by no word of kindness and helped by no hint of counsel from my father. All the time he was no doubt thinking of little else but his son, and what to do with him. I believe he had been really appalled by what he regarded as my laxity of principle, and began to think it might be well to preserve me from temptation; the architect of the capitol had, besides, spoken obligingly of my design; and while he was thus hanging between two minds, Fortune suddenly stepped in, and Muskegon State capitol reversed my destiny. "Loudon," said my father, as he met me at the depot, with a smiling countenance, "if you were to go to Paris, how long would it take you to become an experienced sculptor?" "How do you mean, father," I cried--"experienced?" "A man that could be entrusted with the highest styles," he answered; "the nude, for instance; and the patriotic and emblematical styles." "It might take three years," I replied. "You think Paris necessary?" he asked. "There are great advantages in our own country; and that man Prodgers appears to be a very clever sculptor, though I suppose he stands too high to go around giving lessons." "Paris is the only place," I assured him. "Well, I think myself it will sound better," he admitted. "A Young Man, a Native of this State, Son of a Leading Citizen, Studies Prosecuted under the Most Experienced Masters in Paris," he added relishingly. "But, my dear dad, what is it all about?" I interrupted. "I never even dreamed of being a sculptor." "Well, here it is," said he. "I took up the statuary contract on our new capitol; I took it up at first as a deal; and then it occurred to me it would be better to keep it in the family. It meets your idea; there's considerable money in the thing; and it's patriotic. So, if you say the word, you shall go to Paris, and come back in three years to decorate the capitol of your native State. It's a big chance for you, Loudon; and I'll tell you what--every dollar you earn, I'll put another alongside of it. But the sooner you go, and the harder you work, the better; for if the first half-dozen statues aren't in a line with public taste in Muskegon, there will be trouble." CHAPTER II ROUSSILLON WINE My mother's family was Scottish, and it was judged fitting I should pay a visit, on my way Paris-ward, to my uncle Adam Loudon, a wealthy retired grocer of Edinburgh. He was very stiff and very ironical; he fed me well, lodged me sumptuously, and seemed to take it out of me all the time, cent. per cent., in secret entertainment which caused his spectacles to glitter and his mouth to twitch. The ground of this ill-suppressed mirth (as well as I could make out) was simply the fact that I was an American. "Well," he would say, drawing out the word to infinity, "and I suppose now in your country things will be so-and-so." And the whole group of my cousins would titter joyously. Repeated receptions of this sort must be at the root, I suppose, of what they call the Great American Jest; and I know I was myself goaded into saying that my friends went naked in the summer months, and that the Second Methodist Episcopal Church in Muskegon was decorated with scalps. I cannot say that these flights had any great success; they seemed to awaken little more surprise than the fact that my father was a Republican, or that I had been taught in school to spell _colour_ without the _u_. If I had told them (what was, after all, the truth) that my father had paid a considerable annual sum to have me brought up in a gambling-hell, the tittering and grinning of this dreadful family might perhaps have been excused. I cannot deny but I was sometimes tempted to knock my uncle Adam down; and indeed I believe it must have come to a rupture at last, if they had not given a dinner party at which I was the lion. On this occasion I learned (to my surprise and relief) that the incivility to which I had been subjected was a matter for the family circle, and might be regarded almost in the light of an endearment. To strangers I was presented with consideration; and the account given of "my American brother-in-law, poor Janie's man, James K. Dodd, the well-known millionaire of Muskegon," was calculated to enlarge the heart of a proud son. An aged assistant of my grandfather's, a pleasant, humble creature with a taste for whisky, was at first deputed to be my guide about the city. With this harmless but hardly aristocratic companion I went to Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill, heard the band play in Princes Street Gardens, inspected the regalia and the blood of Rizzio, and fell in love with the great castle on its cliff, the innumerable spires of churches, the stately buildings, the broad prospects, and those narrow and crowded lanes of the old town where my ancestors had lived and died in the days before Columbus. But there was another curiosity that interested me more deeply--my grandfather, Alexander Loudon. In his time the old gentleman had been a working mason, and had risen from the ranks--more, I think, by shrewdness than by merit. In his appearance, speech, and manners, he bore broad marks of his origin, which were gall and wormwood to my uncle Adam. His nails, in spite of anxious supervision, were often in conspicuous mourning; his clothes hung about him in bags and wrinkles, like a ploughman's Sunday coat; his accent was rude, broad, and dragging. Take him at his best, and even when he could be induced to hold his tongue, his mere presence in a corner of the drawing-room, with his open-air wrinkles, his scanty hair, his battered hands, and the cheerful craftiness of his expression, advertised the whole gang of us for a self-made family. My aunt might mince and my cousins bridle, but there was no getting over the solid, physical fact of the stonemason in the chimney-corner. That is one advantage of being an American. It never occurred to me to be ashamed of my grandfather, and the old gentleman was quick to mark the difference. He held my mother in tender memory, perhaps because he was in the habit of daily contrasting her with uncle Adam, whom he detested to the point of frenzy; and he set down to inheritance from his favourite my own becoming treatment of himself. On our walks abroad, which soon became daily, he would sometimes (after duly warning me to keep the matter dark from "Aadam") skulk into some old familiar pot-house, and there (if he had the luck to encounter any of his veteran cronies) he would present me to the company with manifest pride, casting at the same time a covert slur on the rest of his descendants. "This is my Jeannie's yin," he would say. "He's a fine fallow, him," The purpose of our excursions was not to seek antiquities or to enjoy famous prospects, but to visit one after another a series of doleful suburbs, for which it was the old gentleman's chief claim to renown that he had been the sole contractor, and too often the architect besides. I have rarely seen a more shocking exhibition: the brick seemed to be blushing in the walls, and the slates on the roof to have turned pale with shame; but I was careful not to communicate these impressions to the aged artificer at my side; and when he would direct my attention to some fresh monstrosity--perhaps with the comment, "There's an idee of mine's; it's cheap and tasty, and had a graand run; the idee was soon stole, and there's whole deestricts near Glesgie with the goathic addeetion and that plunth," I would civilly make haste to admire and (what I found particularly delighted him) to inquire into the cost of each adornment. It will be conceived that Muskegon capitol was a frequent and a welcome ground of talk. I drew him all the plans from memory; and he, with the aid of a narrow volume full of figures and tables, which answered (I believe) to the name of Molesworth, and was his constant pocket-companion, would draw up rough estimates and make imaginary offers on the various contracts. Our Muskegon builders he pronounced a pack of cormorants; and the congenial subject, together with my knowledge of architectural terms, the theory of strains, and the prices of materials in the States, formed a strong bond of union between what might have been otherwise an ill-assorted pair, and led my grandfather to pronounce me, with emphasis, "a real intalligent kind of a chield." Thus a second time, as you will presently see, the capitol of my native State had influentially affected the current of my life. I left Edinburgh, however, with not the least idea that I had done a stroke of excellent business for myself, and singly delighted to escape out of a somewhat dreary house and plunge instead into the rainbow city of Paris. Every man has his own romance; mine clustered exclusively about the practice of the arts, the life of Latin Quarter students, and the world of Paris as depicted by that grimy wizard, the author of the _Comédie Humaine_. I was not disappointed--I could not have been; for I did not see the facts, I brought them with me ready-made. Z. Marcas lived next door to me in my ungainly, ill-smelling hotel of the Rue Racine; I dined at my villainous restaurant with Lousteau and with Rastignac: if a curricle nearly ran me down at a street-crossing, Maxime de Trailles would be the driver. I dined, I say, at a poor restaurant and lived in a poor hotel; and this was not from need, but sentiment. My father gave me a profuse allowance, and I might have lived (had I chosen) in the Quartier de l'Étoile and driven to my studies daily. Had I done so, the glamour must have fled: I should still have been but Loudon Dodd; whereas now I was a Latin Quarter student, Murger's successor, living in flesh and blood the life of one of those romances I had loved to read, to re-read, and to dream over, among the woods of Muskegon. At this time we were all a little Murger-mad in the Latin Quarter. The play of the _Vie de Bohème_ (a dreary, snivelling piece) had been produced at the Odéon, had run an unconscionable time--for Paris--and revived the freshness of the legend. The same business, you may say, or there and thereabout, was being privately enacted in consequence in every garret of the neighbourhood, and a good third of the students were consciously impersonating Rodolphe or Schaunard, to their own incommunicable satisfaction. Some of us went far, and some farther. I always looked with awful envy (for instance) on a certain countryman of my own who had a studio in the Rue Monsieur le Prince, wore boots, and long hair in a net, and could be seen tramping off, in this guise, to the worst eating-house of the quarter, followed by a Corsican model, his mistress, in the conspicuous costume of her race and calling. It takes some greatness of soul to carry even folly to such heights as these; and for my own part, I had to content myself by pretending very arduously to be poor, by wearing a smoking-cap on the streets, and by pursuing, through a series of misadventures, that extinct mammal the grisette. The most grievous part was the eating and the drinking. I was born with a dainty tooth and a palate for wine; and only a genuine devotion to romance could have supported me under the cat-civets that I had to swallow, and the red ink of Bercy I must wash them down withal. Every now and again, after a hard day at the studio, where I was steadily and far from unsuccessfully industrious, a wave of distaste would overbear me; I would slink away from my haunts and companions, indemnify myself for weeks of self-denial with fine wines and dainty dishes; seated perhaps on a terrace, perhaps in an arbour in a garden, with a volume of one of my favourite authors propped open in front of me, and now consulted a while, and now forgotten: so remain, relishing my situation, till night fell and the lights of the city kindled; and thence stroll homeward by the riverside, under the moon or stars, in a heaven of poetry and digestion. One such indulgence led me in the course of my second year into an adventure which I must relate: indeed, it is the very point I have been aiming for, since that was what brought me in acquaintance with Jim Pinkerton. I sat down alone to dinner one October day when the rusty leaves were falling and scuttling on the boulevard, and the minds of impressionable men inclined in about an equal degree towards sadness and conviviality. The restaurant was no great place, but boasted a considerable cellar and a long printed list of vintages. This I was perusing with the double zest of a man who is fond of wine and a lover of beautiful names, when my eye fell (near the end of the card) on that not very famous or familiar brand, Roussillon. I remembered it was a wine I had never tasted, ordered a bottle, found it excellent, and when I had discussed the contents, called (according to my habit) for a final pint. It appears they did not keep Roussillon in half-bottles. "All right," said I, "another bottle." The tables at this eating-house are close together; and the next thing I can remember, I was in somewhat loud conversation with my nearest neighbours. From these I must have gradually extended my attentions; for I have a clear recollection of gazing about a room in which every chair was half turned round and every face turned smilingly to mine. I can even remember what I was saying at the moment; but after twenty years the embers of shame are still alive, and I prefer to give your imagination the cue by simply mentioning that my muse was the patriotic. It had been my design to adjourn for coffee in the company of some of these new friends; but I was no sooner on the side-walk than I found myself unaccountably alone. The circumstance scarce surprised me at the time, much less now; but I was somewhat chagrined a little after to find I had walked into a kiosque. I began to wonder if I were any the worse for my last bottle, and decided to steady myself with coffee and brandy. In the Café de la Source, where I went for this restorative, the fountain was playing, and (what greatly surprised me) the mill and the various mechanical figures on the rockery appeared to have been freshly repaired, and performed the most enchanting antics. The café was extraordinarily hot and bright, with every detail of a conspicuous clearness--from the faces of the guests, to the type of the newspapers on the tables--and the whole apartment swang to and fro like a hammock, with an exhilarating motion. For some while I was so extremely pleased with these particulars that I thought I could never be weary of beholding them: then dropped of a sudden into a causeless sadness; and then, with the same swiftness and spontaneity, arrived at the conclusion that I was drunk and had better get to bed. It was but a step or two to my hotel, where I got my lighted candle from the porter, and mounted the four flights to my own room. Although I could not deny that I was drunk, I was at the same time lucidly rational and practical. I had but one pre-occupation--to be up in time on the morrow for my work; and when I observed the clock on my chimney-piece to have stopped, I decided to go downstairs again and give directions to the porter. Leaving the candle burning and my door open, to be a guide to me on my return, I set forth accordingly. The house was quite dark; but as there were only the three doors on each landing, it was impossible to wander, and I had nothing to do but descend the stairs until I saw the glimmer of the porter's night-light. I counted four flights: no porter. It was possible, of course, that I had reckoned incorrectly; so I went down another and another, and another, still counting as I went, until I had reached the preposterous figure of nine flights. It was now quite clear that I had somehow passed the porter's lodge without remarking it; indeed, I was, at the lowest figure, five pairs of stairs below the street, and plunged in the very bowels of the earth. That my hotel should thus be founded upon catacombs was a discovery of considerable interest; and if I had not been in a frame of mind entirely business-like, I might have continued to explore all night this subterranean empire. But I was bound I must be up betimes on the next morning, and for that end it was imperative that I should find the porter. I faced about accordingly, and counting with painful care, remounted towards the level of the street. Five, six, and seven flights I climbed, and still there was no porter. I began to be weary of the job, and reflecting that I was now close to my own room, decided I should go to bed. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen flights I mounted; and my open door seemed to be as wholly lost to me as the porter and his floating dip. I remembered that the house stood but six stories at its highest point, from which it appeared (on the most moderate computation) I was now three stories higher than the roof. My original sense of amusement was succeeded by a not unnatural irritation. "My room has just _got_ to be here," said I, and I stepped towards the door with outspread arms. There was no door and no wall; in place of either there yawned before me a dark corridor, in which I continued to advance for some time without encountering the smallest opposition. And this in a house whose extreme area scantily contained three small rooms, a narrow landing, and the stair! The thing was manifestly nonsense; and you will scarcely be surprised to learn that I now began to lose my temper. At this juncture I perceived a filtering of light along the floor, stretched forth my hand, which encountered the knob of a door-handle, and without further ceremony entered a room. A young lady was within: she was going to bed, and her toilet was far advanced--or the other way about, if you prefer. "I hope you will pardon this intrusion," said I; "but my room is No. 12, and something has gone wrong with this blamed house." She looked at me a moment; and then, "If you will step outside for a moment, I will take you there," says she. Thus, with perfect composure on both sides, the matter was arranged. I waited a while outside her door. Presently she rejoined me, in a dressing-gown, took my hand, led me up another flight, which made the fourth above the level of the roof, and shut me into my own room, where (being quite weary after these contra-ordinary explorations) I turned in and slumbered like a child. I tell you the thing calmly, as it appeared to me to pass; but the next day, when I awoke and put memory in the witness-box, I could not conceal from myself that the tale presented a good many improbable features. I had no mind for the studio, after all, and went instead to the Luxembourg gardens, there, among the sparrows and the statues and the fallen leaves, to cool and clear my head. It is a garden I have always loved. You sit there in a public place of history and fiction. Barras and Fouché have looked from these windows. Lousteau and De Banville (one as real as the other) have rhymed upon these benches. The city tramples by without the railings to a lively measure; and within and about you, trees rustle, children and sparrows utter their small cries, and the statues look on for ever. Here, then, in a seat opposite the gallery entrance, I set to work on the events of the last night, to disengage (if it were possible) truth from fiction. The house, by daylight, had proved to be six stories high, the same as ever. I could find, with all my architectural experience, no room in its altitude for those interminable stairways, no width between its walls for that long corridor, where I had tramped at night. And there was yet a greater difficulty. I had read somewhere an aphorism that everything may be false to itself save human nature. A house might elongate or enlarge itself--or seem to do so to a gentleman who had been dining. The ocean might dry up, the rocks melt in the sun, the stars fall from heaven like autumn apples; and there was nothing in these incidents to boggle the philosopher. But the case of the young lady stood upon a different foundation. Girls were not good enough, or not good that way, or else they were too good. I was ready to accept any of these views: all pointed to the same conclusion, which I was thus already on the point of reaching, when a fresh argument occurred, and instantly confirmed it. I could remember the exact words we had each said; and I had spoken, and she had replied, in English. Plainly, then, the whole affair was an illusion: catacombs, and stairs, and charitable lady, all were equally the stuff of dreams. I had just come to this determination, when there blew a flaw of wind through the autumnal gardens; the dead leaves showered down, and a flight of sparrows, thick as a snowfall, wheeled above my head with sudden pipings. This agreeable bustle was the affair of a moment, but it startled me from the abstraction into which I had fallen like a summons. I sat briskly up, and as I did so my eyes rested on the figure of a lady in a brown jacket and carrying a paint-box. By her side walked a fellow some years older than myself, with an easel under his arm; and alike by their course and cargo I might judge they were bound for the gallery, where the lady was, doubtless, engaged upon some copying. You can imagine my surprise when I recognised in her the heroine of my adventure. To put the matter beyond question, our eyes met, and she, seeing herself remembered, and recalling the trim in which I had last beheld her, looked swiftly on the ground with just a shadow of confusion. I could not tell you to-day if she were plain or pretty; but she had behaved with so much good sense, and I had cut so poor a figure in her presence, that I became instantly fired with the desire to display myself in a more favourable light. The young man, besides, was possibly her brother; brothers are apt to be hasty, theirs being a part in which it is possible, at a comparatively early age, to assume the dignity of manhood; and it occurred to me it might be wise to forestall all possible complications by an apology. On this reasoning I drew near to the gallery door, and had hardly got in position before the young man came out. Thus it was that I came face to face with my third destiny, for my career has been entirely shaped by these three elements--my father, the capitol of Muskegon, and my friend Jim Pinkerton. As for the young lady, with whom my mind was at the moment chiefly occupied, I was never to hear more of her from that day forward--an excellent example of the Blind Man's Buff that we call life. CHAPTER III TO INTRODUCE MR. PINKERTON The stranger, I have said, was some years older than myself: a man of a good stature, a very lively face, cordial, agitated manners, and a grey eye as active as a fowl's. "May I have a word with you?" said I. "My dear sir," he replied, "I don't know what it can be about, but you may have a hundred if you like." "You have just left the side of a young lady," I continued, "towards whom I was led (very unintentionally) into the appearance of an offence. To speak to herself would be only to renew her embarrassment, and I seize the occasion of making my apology, and declaring my respect, to one of my own sex who is her friend, and perhaps," I added, with a bow, "her natural protector." "You are a countryman of mine; I know it!" he cried: "I am sure of it by your delicacy to a lady. You do her no more than justice. I was introduced to her the other night at tea, in the apartment of some people, friends of mine; and meeting her again this morning, I could not do less than carry her easel for her. My dear sir, what is your name?" I was disappointed to find he had so little bond with my young lady; and but that it was I who had sought the acquaintance, might have been tempted to retreat. At the same time something in the stranger's eye engaged me. "My name," said I, "is Loudon Dodd; I am a student of sculpture here from Muskegon." "Of sculpture?" he cried, as though that would have been his last conjecture. "Mine is James Pinkerton; I am delighted to have the pleasure of your acquaintance." "Pinkerton!" it was now my turn to exclaim. "Are you Broken-Stool Pinkerton?" He admitted his identity with a laugh of boyish delight; and indeed any young man in the quarter might have been proud to own a sobriquet thus gallantly acquired. In order to explain the name, I must here digress into a chapter of the history of manners in the nineteenth century, very well worth commemoration for its own sake. In some of the studios at that date, the hazing of new pupils was both barbarous and obscene. Two incidents, following one on the heels of the other, tended to produce an advance in civilisation by the means (as so commonly happens) of a passing appeal to savage standards. The first was the arrival of a little gentleman from Armenia. He had a fez upon his head and (what nobody counted on) a dagger in his pocket. The hazing was set about in the customary style, and, perhaps in virtue of the victim's head-gear, even more boisterously than usual. He bore it at first with an inviting patience; but upon one of the students proceeding to an unpardonable freedom, plucked out his knife and suddenly plunged it in the belly of the jester. This gentleman, I am pleased to say, passed months upon a bed of sickness before he was in a position to resume his studies. The second incident was that which had earned Pinkerton his reputation. In a crowded studio, while some very filthy brutalities were being practised on a trembling _débutant_, a tall pale fellow sprang from his stool and (without the smallest preface or explanation) sang out, "All English and Americans to clear the shop!" Our race is brutal, but not filthy; and the summons was nobly responded to. Every Anglo-Saxon student seized his stool; in a moment the studio was full of bloody coxcombs, the French fleeing in disorder for the door, the victim liberated and amazed. In this feat of arms, both English-speaking nations covered themselves with glory; but I am proud to claim the author of the whole for an American, and a patriotic American at that, being the same gentleman who had subsequently to be held down in the bottom of a box during a performance of _L'Oncle Sam_, sobbing at intervals, "My country! O my country!" while yet another (my new acquaintance, Pinkerton) was supposed to have made the most conspicuous figure in the actual battle. At one blow he had broken his own stool, and sent the largest of his opponents back foremost through what we used to call a "conscientious nude." It appears that, in the continuation of his flight, this fallen warrior issued on the boulevard still framed in the burst canvas. It will be understood how much talk the incident aroused in the students' quarter, and that I was highly gratified to make the acquaintance of my famous countryman. It chanced I was to see more of the Quixotic side of his character before the morning was done; for, as we continued to stroll together, I found myself near the studio of a young Frenchman whose work I had promised to examine, and in the fashion of the quarter carried up Pinkerton along with me. Some of my comrades of this date were pretty obnoxious fellows. I could almost always admire and respect the grown-up practitioners of art in Paris; but many of those who were still in a state of pupilage were sorry specimens--so much so that I used often to wonder where the painters came from, and where the brutes of students went to. A similar mystery hangs over the intermediate stages of the medical profession, and must have perplexed the least observant. The ruffian, at least, whom I now carried Pinkerton to visit, was one of the most crapulous in the quarter. He turned out for our delectation a huge "crust" (as we used to call it) of St. Stephen, wallowing in red upon his belly in an exhausted receiver, and a crowd of Hebrews in blue, green, and yellow, pelting him--apparently with buns; and while we gazed upon this contrivance, regaled us with a piece of his own recent biography, of which his mind was still very full, and which, he seemed to fancy, represented him in an heroic posture. I was one of those cosmopolitan Americans who accept the world (whether at home or abroad) as they find it, and whose favourite part is that of the spectator; yet even I was listening with ill-suppressed disgust, when I was aware of a violent plucking at my sleeve. "Is he saying he kicked her downstairs?" asked Pinkerton, white as St. Stephen. "Yes," said I: "his discarded mistress; and then he pelted her with stones. I suppose that's what gave him the idea for his picture. He has just been alleging the pathetic excuse that she was old enough to be his mother." Something like a sob broke from Pinkerton. "Tell him," he gasped--"I can't speak this language, though I understand a little; I never had any proper education--tell him I am going to punch his head." "For God's sake do nothing of the sort!" I cried; "they don't understand that sort of thing here"; and I tried to bundle him out. "Tell him first what we think of him," he objected. "Let me tell him what he looks in the eyes of a pure-minded American." "Leave that to me," said I, thrusting Pinkerton clear through the door. "_Qu'est-ce qu'il a_?"[1] inquired the student. "_Monsieur se sent mal au coeur d'avoir trop regardé votre croûte_,"[2] said I, and made my escape, scarce with dignity, at Pinkerton's heels. "What did you say to him?" he asked. "The only thing that he could feel," was my reply. After this scene, the freedom with which I had ejected my new acquaintance, and the precipitation with which I had followed him, the least I could do was to propose luncheon. I have forgot the name of the place to which I led him, nothing loath; it was on the far side of the Luxembourg at least, with a garden behind, where we were speedily set face to face at table, and began to dig into each other's history and character, like terriers after rabbits, according to the approved fashion of youth. Pinkerton's parents were from the Old Country; there, too, I incidentally gathered, he had himself been born, though it was a circumstance he seemed prone to forget. Whether he had run away, or his father had turned him out, I never fathomed; but about the age of twelve he was thrown upon his own resources. A travelling tin-type photographer picked him up, like a haw out of a hedgerow, on a wayside in New Jersey; took a fancy to the urchin; carried him on with him in his wandering life; taught him all he knew himself--to take tin-types (as well as I can make out) and doubt the Scriptures; and died at last in Ohio at the corner of a road. "He was a grand specimen," cried Pinkerton; "I wish you could have seen him, Mr. Dodd. He had an appearance of magnanimity that used to remind me of the patriarchs." On the death of this random protector, the boy inherited the plant and continued the business. "It was a life I could have chosen, Mr. Dodd!" he cried. "I have been in all the finest scenes of that magnificent continent that we were born to be the heirs of. I wish you could see my collection of tin-types; I wish I had them here. They were taken for my own pleasure, and to be a memento: and they show Nature in her grandest as well as her gentlest moments." As he tramped the Western States and Territories, taking tin-types, the boy was continually getting hold of books, good, bad, and indifferent, popular and abstruse, from the novels of Sylvanus Cobb to Euclid's Elements, both of which I found (to my almost equal wonder) he had managed to peruse: he was taking stock by the way, of the people, the products, and the country, with an eye unusually observant and a memory unusually retentive; and he was collecting for himself a body of magnanimous and semi-intellectual nonsense, which he supposed to be the natural thoughts and to contain the whole duty of the born American. To be pure-minded, to be patriotic, to get culture and money with both hands and with the same irrational fervour--these appeared to be the chief articles of his creed. In later days (not of course upon this first occasion) I would sometimes ask him why; and he had his answer pat. "To build up the type!" he would cry. "We're all committed to that; we're all under bond to fulfil the American Type! Loudon, the hope of the world is there. If we fail, like these old feudal monarchies, what is left?" The trade of a tin-typer proved too narrow for the lad's ambition; it was insusceptible of expansion, he explained; it was not truly modern; and by a sudden conversion of front he became a railroad-scalper. The principles of this trade I never clearly understood; but its essence appears to be to cheat the railroads out of their due fare. "I threw my whole soul into it; I grudged myself food and sleep while I was at it; the most practised hands admitted I had caught on to the idea in a month and revolutionised the practice inside of a year," he said. "And there's interest in it, too. It's amusing to pick out some one going by, make up your mind about his character and tastes, dash out of the office, and hit him flying with an offer of the very place he wants to go to. I don't think there was a scalper on the continent made fewer blunders. But I took it only as a stage. I was saving every dollar; I was looking ahead. I knew what I wanted--wealth, education, a refined home, and a conscientious cultured lady for a wife; for, Mr. Dodd"--this with a formidable outcry--"every man is bound to marry above him: if the woman's not the man's superior, I brand it as mere sensuality. There was my idea, at least. That was what I was saving for; and enough, too! But it isn't every man, I know that--it's far from every man--could do what I did: close up the livest agency in St. Jo, where he was coining dollars by the pot, set out alone, without a friend or a word of French, and settle down here to spend his capital learning art." "Was it an old taste?" I asked him, "or a sudden fancy?" "Neither, Mr. Dodd," he admitted. "Of course, I had learned in my tin-typing excursions to glory and exult in the works of God. But it wasn't that. I just said to myself, 'What is most wanted in my age and country? More culture and more art,' I said; and I chose the best place, saved my money, and came here to get them." The whole attitude of this young man warmed and shamed me. He had more fire in his little toe than I had in my whole carcass; he was stuffed to bursting with the manly virtues; thrift and courage glowed in him; and even if his artistic vocation seemed (to one of my exclusive tenets) not quite clear, who could predict what might be accomplished by a creature so full-blooded and so inspired with animal and intellectual energy? So, when he proposed that I should come and see his work (one of the regular stages of a Latin Quarter friendship), I followed him with interest and hope. He lodged parsimoniously at the top of a tall house near the Observatory, in a bare room, principally furnished with his own trunks and papered with his own despicable studies. No man has less taste for disagreeable duties than myself; perhaps there is only one subject on which I cannot flatter a man without a blush; but upon that, upon all that touches art, my sincerity is Roman. Once and twice I made the circuit of his walls in silence, spying in every corner for some spark of merit; he meanwhile following close at my heels, reading the verdict in my face with furtive glances, presenting some fresh study for my inspection with undisguised anxiety, and (after it had been silently weighed in the balances and found wanting) whisking it away with an open gesture of despair. By the time the second round was completed, we were both extremely depressed. "Oh!" he groaned, breaking the long silence, "it's quite unnecessary you should speak!" "Do you want me to be frank with you? I think you are wasting time," said I. "You don't see any promise?" he inquired, beguiled by some return of hope, and turning upon me the embarrassing brightness of his eye. "Not in this still-life here of the melon? One fellow thought it good." It was the least I could do to give the melon a more particular examination; which, when I had done, I could but shake my head. "I am truly sorry, Pinkerton," said I, "but I can't advise you to persevere." He seemed to recover his fortitude at the moment, rebounding from disappointment like a man of india-rubber. "Well," said he stoutly, "I don't know that I'm surprised. But I'll go on with the course; and throw my whole soul into it too. You mustn't think the time is lost. It's all culture; it will help me to extend my relations when I get back home; it may fit me for a position on one of the illustrateds; and then I can always turn dealer," he said, uttering the monstrous proposition, which was enough to shake the Latin Quarter to the dust, with entire simplicity. "It's all experience, besides," he continued; "and it seems to me there's a tendency to underrate experience, both as net profit and investment. Never mind. That's done with. But it took courage for you to say what you did, and I'll never forget it. Here's my hand, Mr. Dodd. I'm not your equal in culture or talent." "You know nothing about that," I interrupted. "I have seen your work, but you haven't seen mine." "No more I have," he cried; "and let's go see it at once! But I know you are away up; I can feel it here." To say truth, I was almost ashamed to introduce him to my studio--my work, whether absolutely good or bad, being so vastly superior to his. But his spirits were now quite restored; and he amazed me, on the way, with his light-hearted talk and new projects. So that I began at last to understand how matters lay: that this was not an artist who had been deprived of the practice of his single art; but only a business man of very extended interests, informed (perhaps something of the most suddenly) that one investment out of twenty had gone wrong. As a matter of fact, besides (although I never suspected it), he was already seeking consolation with another of the muses, and pleasing himself with the notion that he would repay me for my sincerity, cement our friendship, and (at one and the same blow) restore my estimation of his talents. Several times already, when I had been speaking of myself, he had pulled out a writing-pad and scribbled a brief note; and now, when we entered the studio, I saw it in his hand again, and the pencil go to his mouth, as he cast a comprehensive glance round the uncomfortable building. "Are you going to make a sketch of it?" I could not help asking, as I unveiled the Genius of Muskegon. "Ah, that's my secret," said he. "Never you mind. A mouse can help a lion." He walked round my statue, and had the design explained to him. I had represented Muskegon as a young, almost a stripling mother, with something of an Indian type; the babe upon her knees was winged, to indicate our soaring future; and her seat was a medley of sculptured fragments, Greek, Roman, and Gothic, to remind us of the older worlds from which we trace our generation. "Now, does this satisfy you, Mr. Dodd?" he inquired, as soon as I had explained to him the main features of the design. "Well," I said, "the fellows seem to think it's not a bad _bonne femme_ for a beginner. I don't think it's entirely bad myself. Here is the best point; it builds up best from here. No, it seems to me it has a kind of merit," I admitted; "but I mean to do better." "Ah, that's the word!" cried Pinkerton. "There's the word I love!" and he scribbled in his pad. "What in creation ails you?" I inquired. "It's the most commonplace expression in the English language." "Better and better!" chuckled Pinkerton. "The unconsciousness of genius. Lord, but this is coming in beautiful!" and he scribbled again. "If you're going to be fulsome," said I, "I'll close the place of entertainment"; and I threatened to replace the veil upon the Genius. "No, no," said he; "don't be in a hurry. Give me a point or two. Show me what's particularly good." "I would rather you found that out for yourself," said I. "The trouble is," said he, "that I've never turned my attention to sculpture--beyond, of course, admiring it, as everybody must who has a soul. So do just be a good fellow, and explain to me what you like in it, and what you tried for, and where the merit comes in. It'll be all education for me." "Well, in sculpture, you see, the first thing you have to consider is the masses. It's, after all, a kind of architecture," I began, and delivered a lecture on that branch of art, with illustrations from my own masterpiece there present--all of which, if you don't mind, or whether you mind or not, I mean to conscientiously omit. Pinkerton listened with a fiery interest, questioned me with a certain uncultivated shrewdness, and continued to scratch down notes, and tear fresh sheets from his pad. I found it inspiring to have my words thus taken down like a professor's lecture; and having had no previous experience of the press, I was unaware that they were all being taken down wrong. For the same reason (incredible as it must appear in an American) I never entertained the least suspicion that they were destined to be dished up with a sauce of penny-a-lining gossip; and myself, my person, and my works of art, butchered to make a holiday for the readers of a Sunday paper. Night had fallen over the Genius of Muskegon before the issue of my theoretic eloquence was stayed, nor did I separate from my new friend without an appointment for the morrow. I was, indeed, greatly taken with this first view of my countryman, and continued, on further acquaintance, to be interested, amused, and attracted by him in about equal proportions. I must not say he had a fault, not only because my mouth is sealed by gratitude, but because those he had sprang merely from his education, and you could see he had cultivated and improved them like virtues. For all that, I can never deny he was a troublous friend to me, and the trouble began early. It may have been a fortnight later that I divined the secret of the writing-pad. My wretch (it leaked out) wrote letters for a paper in the West, and had filled a part of one of them with descriptions of myself. I pointed out to him that he had no right to do so without asking my permission. "Why, this is just what I hoped!" he exclaimed. "I thought you didn't seem to catch on; only it seemed too good to be true." "But, my good fellow, you were bound to warn me," I objected. "I know it's generally considered etiquette," he admitted; "but between friends, and when it was only with a view of serving you, I thought it wouldn't matter. I wanted it (if possible) to come on you as a surprise; I wanted you just to waken, like Lord Byron, and find the papers full of you. You must admit it was a natural thought. And no man likes to boast of a favour beforehand." "But, heavens and earth! how do you know I think it a favour?" I cried. He became immediately plunged in despair. "You think it a liberty," said he; "I see that. I would rather have cut off my hand. I would stop it now, only it's too late; it's published by now. And I wrote it with so much pride and pleasure!" I could think of nothing but how to console him. "O, I daresay it's all right," said I. "I know you meant it kindly, and you would be sure to do it in good taste." "That you may swear to," he cried. "It's a pure, bright, A number 1 paper; the St. Jo _Sunday Herald_. The idea of the series was quite my own; I interviewed the editor, put it to him straight; the freshness of the idea took him, and I walked out of that office with the contract in my pocket, and did my first Paris letter that evening in St. Jo. The editor did no more than glance his eye down the head-lines. 'You're the man for us,' said he." I was certainly far from reassured by this sketch of the class of literature in which I was to make my first appearance; but I said no more, and possessed my soul in patience, until the day came when I received a copy of a newspaper marked in the corner, "Compliments of J.P." I opened it with sensible shrinkings; and there, wedged between an account of a prize-fight and a skittish article upon chiropody--think of chiropody treated with a leer!--I came upon a column and a half in which myself and my poor statue were embalmed. Like the editor with the first of the series, I did but glance my eye down the head-lines, and was more than satisfied. ANOTHER OF PINKERTON'S SPICY CHATS. ART PRACTITIONERS IN PARIS. MUSKEGON'S COLUMNED CAPITOL. SON OF MILLIONAIRE DODD, PATRIOT AND ARTIST. "HE MEANS TO DO BETTER." In the body of the text, besides, my eye caught, as it passed, some deadly expressions: "Figure somewhat fleshy," "bright, intellectual smile," "the unconsciousness of genius," "'Now, Mr. Dodd,' resumed the reporter, 'what would be your idea of a distinctively American quality in sculpture?'" It was true the question had been asked; it was true, alas! that I had answered; and now here was my reply, or some strange hash of it, gibbeted in the cold publicity of type. I thanked God that my French fellow-students were ignorant of English; but when I thought of the British--of Myner (for instance) or the Stennises--I think I could have fallen on Pinkerton and beat him. To divert my thoughts (if it were possible) from this calamity, I turned to a letter from my father which had arrived by the same post. The envelope contained a strip of newspaper cutting; and my eye caught again, "Son of Millionaire Dodd--Figure somewhat fleshy," and the rest of the degrading nonsense. What would my father think of it? I wondered, and opened his manuscript. "My dearest boy," it began, "I send you a cutting which has pleased me very much, from a St. Joseph paper of high standing. At last you seem to be coming fairly to the front; and I cannot but reflect with delight and gratitude how very few youths of your age occupy nearly two columns of press-matter all to themselves. I only wish your dear mother had been here to read it over my shoulder; but we will hope she shares my grateful emotion in a better place. Of course I have sent a copy to your grandfather and uncle in Edinburgh; so you can keep the one I enclose. This Jim Pinkerton seems a valuable acquaintance; he has certainly great talent; and it is a good general rule to keep in with pressmen." I hope it will be set down to the right side of my account, but I had no sooner read these words, so touchingly silly, than my anger against Pinkerton was swallowed up in gratitude. Of all the circumstances of my career--my birth, perhaps, excepted--not one had given my poor father so profound a pleasure as this article in the _Sunday Herald_. What a fool, then, was I to be lamenting! when I had at last, and for once, and at the cost of only a few blushes, paid back a fraction of my debt of gratitude. So that, when I next met Pinkerton, I took things very lightly; my father was pleased, and thought the letter very clever, I told him; for my own part, I had no taste for publicity; thought the public had no concern with the artist, only with his art; and though I owned he had handled it with great consideration, I should take it as a favour if he never did it again. "There it is," he said despondingly. "I've hurt you. You can't deceive me, Loudon. It's the want of tact, and it's incurable." He sat down, and leaned his head upon his hand. "I had no advantages when I was young, you see," he added. "Not in the least, my dear fellow," said I. "Only the next time you wish to do me a service, just speak about my work; leave my wretched person out, and my still more wretched conversation; and above all," I added, with an irrepressible shudder, "don't tell them how I said it! There's that phrase, now: 'With a proud, glad smile.' Who cares whether I smiled or not?" "Oh, there now, Loudon, you're entirely wrong," he broke in. "That's what the public likes; that's the merit of the thing, the literary value. It's to call up the scene before them; it's to enable the humblest citizen to enjoy that afternoon the same as I did. Think what it would have been to me when I was tramping around with my tin-types to find a column and a half of real, cultured conversation--an artist, in his studio abroad, talking of his art,--and to know how he looked as he did it, and what the room was like, and what he had for breakfast; and to tell myself, eating tinned beans beside a creek, that if all went well, the same sort of thing would, sooner or later, happen to myself; why, Loudon, it would have been like a peep-hole into heaven!" "Well, if it gives so much pleasure," I admitted, "the sufferers shouldn't complain. Only give the other fellows a turn." The end of the matter was to bring myself and the journalist in a more close relation. If I know anything at all of human nature--and the _if_ is no mere figure of speech, but stands for honest doubt--no series of benefits conferred, or even dangers shared, would have so rapidly confirmed our friendship as this quarrel avoided, this fundamental difference of taste and training accepted and condoned. FOOTNOTES: [1] "What's the matter with him?" [2] "The gentleman is sick at his stomach from having looked too long at your daub." CHAPTER IV IN WHICH I EXPERIENCE EXTREMES OF FORTUNE Whether it came from my training and repeated bankruptcy at the commercial college, or by direct inheritance from old Loudon, the Edinburgh mason, there can be no doubt about the fact that I was thrifty. Looking myself impartially over, I believe that is my only manly virtue. During my first two years in Paris I not only made it a point to keep well inside of my allowance, but accumulated considerable savings in the bank. You will say, with my masquerade of living as a penniless student, it must have been easy to do so; I should have had no difficulty, however, in doing the reverse. Indeed, it is wonderful I did not; and early in the third year, or soon after I had known Pinkerton, a singular incident proved it to have been equally wise. Quarter-day came, and brought no allowance. A letter of remonstrance was despatched, and, for the first time in my experience, remained unanswered. A cablegram was more effectual; for it brought me at least a promise of attention. "Will write at once," my father telegraphed; but I waited long for his letter. I was puzzled, angry, and alarmed; but, thanks to my previous thrift, I cannot say that I was ever practically embarrassed. The embarrassment, the distress, the agony, were all for my unhappy father at home in Muskegon, struggling for life and fortune against untoward chances, returning at night, from a day of ill-starred shifts and ventures, to read and perhaps to weep over that last harsh letter from his only child, to which he lacked the courage to reply. Nearly three months after time, and when my economies were beginning to run low, I received at last a letter with the customary bills of exchange. "My dearest boy," it ran, "I believe, in the press of anxious business, your letters, and even your allowance, have been somewhile neglected. You must try to forgive your poor old dad, for he has had a trying time; and now when it is over, the doctor wants me to take my shot-gun and go to the Adirondacks for a change. You must not fancy I am sick, only over-driven and under the weather. Many of our foremost operators have gone down: John T. M'Brady skipped to Canada with a trunkful of boodle; Billy Sandwith, Charlie Downs, Joe Kaiser, and many others of our leading men in this city bit the dust. But Big Head Dodd has again weathered the blizzard, and I think I have fixed things so that we may be richer than ever before autumn. "Now I will tell you, my dear, what I propose. You say you are well advanced with your first statue; start in manfully and finish it, and if your teacher--I can never remember how to spell his name--will send me a certificate that it is up to market standard, you shall have ten thousand dollars to do what you like with, either at home or in Paris. I suggest, since you say the facilities for work are so much greater in that city, you would do well to buy or build a little home; and the first thing you know, your dad will be dropping in for a luncheon. Indeed, I would come now--for I am beginning to grow old, and I long to see my dear boy,--but there are still some operations that want watching and nursing. Tell your friend Mr. Pinkerton that I read his letters every week; and though I have looked in vain lately for my Loudon's name, still I learn something of the life he is leading in that strange Old World depicted by an able pen." Here was a letter that no young man could possibly digest in solitude. It marked one of those junctures when the confidant is necessary; and the confidant selected was none other than Jim Pinkerton. My father's message may have had an influence in this decision; but I scarce suppose so, for the intimacy was already far advanced. I had a genuine and lively taste for my compatriot; I laughed at, I scolded, and I loved him. He, upon his side, paid me a kind of dog-like service of admiration, gazing at me from afar off, as at one who had liberally enjoyed those "advantages" which he envied for himself. He followed at heel; his laugh was ready chorus; our friends gave him the nickname of "The Henchman." It was in this insidious form that servitude approached me. Pinkerton and I read and re-read the famous news: he, I can swear, with an enjoyment as unalloyed and far more vocal than my own. The statue was nearly done: a few days' work sufficed to prepare it for exhibition; the master was approached; he gave his consent; and one cloudless morning of May beheld us gathered in my studio for the hour of trial. The master wore his many-hued rosette; he came attended by two of my French fellow-pupils--friends of mine, and both considerable sculptors in Paris at this hour. "Corporal John" (as we used to call him), breaking for once those habits of study and reserve which have since carried him so high in the opinion of the world, had left his easel of a morning to countenance a fellow-countryman in some suspense. My dear old Romney was there by particular request; for who that knew him would think a pleasure quite complete unless he shared it, or not support a mortification more easily if he were present to console? The party was completed by John Myner, the Englishman; by the brothers Stennis--Stennis-_aîné_, and Stennis-_frère_, as they used to figure on their accounts at Barbizon--a pair of hare-brained Scots; and by the inevitable Jim, as white as a sheet and bedewed with the sweat of anxiety. I suppose I was little better myself when I unveiled the Genius of Muskegon. The master walked about it seriously; then he smiled. "It is already not so bad," said he, in that funny English of which he was so proud; "no, already not so bad." We all drew a deep breath of relief; and Corporal John (as the most considerable junior present) explained to him it was intended for a public building, a kind of prefecture. "_Hé! quoi?_" cried he, relapsing into French. "_Qu'est-ce que vous me chantez là?_ O, in América," he added, on further information being hastily furnished. "That is anozer sing. O, véry good--véry good." The idea of the required certificate had to be introduced to his mind in the light of a pleasantry--the fancy of a nabob little more advanced than the Red Indians of "Fénnimore Cooperr"; and it took all our talents combined to conceive a form of words that would be acceptable on both sides. One was found, however: Corporal John engrossed it in his undecipherable hand, the master lent it the sanction of his name and flourish, I slipped it into an envelope along with one of the two letters I had already prepared in my pocket, and as the rest of us moved off along the boulevard to breakfast, Pinkerton was detached in a cab and duly committed it to the post. The breakfast was ordered at Lavenue's, where no one need be ashamed to entertain even the master; the table was laid in the garden; I had chosen the bill of fare myself; on the wine question we held a council of war, with the most fortunate results; and the talk, as soon as the master laid aside his painful English, became fast and furious. There were a few interruptions, indeed, in the way of toasts. The master's health had to be drunk, and he responded in a little well-turned speech, full of neat allusions to my future and to the United States; my health followed; and then my father's must not only be proposed and drunk, but a full report must be despatched to him at once by cablegram--an extravagance which was almost the means of the master's dissolution. Choosing Corporal John to be his confidant (on the ground, I presume, that he was already too good an artist to be any longer an American except in name) he summed up his amazement in one oft-repeated formula--"_C'est barbare!_" Apart from these genial formalities, we talked, talked of art, and talked of it as only artists can. Here in the South Seas we talk schooners most of the time; in the Quarter we talked art with the like unflagging interest, and perhaps as much result. Before very long the master went away; Corporal John (who was already a sort of young master) followed on his heels; and the rank and file were naturally relieved by their departure. We were now among equals; the bottle passed, the conversation sped. I think I can still hear the Stennis brothers pour forth their copious tirades; Dijon, my portly French fellow-student, drop witticisms, well-conditioned like himself; and another (who was weak in foreign languages) dash hotly into the current of talk with some "_Je trove que pore oon sontimong de delicacy, Corot_...," or some "_Pour moi Corot est le plou_...," and then, his little raft of French foundering at once, scramble silently to shore again. He at least could understand; but to Pinkerton, I think the noise, the wine, the sun, the shadows of the leaves, and the esoteric glory of being seated at a foreign festival, made up the whole available means of entertainment. We sat down about half-past eleven; I suppose it was two when, some point arising and some particular picture being instanced, an adjournment to the Louvre was proposed. I paid the score, and in a moment we were trooping down the Rue de Renne. It was smoking hot; Paris glittered with that superficial brilliancy which is so agreeable to the man in high spirits, and in moods of dejection so depressing; the wine sang in my ears, it danced and brightened in my eyes. The pictures that we saw that afternoon, as we sped briskly and loquaciously through the immortal galleries, appear to me, upon a retrospect, the loveliest of all; the comments we exchanged to have touched the highest mark of criticism, grave or gay. It was only when we issued again from the museum that a difference of race broke up the party. Dijon proposed an adjournment to a café, there to finish the afternoon on beer; the elder Stennis revolted at the thought, moved for the country--a forest, if possible--and a long walk. At once the English speakers rallied to the name of any exercise; even to me, who have been often twitted with my sedentary habits, the thought of country air and stillness proved invincibly attractive. It appeared, upon investigation, we had just time to hail a cab and catch one of the fast trains for Fontainebleau. Beyond the clothes we stood in all were destitute of what is called, with dainty vagueness, personal effects; and it was earnestly mooted, on the other side, whether we had not time to call upon the way and pack a satchel? But the Stennis boys exclaimed upon our effeminacy. They had come from London, it appeared, a week before with nothing but great-coats and tooth-brushes. No baggage--there was the secret of existence. It was expensive, to be sure, for every time you had to comb your hair a barber must be paid, and every time you changed your linen one shirt must be bought and another thrown away; but anything was better, argued these young gentlemen, than to be the slaves of haversacks. "A fellow has to get rid gradually of all material attachments: that was manhood," said they; "and as long as you were bound down to anything--house, umbrella, or portmanteau--you were still tethered by the umbilical cord." Something engaging in this theory carried the most of us away. The two Frenchmen, indeed, retired scoffing to their bock, and Romney, being too poor to join the excursion on his own resources, and too proud to borrow, melted unobtrusively away. Meanwhile the remainder of the company crowded the benches of a cab; the horse was urged, as horses have to be, by an appeal to the pocket of the driver; the train caught by the inside of a minute; and in less than an hour and a half we were breathing deep of the sweet air of the forest, and stretching our legs up the hill from Fontainebleau octroi, bound for Barbizon. That the leading members of our party covered the distance in fifty-one minutes and a half is, I believe, one of the historic landmarks of the colony; but you will scarce be surprised to learn that I was somewhat in the rear. Myner, a comparatively philosophic Briton, kept me company in my deliberate advance; the glory of the sun's going down, the fall of the long shadows, the inimitable scent, and the inspiration of the woods, attuned me more and more to walk in a silence which progressively infected my companion; and I remember that, when at last he spoke, I was startled from a deep abstraction. "Your father seems to be a pretty good kind of a father," said he. "Why don't he come to see you?" I was ready with some dozen of reasons, and had more in stock; but Myner, with that shrewdness which made him feared and admired, suddenly fixed me with his eyeglass and asked, "Ever press him?" The blood came in my face. No, I had never pressed him; I had never even encouraged him to come. I was proud of him, proud of his handsome looks, of his kind, gentle ways, of that bright face he could show when others were happy; proud, too--meanly proud, if you like--of his great wealth and startling liberalities. And yet he would have been in the way of my Paris life, of much of which he would have disapproved. I had feared to expose to criticism his innocent remarks on art; I had told myself, I had even partly believed, he did not want to come; I had been, and still am, convinced that he was sure to be unhappy out of Muskegon; in short, I had a thousand reasons, good and bad, not all of which could alter one iota of the fact that I knew he only waited for my invitation. "Thank you, Myner," said I; "you're a much better fellow than ever I supposed. I'll write to-night." "O, you're a pretty decent sort yourself," returned Myner, with more than his usual flippancy of manner, but, as I was gratefully aware, not a trace of his occasional irony of meaning. Well, these were brave days, on which I could dwell for ever. Brave, too, were those that followed, when Pinkerton and I walked Paris and the suburbs, viewing and pricing houses for my new establishment, or covered ourselves with dust and returned laden with Chinese gods and brass warming-pans from the dealers in antiquities. I found Pinkerton well up in the situation of these establishments as well as in the current prices, and with quite a smattering of critical judgment. It turned out he was investing capital in pictures and curiosities for the States, and the superficial thoroughness of the creature appeared in the fact that although he would never be a connoisseur, he was already something of an expert. The things themselves left him as near as may be cold, but he had a joy of his own in understanding how to buy and sell them. In such engagements the time passed until I might very well expect an answer from my father. Two mails followed each other, and brought nothing. By the third I received a long and almost incoherent letter of remorse, encouragement, consolation, and despair. From this pitiful document, which (with a movement of piety) I burned as soon as I had read it, I gathered that the bubble of my father's wealth was burst, that he was now both penniless and sick; and that I, so far from expecting ten thousand dollars to throw away in juvenile extravagance, must look no longer for the quarterly remittances on which I lived. My case was hard enough; but I had sense enough to perceive, and decency enough to do, my duty. I sold my curiosities--or, rather, I sent Pinkerton to sell them; and he had previously bought, and now disposed of them, so wisely that the loss was trifling. This, with what remained of my last allowance, left me at the head of no less than five thousand francs. Five hundred I reserved for my own immediate necessities: the rest I mailed inside of the week to my father at Muskegon, where they came in time to pay his funeral expenses. The news of his death was scarcely a surprise and scarce a grief to me. I could not conceive my father a poor man. He had led too long a life of thoughtless and generous profusion to endure the change; and though I grieved for myself, I was able to rejoice that my father had been taken from the battle. I grieved, I say, for myself; and it is probable there were at the same date many thousands of persons grieving with less cause. I had lost my father; I had lost the allowance; my whole fortune (including what had been returned from Muskegon) scarce amounted to a thousand francs; and, to crown my sorrows, the statuary contract had changed hands. The new contractor had a son of his own, or else a nephew; and it was signified to me, with business-like plainness, that I must find another market for my pigs. In the meanwhile I had given up my room, and slept on a truckle-bed in the corner of the studio, where, as I read myself to sleep at night, and when I awoke in the morning, that now useless bulk, the Genius of Muskegon, was ever present to my eyes. Poor stone lady! born to be enthroned under the gilded, echoing dome of the new capitol, whither was she now to drift? for what base purposes be ultimately broken up, like an unseaworthy ship? and what should befall her ill-starred artificer, standing with his thousand francs on the threshold of a life so hard as that of the unbefriended sculptor? It was a subject often and earnestly debated by myself and Pinkerton. In his opinion I should instantly discard my profession. "Just drop it, here and now," he would say. "Come back home with me, and let's throw our whole soul into business. I have the capital; you bring the culture. _Dodd and Pinkerton_--I never saw a better name for an advertisement; and you can't think, Loudon, how much depends upon a name." On my side I would admit that a sculptor should possess one of three things--capital, influence, or an energy only to be qualified as hellish. The first two I had now lost; to the third I never had the smallest claim; and yet I wanted the cowardice (or, perhaps it was the courage) to turn my back on my career without a fight. I told him, besides, that however poor my chances were in sculpture, I was convinced they were yet worse in business, for which I equally lacked taste and aptitude. But upon this head he was my father over again; assured me that I spoke in ignorance; that any intelligent and cultured person was bound to succeed; that I must, besides, have inherited some of my father's fitness; and, at any rate, that I had been regularly trained for that career in the commercial college. "Pinkerton," I said, "can't you understand that, as long as I was there, I never took the smallest interest in any stricken thing? The whole affair was poison to me." "It's not possible," he would cry; "it can't be; you couldn't live in the midst of it and not feel the charm; with all your poetry of soul you couldn't help! Loudon," he would go on, "you drive me crazy. You expect a man to be all broken up about the sunset, and not to care a dime for a place where fortunes are fought for and made and lost all day; or for a career that consists in studying up life till you have it at your finger-ends, spying out every cranny where you can get your hand in and a dollar out, and standing there in the midst--one foot on bankruptcy, the other on a borrowed dollar, and the whole thing spinning round you like a mill--raking in the stamps; in spite of fate and fortune." To this romance of dickering I would reply with the romance (which is also the virtue) of art: reminding him of those examples of constancy through many tribulations, with which the _rôle_ of Apollo is illustrated--from the case of Millet, to those of many of our friends and comrades, who had chosen this agreeable mountain path through life, and were now bravely clambering among rocks and brambles, penniless and hopeful. "You will never understand it, Pinkerton," I would say. "You look to the result, you want to see some profit of your endeavours: that is why you could never learn to paint, if you lived to be Methusalem. The result is always a fizzle: the eyes of the artist are turned in; he lives for a frame of mind. Look at Romney now. There is the nature of the artist. He hasn't a cent; and if you offered him to-morrow the command of an army, or the presidentship of the United States, he wouldn't take it, and you know he wouldn't." "I suppose not," Pinkerton would cry, scouring his hair with both his hands; "and I can't see why; I can't see what in fits he would be after, not to; I don't seem to rise to these views. Of course it's the fault of not having had advantages in early life; but, Loudon, I'm so miserably low that it seems to me silly. The fact is," he might add, with a smile, "I don't seem to have the least use for a frame of mind without square meals; and you can't get it out of my head that it's a man's duty to die rich, if he can." "What for?" I asked him once. "O, I don't know," he replied. "Why in snakes should anybody want to be a sculptor, if you come to that? I would love to sculp myself. But what I can't see is why you should want to do nothing else. It seems to argue a poverty of nature." Whether or not he ever came to understand me--and I have been so tossed about since then that I am not very sure I understand myself--he soon perceived that I was perfectly in earnest; and after about ten days of argument, suddenly dropped the subject, and announced that he was wasting capital, and must go home at once. No doubt he should have gone long before, and had already lingered over his intended time for the sake of our companionship and my misfortune; but man is so unjustly minded that the very fact, which ought to have disarmed, only embittered my vexation. I resented his departure in the light of a desertion; I would not say, but doubtless I betrayed it; and something hang-dog in the man's face and bearing led me to believe he was himself remorseful. It is certain at least that, during the time of his preparations, we drew sensibly apart--a circumstance that I recall with shame. On the last day he had me to dinner at a restaurant which he knew I had formerly frequented, and had only forsworn of late from considerations of economy. He seemed ill at ease; I was myself both sorry and sulky; and the meal passed with little conversation. "Now, Loudon," said he, with a visible effort, after the coffee was come and our pipes lighted, "you can never understand the gratitude and loyalty I bear you. You don't know what a boon it is to be taken up by a man that stands on the pinnacle of civilisation; you can't think how it's refined and purified me, how it's appealed to my spiritual nature; and I want to tell you that I would die at your door like a dog." I don't know what answer I tried to make, but he cut me short. "Let me say it out!" he cried. "I revere you for your whole-souled devotion to art; I can't rise to it, but there's a strain of poetry in my nature, Loudon, that responds to it. I want you to carry it out, and I mean to help you." "Pinkerton, what nonsense is this?" I interrupted. "Now don't get mad, Loudon; this is a plain piece of business," said he; "it's done every day; it's even typical. How are all those fellows over here in Paris, Henderson, Sumner, Long?--it's all the same story: a young man just plum full of artistic genius on the one side, a man of business on the other who doesn't know what to do with his dollars----" "But, you fool, you're as poor as a rat," I cried. "You wait till I get my irons in the fire!" returned Pinkerton. "I'm bound to be rich; and I tell you I mean to have some of the fun as I go along. Here's your first allowance; take it at the hand of a friend; I'm one that holds friendship sacred, as you do yourself. It's only a hundred francs; you'll get the same every month, and as soon as my business begins to expand we'll increase it to something fitting. And so far from it's being a favour, just let me handle your statuary for the American market, and I'll call it one of the smartest strokes of business in my life." It took me a long time, and it had cost us both much grateful and painful emotion, before I had finally managed to refuse his offer and compounded for a bottle of particular wine. He dropped the subject at last suddenly with a "Never mind; that's all done with"; nor did he again refer to the subject, though we passed together the rest of the afternoon, and I accompanied him, on his departure, to the doors of the waiting-room at St. Lazare. I felt myself strangely alone; a voice told me that I had rejected both the counsels of wisdom and the helping hand of friendship; and as I passed through the great bright city on my homeward way, I measured it for the first time with the eye of an adversary. CHAPTER V IN WHICH I AM DOWN ON MY LUCK IN PARIS In no part of the world is starvation an agreeable business; but I believe it is admitted there is no worse place to starve in than this city of Paris. The appearances of life are there so especially gay, it is so much a magnified beer-garden, the houses are so ornate, the theatres so numerous, the very pace of the vehicles is so brisk, that a man in any deep concern of mind or pain of body is constantly driven in upon himself. In his own eyes, he seems the one serious creature moving in a world of horrible unreality; voluble people issuing from a café, the _queue_ at theatre-doors, Sunday cabfuls of second-rate pleasure-seekers, the bedizened ladies of the pavement, the show in the jewellers' windows--all the familiar sights contributing to flout his own unhappiness, want, and isolation. At the same time, if he be at all after my pattern, he is perhaps supported by a childish satisfaction. "This is life at last," he may tell himself; "this is the real thing. The bladders on which I was set swimming are now empty; my own weight depends upon the ocean; by my own exertions I must perish or succeed; and I am now enduring, in the vivid fact, what I so much delighted to read of in the case of Lousteau or Lucien, Rodolphe or Schaunard." Of the steps of my misery I cannot tell at length. In ordinary times what were politically called "loans" (although they were never meant to be repaid) were matters of constant course among the students, and many a man has partly lived on them for years. But my misfortune befell me at an awkward juncture. Many of my friends were gone; others were themselves in a precarious situation. Romney (for instance) was reduced to tramping Paris in a pair of country sabots, his only suit of clothes so imperfect (in spite of cunningly-adjusted pins) that the authorities at the Luxembourg suggested his withdrawal from the gallery. Dijon, too, was on a lee-shore, designing clocks and gas-brackets for a dealer; and the most he could do was to offer me a corner of his studio where I might work. My own studio (it will be gathered) I had by that time lost; and in the course of my expulsion the Genius of Muskegon was finally separated from her author. To continue to possess a full-sized statue, a man must have a studio, a gallery, or at least the freedom of a back-garden. He cannot carry it about with him, like a satchel, in the bottom of a cab, nor can he cohabit in a garret ten by fifteen with so momentous a companion. It was my first idea to leave her behind at my departure. There, in her birthplace, she might lend an inspiration, methought, to my successor. But the proprietor, with whom I had unhappily quarrelled, seized the occasion to be disagreeable, and called upon me to remove my property. For a man in such straits as I now found myself, the hire of a lorry was a consideration; and yet even that I could have faced, if I had had anywhere to drive to after it was hired. Hysterical laughter seized upon me as I beheld (in imagination) myself, the waggoner, and the Genius of Muskegon, standing in the public view of Paris, without the shadow of a destination; perhaps driving at last to the nearest rubbish-heap, and dumping there, among the ordures of a city, the beloved child of my invention. From these extremities I was relieved by a seasonable offer, and I parted from the Genius of Muskegon for thirty francs. Where she now stands, under what name she is admired or criticised, history does not inform us; but I like to think she may adorn the shrubbery of some suburban tea-garden, where holiday shop-girls hang their hats upon the mother, and their swains (by way of an approach of gallantry) identify the winged infant with the god of love. In a certain cabman's eating-house on the outer boulevard I got credit for my midday meal. Supper I was supposed not to require, sitting down nightly to the delicate table of some rich acquaintances. This arrangement was extremely ill-considered. My fable, credible enough at first, and so long as my clothes were in good order, must have seemed worse than doubtful after my coat became frayed about the edges, and my boots began to squelch and pipe along the restaurant floors. The allowance of one meal a day, besides, though suitable enough to the state of my finances, agreed poorly with my stomach. The restaurant was a place I had often visited experimentally, to taste the life of students then more unfortunate than myself; and I had never in those days entered it without disgust, or left it without nausea. It was strange to find myself sitting down with avidity, rising up with satisfaction, and counting the hours that divided me from my return to such a table. But hunger is a great magician; and so soon as I had spent my ready cash, and could no longer fill up on bowls of chocolate or hunks of bread, I must depend entirely on that cabman's eating-house, and upon certain rare, long-expected, long-remembered windfalls. Dijon (for instance) might get paid for some of his pot-boiling work, or else an old friend would pass through Paris; and then I would be entertained to a meal after my own soul, and contract a Latin Quarter loan, which would keep me in tobacco and my morning coffee for a fortnight. It might be thought the latter would appear the more important. It might be supposed that a life, led so near the confines of actual famine, should have dulled the nicety of my palate. On the contrary, the poorer a man's diet, the more sharply is he set on dainties. The last of my ready cash, about thirty francs, was deliberately squandered on a single dinner; and a great part of my time when I was alone was passed upon the details of imaginary feasts. One gleam of hope visited me--an order for a bust from a rich Southerner. He was free-handed, jolly of speech, merry of countenance; kept me in good humour through the sittings, and, when they were over, carried me off with him to dinner and the sights of Paris. I ate well, I laid on flesh; by all accounts I made a favourable likeness of the being, and I confess I thought my future was assured. But when the bust was done, and I had despatched it across the Atlantic, I could never so much as learn of its arrival. The blow felled me; I should have lain down and tried no stroke to right myself, had not the honour of my country been involved. For Dijon improved the opportunity in the European style, informing me (for the first time) of the manners of America: how it was a den of banditti without the smallest rudiment of law or order, and debts could be there only collected with a shot-gun. "The whole world knows it," he would say; "you are alone, _mon petit_ Loudon--you are alone, to be in ignorance of these facts. The judges of the Supreme Court fought but the other day with stilettos on the bench at Cincinnati. You should read the little book of one of my friends, 'Le Touriste dans le Far-West'; you will see it all there in good French." At last, incensed by days of such discussion, I undertook to prove to him the contrary, and put the affair in the hands of my late father's lawyer. From him I had the gratification of hearing, after a due interval, that my debtor was dead of the yellow fever in Key West, and had left his affairs in some confusion. I suppress his name; for though he treated me with cruel nonchalance, it is probable he meant to deal fairly in the end. Soon after this a shade of change in my reception at the cabman's eating-house marked the beginning of a new phase in my distress. The first day I told myself it was but fancy; the next, I made quite sure it was a fact; the third, in mere panic I stayed away, and went for forty-eight hours fasting. This was an act of great unreason; for the debtor who stays away is but the more remarked, and the boarder who misses a meal is sure to be accused of infidelity. On the fourth day, therefore, I returned, inwardly quaking. The proprietor looked askance upon my entrance; the waitresses (who were his daughters) neglected my wants, and sniffed at the affected joviality of my salutations; last, and most plain, when I called for a _suisse_(such as was being served to all the other diners), I was bluntly told there were no more. It was obvious I was near the end of my tether; one plank divided me from want, and now I felt it tremble. I passed a sleepless night, and the first thing in the morning took my way to Myner's studio. It was a step I had long meditated and long refrained from; for I was scarce intimate with the Englishman; and though I knew him to possess plenty of money, neither his manner nor his reputation were the least encouraging to beggars. I found him at work on a picture, which I was able conscientiously to praise, dressed in his usual tweeds--plain, but pretty fresh, and standing out in disagreeable contrast to my own withered and degraded outfit. As we talked, he continued to shift his eyes watchfully between his handiwork and the fat model, who sat at the far end of the studio in a state of nature, with one arm gallantly arched above her head. My errand would have been difficult enough under the best of circumstances: placed between Myner, immersed in his art, and the white, fat, naked female in a ridiculous attitude, I found it quite impossible. Again and again I attempted to approach the point, again and again fell back on commendations of the picture; and it was not until the model had enjoyed an interval of repose, during which she took the conversation in her own hands and regaled us (in a soft, weak voice) with details as to her husband's prosperity, her sister's lamented decline from the paths of virtue, and the consequent wrath of her father, a peasant of stern principles, in the vicinity of Châlons on the Marne--it was not, I say, until after this was over, and I had once more cleared my throat for the attack, and once more dropped aside into some commonplace about the picture, that Myner himself brought me suddenly and vigorously to the point. "You didn't come here to talk this rot," said he. "No," I replied sullenly; "I came to borrow money." He painted a while in silence. "I don't think we were ever very intimate?" he asked. "Thank you," said I. "I can take my answer," and I made as if to go, rage boiling in my heart. "Of course you can go if you like," said Myner, "but I advise you to stay and have it out." "What more is there to say?" I cried. "You don't want to keep me here for a needless humiliation?" "Look here, Dodd; you must try and command your temper," said he. "This interview is of your own seeking, and not mine; if you suppose it's not disagreeable to me, you're wrong; and if you think I will give you money without knowing thoroughly about your prospects, you take me for a fool. Besides," he added, "if you come to look at it, you've got over the worst of it by now: you have done the asking, and you have every reason to know I mean to refuse. I hold out no false hopes, but it may be worth your while to let me judge." Thus--I was going to say--encouraged, I stumbled through my story; told him I had credit at the cabman's eating-house, but began to think it was drawing to a close; how Dijon lent me a corner of his studio, where I tried to model ornaments, figures for clocks, Time with the scythe, Leda and the swan, musketeers for candlesticks, and other kickshaws, which had never (up to that day) been honoured with the least approval. "And your room?" asked Myner. "O, my room is all right, I think," said I. "She is a very good old lady, and has never even mentioned her bill." "Because she is a very good old lady, I don't see why she should be fined," observed Myner. "What do you mean by that?" I cried. "I mean this," said he. "The French give a great deal of credit amongst themselves; they find it pays on the whole, or the system would hardly be continued; but I can't see where _we_ come in; I can't see that it's honest of us Anglo-Saxons to profit by their easy ways, and then skip over the Channel or (as you Yankees do) across the Atlantic." "But I'm not proposing to skip," I objected. "Exactly," he replied. "And shouldn't you? There's the problem. You seem to me to have a lack of sympathy for the proprietors of cabmen's eating-houses. By your own account, you're not getting on; the longer you stay, it'll only be the more out of the pocket of the dear old lady at your lodgings. Now, I'll tell you what I'll do: if you consent to go, I'll pay your passage to New York, and your railway fare and expenses to Muskegon (if I have the name right), where your father lived, where he must have left friends, and where, no doubt, you'll find an opening. I don't seek any gratitude, for of course you'll think me a beast; but I do ask you to pay it back when you are able. At any rate, that's all I can do. It might be different if I thought you a genius, Dodd; but I don't, and I advise you not to." "I think that was uncalled for, at least," said I. "I daresay it was," he returned, with the same steadiness. "It seemed to me pertinent; and, besides, when you ask me for money upon no security, you treat me with the liberty of a friend, and it's to be presumed that I can do the like. But the point is, do you accept?" "No, thank you," said I; "I have another string to my bow." "All right," says Myner; "be sure it's honest." "Honest? honest?" I cried. "What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?" "I won't, if you don't like it," he replied. "You seem to think honesty as easy as Blind Man's Buff: I don't. It's some difference of definition." I went straight from this irritating interview, during which Myner had never discontinued painting, to the studio of my old master. Only one card remained for me to play, and I was now resolved to play it: I must drop the gentleman and the frock-coat, and approach art in the workman's tunic. "_Tiens_, this little Dodd!" cried the master; and then, as his eye fell on my dilapidated clothing, I thought I could perceive his countenance to darken. I made my plea in English; for I knew, if he were vain of anything, it was of his achievement of the island tongue. "Master," said I, "will you take me in your studio again--but this time as a workman?" "I sought your fazér was immensely reech?" said he. I explained to him that I was now an orphan, and penniless. He shook his head. "I have betterr workmen waiting at my door," said he, "far betterr workmen." "You used to think something of my work, sir," I pleaded. "Somesing, somesing--yés!" he cried; "énough for a son of a reech man--not énough for an orphan. Besides, I sought you might learn to be an artist; I did not sink you might learn to be a workman." On a certain bench on the outer boulevard, not far from the tomb of Napoleon--a bench shaded at that date by a shabby tree, and commanding a view of muddy roadway and blank wall--I sat down to wrestle with my misery. The weather was cheerless and dark; in three days I had eaten but once; I had no tobacco; my shoes were soaked, my trousers horrid with mire; my humour and all the circumstances of the time and place lugubriously attuned. Here were two men who had both spoken fairly of my work while I was rich and wanted nothing; now that I was poor and lacked all: "No genius," said the one; "not enough for an orphan," the other; and the first offered me my passage like a pauper immigrant, and the second refused me a day's wage as a hewer of stone--plain dealing for an empty belly. They had not been insincere in the past; they were not insincere to-day: change of circumstance had introduced a new criterion, that was all. But if I acquitted my two Job's comforters of insincerity, I was yet far from admitting them infallible. Artists had been contemned before, and had lived to turn the laugh on their contemners. How old was Corot before he struck the vein of his own precious metal? When had a young man been more derided (or more justly so) than the god of my admiration, Balzac? Or, if I required a bolder inspiration, what had I to do but turn my head to where the gold dome of the Invalides glittered against inky squalls, and recall the tale of him sleeping there: from the day when a young artillery-sub could be giggled at and nicknamed Puss-in-Boots by frisky misses, on to the days of so many crowns and so many victories, and so many hundred mouths of cannon, and so many thousand warhoofs trampling the roadways of astonished Europe eighty miles in front of the grand army? To go back, to give up, to proclaim myself a failure, an ambitious failure--first a rocket, then a stick! I, Loudon Dodd, who had refused all other livelihoods with scorn, and been advertised in the St. Joseph _Sunday Herald_ as a patriot and an artist, to be returned upon my native Muskegon like damaged goods, and go the circuit of my father's acquaintance, cap in hand, and begging to sweep offices! No, by Napoleon! I would die at my chosen trade; and the two who had that day flouted me should live to envy my success, or to weep tears of unavailing penitence behind my pauper coffin. Meantime, if my courage was still undiminished, I was none the nearer to a meal. At no great distance my cabman's eating-house stood, at the tail of a muddy cab-rank, on the shores of a wide thoroughfare of mud, offering (to fancy) a lace of ambiguous invitation. I might be received, I might once more fill my belly there; on the other hand, it was perhaps this day the bolt was destined to fall, and I might be expelled instead, with vulgar hubbub. It was policy to make the attempt, and I knew it was policy; but I had already, in the course of that one morning, endured too many affronts, and I felt I could rather starve than face another. I had courage and to spare for the future, none left for that day; courage for the main campaign, but not a spark of it for that preliminary skirmish of the cabman's restaurant. I continued accordingly to sit upon my bench, not far from the ashes of Napoleon, now drowsy, now light-headed, now in complete mental obstruction, or only conscious of an animal pleasure in quiescence; and now thinking, planning, and remembering with unexampled clearness, telling myself tales of sudden wealth, and gustfully ordering and greedily consuming imaginary meals, in the course of which I must have dropped to sleep. It was towards dark that I was suddenly recalled to famine by a cold souse of rain, and sprang shivering to my feet. For a moment I stood bewildered; the whole train of my reasoning and dreaming passed afresh through my mind; I was again tempted, drawn as if with cords, by the image of the cabman's eating-house, and again recoiled from the possibility of insult. "_Qui dort dîne_," thought I to myself; and took my homeward way with wavering footsteps, through rainy streets in which the lamps and the shop-windows now began to gleam, still marshalling imaginary dinners as I went. "Ah, Monsieur Dodd," said the porter, "there has been a registered letter for you. The facteur will bring it again to-morrow." A registered letter for me, who had been so long without one? Of what it could possibly contain I had no vestige of a guess, nor did I delay myself guessing; far less form any conscious plan of dishonesty: the lies flowed from me like a natural secretion. "Oh," said I, "my remittance at last! What a bother I should have missed it! Can you lend me a hundred francs until to-morrow?" I had never attempted to borrow from the porter till that moment; the registered letter was, besides, my warranty; and he gave me what he had--three napoleons and some francs in silver. I pocketed the money carelessly, lingered a while chaffing, strolled leisurely to the door; and then (fast as my trembling legs could carry me) round the corner to the Café de Cluny. French waiters are deft and speedy; they were not deft enough for me: and I had scarce decency to let the man set the wine upon the table or put the butter alongside the bread, before my glass and my mouth were filled. Exquisite bread of the Café Cluny, exquisite first glass of old Pomard tingling to my wet feet, indescribable first olive culled from the _hors d'oeuvre_--I suppose, when I come to lie dying, and the lamp begins to grow dim, I shall still recall your savour. Over the rest of that meal, and the rest of the evening, clouds lie thick; clouds perhaps of Burgundy: perhaps, more properly, of famine and repletion. I remember clearly, at least, the shame, the despair, of the next morning, when I reviewed what I had done, and how I had swindled the poor honest porter: and, as if that were not enough, fairly burnt my ships, and brought bankruptcy home to that last refuge, my garret. The porter would expect his money; I could not pay him; here was scandal in the house; and I knew right well the cause of scandal would have to pack. "What do you mean by calling my honesty in question?" I had cried the day before, turning upon Myner. Ah, that day before! the day before Waterloo, the day before the Flood; the day before I had sold the roof over my head, my future, and my self-respect, for a dinner at the Café Cluny! In the midst of these lamentations the famous registered letter came to my door, with healing under its seal. It bore the postmark of San Francisco, where Pinkerton was already struggling to the neck in multifarious affairs; it renewed the offer of an allowance, which his improved estate permitted him to announce at the figure of two hundred francs a month; and in case I was in some immediate pinch, it enclosed an introductory draft for forty dollars. There are a thousand excellent reasons why a man, in this self-helpful epoch, should decline to be dependent on another; but the most numerous and cogent considerations all bow to a necessity as stern as mine; and the banks were scarce open ere the draft was cashed. It was early in December that I thus sold myself into slavery, and for six months I dragged a slowly lengthening chain of gratitude and uneasiness. At the cost of some debt I managed to excel myself and eclipse the Genius of Muskegon, in a small but highly patriotic "Standard Bearer" for the Salon; whither it was duly admitted, where it stood the proper length of days entirely unremarked, and whence it came back to me as patriotic as before. I threw my whole soul (as Pinkerton would have phrased it) into clocks and candlesticks; the devil a candlestick-maker would have anything to say to my designs. Even when Dijon, with his infinite good-humour and infinite scorn for all such journey-work, consented to peddle them in indiscriminately with his own, the dealers still detected and rejected mine. Home they returned to me, true as the Standard Bearer, who now, at the head of quite a regiment of lesser idols, began to grow an eyesore in the scanty studio of my friend. Dijon and I have sat by the hour, and gazed upon that company of images. The severe, the frisky, the classical, the Louis Quinze, were there--from Joan of Arc in her soldierly cuirass, to Leda with the swan; nay!--and God forgive me for a man that knew better!--the humorous was represented also. We sat and gazed, I say; we criticised, we turned them hither and thither; even upon the closest inspection they looked quite like statuettes; and yet nobody would have a gift of them! Vanity dies hard; in some obstinate cases it outlives the man: but about the sixth month, when I already owed near two hundred dollars to Pinkerton, and half as much again in debts scattered about Paris, I awoke one morning with a horrid sentiment of oppression, and found I was alone: my vanity had breathed her last during the night. I dared not plunge deeper in the bog; I saw no hope in my poor statuary; I owned myself beaten at last; and sitting down in my night-shirt beside the window, whence I had a glimpse of the tree-tops at the corner of the boulevard, and where the music of its early traffic fell agreeably upon my ear, I penned my farewell to Paris, to art, to my whole past life, and my whole former self. "I give in," I wrote. "When the next allowance arrives, I shall go straight out West, where you can do what you like with me." It is to be understood that Pinkerton had been, in a sense, pressing me to come from the beginning; depicting his isolation among new acquaintances, "who have none of them your culture," he wrote; expressing his friendship in terms so warm that it sometimes embarrassed me to think how poorly I could echo them; dwelling upon his need for assistance; and the next moment turning about to commend my resolution and press me to remain in Paris. "Only remember, Loudon," he would write, "if you ever _do_ tire of it, there's plenty of work here for you--honest, hard, well-paid work, developing the resources of this practically virgin State. And, of course, I needn't say what a pleasure it would be to me if we were going at it _shoulder to shoulder_." I marvel, looking back, that I could so long have resisted these appeals, and continue to sink my friend's money in a manner that I knew him to dislike. At least, when I did awake to any sense of my position, I awoke to it entirely, and determined not only to follow his counsel for the future, but, even as regards the past, to rectify his losses. For in this juncture of affairs I called to mind that I was not without a possible resource, and resolved, at whatever cost of mortification, to beard the Loudon family in their historic city. In the excellent Scots phrase, I made a moonlight flitting, a thing never dignified, but in my case unusually easy. As I had scarce a pair of boots worth portage I deserted the whole of my effects without a pang. Dijon fell heir to Joan of Arc, the Standard Bearer, and the Musketeers. He was present when I bought and frugally stocked my new portmanteau, and it was at the door of the trunk-shop that I took my leave of him, for my last few hours in Paris must be spent alone. It was alone, and at a far higher figure than my finances warranted, that I discussed my dinner; alone that I took my ticket at St. Lazare; all alone, though in a carriage full of people, that I watched the moon shine on the Seine flood with its tufted isles, on Rouen with her spires, and on the shipping in the harbour of Dieppe. When the first light of the morning called me from troubled slumbers on the deck, I beheld the dawn at first with pleasure; I watched with pleasure the green shores of England rising out of rosy haze: I took the salt air with delight into my nostrils; and then all came back to me--that I was no longer an artist, no longer myself; that I was leaving all I cared for, and returning to all that I detested, the slave of debt and gratitude, a public and a branded failure. From this picture of my own disgrace and wretchedness it is not wonderful if my mind turned with relief to the thought of Pinkerton waiting for me, as I knew, with unwearied affection, and regarding me with a respect that I had never deserved, and might therefore fairly hope that I should never forfeit. The inequality of our relation struck me rudely. I must have been stupid, indeed, if I could have considered the history of that friendship without shame--I who had given so little, who had accepted and profited by so much. I had the whole day before me in London, and I determined, at least in words, to set the balance somewhat straighter. Seated in the corner of a public place, and calling for sheet after sheet of paper, I poured forth the expression of my gratitude, my penitence for the past, my resolutions for the future. Till now, I told him, my course had been mere selfishness. I had been selfish to my father and to my friend, taking their help and denying them (which was all they asked) the poor gratification of my company and countenance. Wonderful are the consolations of literature! As soon as that letter was written and posted the consciousness of virtue glowed in my veins like some rare vintage. CHAPTER VI IN WHICH I GO WEST I reached my uncle's door next morning in time to sit down with the family to breakfast. More than three years had intervened--almost without mutation in that stationary household--since I had sat there first, a young American freshman, bewildered among unfamiliar dainties (Finnan haddock, kippered salmon, baps, and mutton-ham), and had wearied my mind in vain to guess what should be under the tea-cosy. If there were any change at all, it seemed that I had risen in the family esteem. My father's death once fittingly referred to with a ceremonial lengthening of Scots upper lips and wagging of the female head, the party launched at once (God help me!) into the more cheerful topic of my own successes. They had been so pleased to hear such good accounts of me; I was quite a great man now; where was that beautiful statue of the Genius of Something or other? "You haven't it here? Not here? Really?" asks the sprightliest of my cousins, shaking curls at me; as though it were likely I had brought it in the cab, or kept it concealed about my person like a birthday surprise. In the bosom of this family, unaccustomed to the tropical nonsense of the West, it became plain the _Sunday Herald_ and poor blethering Pinkerton had been accepted for their face. It is not possible to invent a circumstance that could have more depressed me; and I am conscious that I behaved all through that breakfast like a whipped schoolboy. At length, the meal and family prayers being both happily over, I requested the favour of an interview with Uncle Adam on "the state of my affairs." At sound of this ominous expression the good man's face conspicuously lengthened; and when my grandfather, having had the proposition repeated to him (for he was hard of hearing), announced his intention of being present at the interview, I could not but think that Uncle Adam's sorrow kindled into momentary irritation. Nothing, however, but the usual grim cordiality appeared upon the surface; and we all three passed ceremoniously to the adjoining library, a gloomy theatre for a depressing piece of business. My grandfather charged a clay pipe, and sat tremulously smoking in a corner of the fireless chimney; behind him, although the morning was both chill and dark, the window was partly open and the blind partly down: I cannot depict what an air he had of being out of place, like a man shipwrecked there. Uncle Adam had his station at the business-table in the midst. Valuable rows of books looked down upon the place of torture; and I could hear sparrows chirping in the garden, and my sprightly cousin already banging the piano and pouring forth an acid stream of song from the drawing-room overhead. It was in these circumstances that, with all brevity of speech and a certain boyish sullenness of manner, looking the while upon the floor, I informed my relatives of my financial situation: the amount I owed Pinkerton; the hopelessness of any maintenance from sculpture; the career offered me in the States; and how, before becoming more beholden to a stranger, I had judged it right to lay the case before my family. "I am only sorry you did not come to me at first," said Uncle Adam. "I take the liberty to say it would have been more decent." "I think so too, Uncle Adam," I replied; "but you must bear in mind I was ignorant in what light you might regard my application." "I hope I would never turn my back on my own flesh and blood," he returned with emphasis; but, to my anxious ear, with more of temper than affection. "I could never forget you were my sister's son. I regard this as a manifest duty. I have no choice but to accept the entire responsibility of the position you have made." I did not know what else to do but murmur "Thank you." "Yes," he pursued, "and there is something providential in the circumstance that you come at the right time. In my old firm there is a vacancy; they call themselves Italian Warehousemen now," he continued, regarding me with a twinkle of humour; "so you may think yourself in luck: we were only grocers in my day. I shall place you there to-morrow." "Stop a moment, Uncle Adam," I broke in. "This is not at all what I am asking. I ask you to pay Pinkerton, who is a poor man. I ask you to clear my feet of debt, not to arrange my life or any part of it." "If I wished to be harsh, I might remind you that beggars cannot be choosers," said my uncle; "and as to managing your life, you have tried your own way already, and you see what you have made of it. You must now accept the guidance of those older and (whatever you may think of it) wiser than yourself. All these schemes of your friend (of whom I know nothing, by the by) and talk of openings in the West, I simply disregard. I have no idea whatever of your going troking across a continent on a wild-goose chase. In this situation, which I am fortunately able to place at your disposal, and which many a well-conducted young man would be glad to jump at, you will receive, to begin with, eighteen shillings a week." "Eighteen shillings a week!" I cried. "Why, my poor friend gave me more than that for nothing!" "And I think it is this very friend you are now trying to repay?" observed my uncle, with an air of one advancing a strong argument. "Aadam," said my grandfather. "I'm vexed you should be present at this business," quoth Uncle Adam, swinging rather obsequiously towards the stonemason; "but I must remind you it is of your own seeking." "Aadam!" repeated the old man. "Well, sir, I am listening," says my uncle. My grandfather took a puff or two in silence: and then, "Ye're makin' an awfu' poor appearance, Aadam," said he. My uncle visibly reared at the affront. "I'm sorry you should think so," said he, "and still more sorry you should say so before present company." "A believe that; A ken that, Aadam," returned old Loudon drily; "and the curiis thing is, I'm no very carin'.--See here, ma man," he continued, addressing himself to me. "A'm your grandfaither, amn't I not? Never you mind what Aadam says. A'll see justice dune ye. A'm rich." "Father," said Uncle Adam, "I would like one word with you in private." I rose to go. "Set down upon your hinderlands," cried my grandfather, almost savagely. "If Aadam has anything to say, let him say it. It's me that has the money here; and, by Gravy! I'm goin' to be obeyed." Upon this scurvy encouragement, it appeared that my uncle had no remark to offer: twice challenged to "speak out and be done with it," he twice sullenly declined; and I may mention that about this period of the engagement I began to be sorry for him. "See here, then, Jeannie's yin!" resumed my grandfather. "A'm goin' to give ye a set-off. Your mither was always my fav'rite, for A never could agree with Aadam. A like ye fine yoursel'; there's nae noansense aboot ye; ye've a fine nayteral idee of builder's work; ye've been to France, where, they tell me, they're grand at the stuccy. A splendid thing for ceilin's, the stuccy! and it's a vailyable disguise, too; A don't believe there's a builder in Scotland has used more stuccy than me. But, as A was sayin', if ye'll follie that trade, with the capital that A'm goin' to give ye, ye may live yet to be as rich as mysel'. Ye see, ye would have always had a share of it when A was gone; it appears ye're needin' it now; well, ye'll get the less, as is only just and proper." Uncle Adam cleared his throat. "This is very handsome, father," said he; "and I am sure Loudon feels it so. Very handsome, and, as you say, very just; but will you allow me to say that it had better, perhaps, be put in black and white?" The enmity always smouldering between the two men, at this ill-judged interruption almost burst in flame. The stonemason turned upon his offspring, his long upper lip pulled down for all the world like a monkey's. He stared a while in virulent silence; and then "Get Gregg!" said he. The effect of these words was very visible. "He will be gone to his office," stammered my uncle. "Get Gregg!" repeated my grandfather. "I tell you, he will be gone to his office," reiterated Adam. "And I tell ye, he's takin' his smoke," retorted the old man. "Very well, then," cried my uncle, getting to his feet with some alacrity, as upon a sudden change of thought, "I will get him myself." "Ye will not!" cried my grandfather. "Ye will sit there upon your hinderland." "Then how the devil am I to get him?" my uncle broke forth, with not unnatural petulance. My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at his son with the malice of a schoolboy; then he rang the bell. "Take the garden key," said Uncle Adam to the servant; "go over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is there (he generally sits under the red hawthorn), give him old Mr. Loudon's compliments, and will he step in here for a moment?" "Mr. Gregg the lawyer!" At once I understood (what had been puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather and the alarm of my poor uncle: the stonemason's will, it was supposed, hung trembling in the balance. "Look here, grandfather," I said, "I didn't want any of this. All I wanted was a loan of, say, two hundred pounds. I can take care of myself; I have prospects and opportunities, good friends in the States--" The old man waved me down. "It's me that speaks here," he said curtly; and we waited the coming of the lawyer in a triple silence. He appeared at last, the maid ushering him in--a spectacled, dry, but not ungenial-looking man. "Here, Gregg," cried my grandfather, "just a question: What has Aadam got to do with my will?" "I'm afraid I don't quite understand," said the lawyer, staring. "What has he got to do with it?" repeated the old man, smiting with his fist upon the arm of his chair. "Is my money mine's, or is it Aadam's? Can Aadam interfere?" "O, I see," said Mr. Gregg. "Certainly not. On the marriage of both of your children a certain sum was paid down and accepted in full of legitim. You have surely not forgotten the circumstance, Mr. Loudon?" "So that, if I like," concluded my grandfather, hammering out his words, "I can leave every doit I die possessed of to the Great Magunn?"--meaning probably the Great Mogul. "No doubt of it," replied Gregg, with a shadow of a smile. "Ye hear that, Aadam?" asked my grandfather. "I may be allowed to say I had no need to hear it," said my uncle. "Very well," says my grandfather. "You and Jeannie's yin can go for a bit walk. Me and Gregg has business." When once I was in the hall alone with Uncle Adam, I turned to him sick at heart. "Uncle Adam," I said, "you can understand, better than I can say, how very painful all this is to me." "Yes, I am sorry you have seen your grandfather in so unamiable a light," replied this extraordinary man. "You shouldn't allow it to affect your mind, though. He has sterling qualities, quite an extraordinary character; and I have no fear but he means to behave handsomely to you." His composure was beyond my imitation: the house could not contain me, nor could I even promise to return to it: in concession to which weakness, it was agreed that I should call in about an hour at the office of the lawyer, whom (as he left the library) Uncle Adam should waylay and inform of the arrangement. I suppose there was never a more topsy-turvy situation; you would have thought it was I who had suffered some rebuff, and that iron-sided Adam was a generous conqueror who scorned to take advantage. It was plain enough that I was to be endowed: to what extent and upon what conditions I was now left for an hour to meditate in the wide and solitary thoroughfares of the new town, taking counsel with street-corner statues of George IV. and William Pitt, improving my mind with the pictures in the window of a music-shop, and renewing my acquaintance with Edinburgh east wind. By the end of the hour I made my way to Mr. Gregg's office, where I was placed, with a few appropriate words, in possession of a cheque for two thousand pounds and a small parcel of architectural works. "Mr. Loudon bids me add," continued the lawyer, consulting a little sheet of notes, "that although these volumes are very valuable to the practical builder, you must be careful not to lose originality. He tells you also not to be 'hadden doun'--his own expression--by the theory of strains, and that Portland cement, properly sanded, will go a long way." I smiled, and remarked that I supposed it would. "I once lived in one of my excellent client's houses," observed the lawyer; "and I was tempted, in that case, to think it had gone far enough." "Under these circumstances, sir," said I, "you will be rather relieved to hear that I have no intention of becoming a builder." At this he fairly laughed; and, the ice being broken, I was able to consult him as to my conduct. He insisted I must return to the house--at least, for luncheon, and one of my walks with Mr. Loudon. "For the evening I will furnish you with an excuse, if you please," said he, "by asking you to a bachelor dinner with myself. But the luncheon and the walk are unavoidable. He is an old man, and, I believe, really fond of you; he would naturally feel aggrieved if there were any appearance of avoiding him; and as for Mr. Adam, do you know, I think your delicacy out of place.... And now, Mr. Dodd, what are you to do with this money?" Ay, there was the question. With two thousand pounds--fifty thousand francs--I might return to Paris and the arts, and be a prince and millionaire in that thrifty Latin Quarter. I think I had the grace, with one corner of my mind, to be glad that I had sent the London letter: I know very well that, with the rest and worst of me, I repented bitterly of that precipitate act. On one point, however, my whole multiplex estate of man was unanimous: the letter being gone, there was no help but I must follow. The money was accordingly divided in two unequal shares: for the first, Mr. Gregg got me a bill in the name of Dijon to meet my liabilities in Paris; for the second, as I had already cash in hand for the expenses of, my journey, he supplied me with drafts on San Francisco. The rest of my business in Edinburgh, not to dwell on a very agreeable dinner with the lawyer or the horrors of the family luncheon, took the form of an excursion with the stonemason, who led me this time to no suburb or work of his old hands, but, with an impulse both natural and pretty, to that more enduring home which he had chosen for his clay. It was in a cemetery, by some strange chance immured within the bulwarks of a prison; standing, besides, on the margin of a cliff, crowded with elderly stone memorials, and green with turf and ivy. The east wind (which I thought too harsh for the old man) continually shook the boughs, and the thin sun of a Scottish summer drew their dancing shadows. "I wanted ye to see the place," said he. "Yon's the stane. _Euphemia Ross_: that was my goodwife, your grandmither--hoots! I'm wrong; that was my first yin; I had no bairns by her;--yours is the second, _Mary Murray, Born_ 1819, _Died_ 1850; that's her--a fine, plain, decent sort of a creature, tak' her a'thegether. _Alexander Loudon, Born Seventeen Ninety-Twa, Died_--and then a hole in the ballant: that's me. Alexander's my name. They ca'd me Ecky when I was a boy. Eh, Ecky! ye're an awfu' auld man!" I had a second and sadder experience of graveyards at my next alighting-place, the city of Muskegon, now rendered conspicuous by the dome of the new capitol encaged in scaffolding. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived, and raining; and as I walked in great streets, of the very name of which I was quite ignorant--double, treble, and quadruple lines of horse-cars jingling by--hundred-fold wires of telegraph and telephone matting heaven above my head--huge, staring houses, garish and gloomy, flanking me from either hand--the thought of the Rue Racine, ay, and of the cabman's eating-house, brought tears to my eyes. The whole monotonous Babel had grown--or, I should rather say, swelled--with such a leap since my departure that I must continually inquire my way; and the very cemetery was brand-new. Death, however, had been active; the graves were already numerous, and I must pick my way in the rain among the tawdry sepulchres of millionaires, and past the plain black crosses of Hungarian labourers, till chance or instinct led me to the place that was my father's. The stone had been erected (I knew already) "by admiring friends"; I could now judge their taste in monuments. Their taste in literature, methought, I could imagine, and I refrained from drawing near enough to read the terms of the inscription. But the name was in larger letters and stared at me--_James K. Dodd_. "What a singular thing is a name!" I thought; "how it clings to a man, and continually misrepresents, and then survives him!" And it flashed across my mind, with a mixture of regret and bitter mirth, that I had never known, and now probably never should know, what the _K_ had represented. King, Kilter, Kay, Kaiser, I went, running over names at random, and then stumbled, with ludicrous misspelling, on Kornelius, and had nearly laughed aloud. I have never been more childish; I suppose (although the deeper voices of my nature seemed all dumb) because I have never been more moved. And at this last incongruous antic of my nerves I was seized with a panic of remorse, and fled the cemetery. Scarce less funereal was the rest of my experience in Muskegon, where, nevertheless, I lingered, visiting my father's circle, for some days. It was in piety to him I lingered; and I might have spared myself the pain. His memory was already quite gone out. For his sake, indeed, I was made welcome; and for mine the conversation rolled a while with laborious effort on the virtues of the deceased. His former comrades dwelt, in my company, upon his business talents or his generosity for public purposes: when my back was turned, they remembered him no more. My father had loved me; I had left him alone, to live and die among the indifferent; now I returned to find him dead and buried and forgotten. Unavailing penitence translated itself in my thoughts to fresh resolve. There was another poor soul who loved me--Pinkerton. I must not be guilty twice of the same error. A week perhaps had been thus wasted, nor had I prepared my friend for the delay. Accordingly, when I had changed trains at Council Bluffs, I was aware of a man appearing at the end of the car with a telegram in his hand and inquiring whether there were any one aboard "of the name of _London_ Dodd?" I thought the name near enough, claimed the despatch, and found it was from Pinkerton: "What day do you arrive? Awfully important." I sent him an answer, giving day and hour, and at Ogden found a fresh despatch awaiting me: "That will do. Unspeakable relief. Meet you at Sacramento." In Paris days I had a private name for Pinkerton: "The Irrepressible" was what I had called him in hours of bitterness, and the name rose once more on my lips. What mischief was he up to now? What new bowl was my benignant monster brewing for his Frankenstein? In what new imbroglio should I alight on the Pacific coast? My trust in the man was entire, and my distrust perfect. I knew he would never mean amiss; but I was convinced he would almost never (in my sense) do aright. I suppose these vague anticipations added a shade of gloom to that already gloomy place of travel: Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, scowled in my face at least, and seemed to point me back again to that other native land of mine, the Latin Quarter. But when the Sierras had been climbed, and the train, after so long beating and panting, stretched itself upon the downward track--when I beheld that vast extent of prosperous country rolling seaward from the woods and the blue mountains, that illimitable spread of rippling corn, the trees growing and blowing in the merry weather, the country boys thronging aboard the train with figs and peaches, and the conductors, and the very darky stewards, visibly exulting in the change--up went my soul like a balloon; Care fell from his perch upon my shoulders; and when I spied my Pinkerton among the crowd at Sacramento, I thought of nothing but to shout and wave for him, and grasp him by the hand, like what he was--my dearest friend. "O, Loudon!" he cried; "man, how I've pined for you! And you haven't come an hour too soon. You're known here and waited for; I've been booming you already: you're billed for a lecture to-morrow night: 'Student Life in Paris, Grave and Gay': twelve hundred places booked at the last stock! Tut, man, you're looking thin! Here, try a drop of this." And he produced a case bottle, staringly labelled PINKERTON'S THIRTEEN STAR GOLDEN STATE BRANDY, WARRANTED ENTIRE. "God bless me!" said I, gasping and winking after my first plunge into this fiery fluid; "and what does 'Warranted Entire' mean?" "Why, Loudon, you ought to know that!" cried Pinkerton. "It's real, copper-bottomed English; you see it on all the old-time wayside hostelries over there." "But if I'm not mistaken, it means something Warranted Entirely different," said I, "and applies to the public-house, and not the beverages sold." "It's very possible," said Jim, quite unabashed. "It's effective, anyway; and I can tell you, sir, it has boomed that spirit: it goes now by the gross of cases. By the way, I hope you won't mind; I've got your portrait all over San Francisco for the lecture, enlarged from that carte de visite: 'H. Loudon Dodd, the Americo-Parisienne Sculptor.' Here's a proof of the small handbills; the posters are the same, only in red and blue, and the letters fourteen by one." I looked at the handbill, and my head turned. What was the use of words? why seek to explain to Pinkerton the knotted horrors of "Americo-Parisienne"? He took an early occasion to point it out as "rather a good phrase; gives the two sides at a glance: I wanted the lecture written up to that." Even after we had reached San Francisco, and at the actual physical shock of my own effigy placarded on the streets I had broken forth in petulant words, he never comprehended in the least the ground of my aversion. "If I had only known you disliked red lettering!" was as high as he could rise. "You are perfectly right: a clear-cut black is preferable, and shows a great deal further. The only thing that pains me is the portrait: I own I thought that a success. I'm dreadfully and truly sorry, my dear fellow: I see now it's not what you had a right to expect; but I did it, Loudon, for the best; and the press is all delighted." At the moment, sweeping through green tule swamps, I fell direct on the essential. "But Pinkerton," I cried, "this lecture is the maddest of your madnesses. How can I prepare a lecture in thirty hours?" "All done, Loudon!" he exclaimed in triumph. "All ready. Trust me to pull a piece of business through. You'll find it all type-written in my desk at home. I put the best talent of San Francisco on the job: Harry Miller, the brightest pressman in the city." And so he rattled on, beyond reach of my modest protestations, blurting out his complicated interests, crying up his new acquaintances, and ever and again hungering to introduce me to some "whole-souled, grand fellow, as sharp as a needle," from whom, and the very thought of whom, my spirit shrank instinctively. Well, I was in for it--in for Pinkerton, in for the portrait, in for the type-written lecture. One promise I extorted--that I was never again to be committed in ignorance. Even for that, when I saw how its extortion puzzled and depressed the Irrepressible, my soul repented me, and in all else I suffered myself to be led uncomplaining at his chariot-wheels. The Irrepressible, did I say? The Irresistible were nigher truth. But the time to have seen me was when I sat down to Harry Miller's lecture. He was a facetious dog, this Harry Miller. He had a gallant way of skirting the indecent, which in my case produced physical nausea, and he could be sentimental and even melodramatic about grisettes and starving genius. I found he had enjoyed the benefit of my correspondence with Pinkerton; adventures of my own were here and there horridly misrepresented, sentiments of my own echoed and exaggerated till I blushed to recognise them. I will do Harry Miller justice: he must have had a kind of talent, almost of genius; all attempts to lower his tone proving fruitless, and the Harry-Millerism ineradicable. Nay, the monster had a certain key of style, or want of style, so that certain milder passages, which I sought to introduce, discorded horribly and impoverished, if that were possible, the general effect. By an early hour of the numbered evening I might have been observed at the sign of the "Poodle Dog" dining with my agent--so Pinkerton delighted to describe himself. Thence, like an ox to the slaughter, he led me to the hall, where I stood presently alone, confronting assembled San Francisco, with no better allies than a table, a glass of water, and a mass of manuscript and typework, representing Harry Miller and myself. I read the lecture: for I had lacked both time and will to get the trash by heart--read it hurriedly, humbly, and with visible shame. Now and then I would catch in the auditorium an eye of some intelligence, now and then in the manuscript would stumble on a richer vein of Harry Miller, and my heart would fail me, and I gabbled. The audience yawned, it stirred uneasily, it muttered, grumbled, and broke forth at last in articulate cries of "Speak up!" and "Nobody can hear!" I took to skipping, and, being extremely ill-acquainted with the country, almost invariably cut in again in the unintelligible midst of some new topic. What struck me as extremely ominous, these misfortunes were allowed to pass without a laugh. Indeed, I was beginning to fear the worst, and even personal indignity, when all at once the humour of the thing broke upon me strongly. I could have laughed aloud, and, being again summoned to speak up, I faced my patrons for the first time with a smile. "Very well," I said, "I will try, though I don't suppose anybody wants to hear, and I can't see why anybody should." Audience and lecturer laughed together till the tears ran down, vociferous and repeated applause hailed my impromptu sally. Another hit which I made but a little after, as I turned three pages of the copy--"You see, I am leaving out as much as I possibly can"--increased the esteem with which my patrons had begun to regard me; and when I left the stage at last, my departing form was cheered with laughter, stamping, shouting, and the waving of hats. Pinkerton was in the waiting-room, feverishly jotting in his pocket-book. As he saw me enter, he sprang up, and I declare the tears were trickling on his cheeks. "My dear boy," he cried, "I can never forgive myself, and you can never forgive me. Never mind, I did it for the best. And how nobly you clung on! I dreaded we should have had to return the money at the doors." "It would have been more honest if we had," said I. The pressmen followed me, Harry Miller in the front ranks; and I was amazed to find them, on the whole, a pleasant set of lads, probably more sinned against than sinning, and even Harry Miller apparently a gentleman. I had in oysters and champagne--for the receipts were excellent--and, being in a high state of nervous tension, kept the table in a roar. Indeed, I was never in my life so well inspired as when I described my vigil over Harry Miller's literature or the series of my emotions as I faced the audience. The lads vowed I was the soul of good company and the prince of lecturers; and--so wonderful an institution is the popular press--if you had seen the notices next day in all the papers you must have supposed my evening's entertainment an unqualified success. I was in excellent spirits when I returned home that night, but the miserable Pinkerton sorrowed for us both. "O, Loudon," he said, "I shall never forgive myself. When I saw you didn't catch on to the idea of the lecture, I should have given it myself!" CHAPTER VII IRONS IN THE FIRE _Opes Strepitumque_ The food of the body differs not so greatly for the fool or the sage, the elephant or the cock-sparrow; and similar chemical elements, variously disguised, support all mortals. A brief study of Pinkerton in his new setting convinced me of a kindred truth about that other and mental digestion by which we extract what is called "fun for our money" out of life. In the same spirit as a schoolboy deep in Mayne Reid handles a dummy gun and crawls among imaginary forests, Pinkerton sped through Kearney Street upon his daily business, representing to himself a highly coloured part in life's performance, and happy for hours if he should have chanced to brush against a millionaire. Reality was his romance; he gloried to be thus engaged: he wallowed in his business. Suppose a man to dig up a galleon on the Coromandel coast, his rakish schooner keeping the while an offing under easy sail, and he, by the blaze of a great fire of wreckwood, to measure ingots by the bucketful on the uproarious beach; such an one might realise a greater material spoil; he should have no more profit of romance than Pinkerton when he cast up his weekly balance-sheet in a bald office. Every dollar gained was like something brought ashore from a mysterious deep; every venture made was like a diver's plunge; and as he thrust his bold hand into the plexus of the money-market he was delightedly aware of how he shook the pillars of existence, turned out men, as at a battle-cry, to labour in far countries, and set the gold twitching in the drawers of millionaires. I could never fathom the full extent of his speculations; but there were five separate businesses which he avowed and carried like a banner. The _Thirteen Star Golden State Brandy, Warranted Entire_ (a very flagrant distillation) filled a great part of his thoughts, and was kept before the public in an eloquent but misleading treatise, "Why Drink French Brandy? A Word to the Wise." He kept an office for advertisers, counselling, designing, acting as middleman with printers and bill-stickers, for the inexperienced or the uninspired: the dull haberdasher came to him for ideas, the smart theatrical agent for his local knowledge, and one and all departed with a copy of his pamphlet, "How, When, and Where; or, The Advertiser's Vade-Mecum." He had a tug chartered every Saturday afternoon and night, carried people outside the Heads, and provided them with lines and bait for six hours' fishing, at the rate of five dollars a person. I am told that some of them (doubtless adroit anglers) made a profit on the transaction. Occasionally he bought wrecks and condemned vessels; these latter (I cannot tell you how) found their way to sea again under aliases, and continued to stem the waves triumphantly enough under the colours of Bolivia or Nicaragua. Lastly, there was a certain agricultural engine, glorying in a great deal of vermilion and blue paint, and filling (it appeared) a "long-felt want," in which his interest was something like a tenth. This for the face or front of his concerns. "On the outside," as he phrased it, he was variously and mysteriously engaged. No dollar slept in his possession; rather, he kept all simultaneously flying, like a conjurer with oranges. My own earnings, when I began to have a share, he would but show me for a moment, and disperse again, like those illusive money gifts which are flashed in the eyes of childhood, only to be entombed in the missionary-box. And he would come down radiant from a weekly balance-sheet, clap me on the shoulder, declare himself a winner by Gargantuan figures, and prove destitute of a quarter for a drink. "What on earth have you done with it?" I would ask. "Into the mill again; all re-invested!" he would cry, with infinite delight. "Investment" was ever his word. He could not bear what he called gambling. "Never touch stocks, Loudon," he would say; "nothing but legitimate business." And yet, Heaven knows, many an indurated gambler might have drawn back appalled at the first hint of some of Pinkerton's investments! One which I succeeded in tracking home, an instance for a specimen, was a seventh share in the charter of a certain ill-starred schooner bound for Mexico--to smuggle weapons on the one trip, and cigars upon the other. The latter end of this enterprise, involving (as it did) shipwreck, confiscation, and a lawsuit with the underwriters, was too painful to be dwelt upon at length. "It's proved a disappointment," was as far as my friend would go with me in words; but I knew, from observation, that the fabric of his fortunes tottered. For the rest, it was only by accident I got wind of the transaction; for Pinkerton, after a time, was shy of introducing me to his arcana: the reason you are to hear presently. The office which was (or should have been) the point of rest for so many evolving dollars stood in the heart of the city--a high and spacious room, with many plate-glass windows. A glazed cabinet of polished red-wood offered to the eye a regiment of some two hundred bottles conspicuously labelled. These were all charged with Pinkerton's Thirteen Star, although from across the room it would have required an expert to distinguish them from the same number of bottles of Courvoisier. I used to twit my friend with this resemblance, and propose a new edition of the pamphlet, with the title thus improved, "Why Drink French Brandy, When We give You the same Labels?" The doors of the cabinet revolved all day upon their hinges; and if there entered any one who was a stranger to the merits of the brand, he departed laden with a bottle. When I used to protest at this extravagance, "My dear Loudon," Pinkerton would cry, "you don't seem to catch on to business principles! The prime cost of the spirit is literally nothing. I couldn't find a cheaper advertisement if I tried." Against the side-post of the cabinet there leaned a gaudy umbrella, preserved there as a relic. It appears that when Pinkerton was about to place Thirteen Star upon the market, the rainy season was at hand. He lay dark, almost in penury, awaiting the first shower, at which, as upon a signal, the main thoroughfares became dotted with his agents, vendors of advertisements; and the whole world of San Francisco, from the business-man fleeing for the ferry-boat, to the lady waiting at the corner for her car, sheltered itself under umbrellas with this strange device: _Are you wet? Try Thirteen Star._ "It was a mammoth boom," said Pinkerton, with a sigh of delighted recollection. "There wasn't another umbrella to be seen. I stood at this window, Loudon, feasting my eyes; and I declare, I felt like Vanderbilt." And it was to this neat application of the local climate that he owed, not only much of the sale of Thirteen Star, but the whole business of his advertising agency. The large desk (to resume our survey of the office) stood about the middle, knee-deep in stacks of handbills and posters of "Why Drink French Brandy?" and "The Advertiser's Vade-Mecum." It was flanked upon the one hand by two female type-writers, who rested not between the hours of nine and four, and upon the other by a model of the agricultural machine. The walls, where they were not broken by telephone-boxes and a couple of photographs--one representing the wreck of the _James L. Moody_ on a bold and broken coast, the other the Saturday tug alive with amateur fishers--almost disappeared under oil-paintings gaudily framed. Many of these were relics of the Latin Quarter, and I must do Pinkerton the justice to say that none of them were bad, and some had remarkable merit. They went off slowly, but for handsome figures; and their places were progressively supplied with the work of local artists. These last it was one of my first duties to review and criticise. Some of them were villainous, yet all were saleable. I said so; and the next moment saw myself, the figure of a miserable renegade, bearing arms in the wrong camp. I was to look at pictures thenceforward, not with the eye of the artist, but the dealer; and I saw the stream widen that divided me from all I loved. "Now, Loudon," Pinkerton had said, the morning after the lecture,--"now, Loudon, we can go at it shoulder to shoulder. This is what I have longed for: I wanted two heads and four arms; and now I have 'em. You'll find it's just the same as art--all observation and imagination only more movement. Just wait till you begin to feel the charm!" I might have waited long. Perhaps I lack a sense; for our whole existence seemed to me one dreary bustle, and the place we bustled in fitly to be called the Place of Yawning. I slept in a little den behind the office; Pinkerton, in the office itself, stretched on a patent sofa which sometimes collapsed, his slumbers still further menaced by an imminent clock with an alarm. Roused by this diabolical contrivance, we rose early, went forth early to breakfast, and returned by nine to what Pinkerton called work, and I distraction. Masses of letters must be opened, read, and answered; some by me at a subsidiary desk which had been introduced on the morning of my arrival; others by my bright-eyed friend, pacing the room like a caged lion as he dictated to the tinkling type-writers. Masses of wet proof had to be overhauled and scrawled upon with a blue pencil--"rustic"; "six-inch caps"; "bold spacing here"; or sometimes terms more fervid--as, for instance, this (which I remember Pinkerton to have spirted on the margin of an advertisement of Soothing Syrup), "Throw this all down. Have you never printed an advertisement? I'll be round in half-an-hour." The ledger and sale-book, besides, we had always with us. Such was the backbone of our occupation, and tolerable enough; but the far greater proportion of our time was consumed by visitors--whole-souled, grand fellows no doubt, and as sharp as a needle, but to me unfortunately not diverting. Some were apparently half-witted, and must be talked over by the hour before they could reach the humblest decision, which they only left the office to return again (ten minutes later) and rescind. Others came with a vast show of hurry and despatch, but I observed it to be principally show. The agricultural model, for instance, which was practicable, proved a kind of fly-paper for these busybodies. I have seen them blankly turn the crank of it for five minutes at a time, simulating (to nobody's deception) business interest: "Good thing this, Pinkerton? Sell much of it? Ha! Couldn't use it, I suppose, as a medium of advertisement for my article?"--which was perhaps toilet soap. Others (a still worse variety) carried us to neighbouring saloons to dice for cocktails and (after the cocktails were paid) for dollars on a corner of the counter. The attraction of dice for all these people was, indeed, extraordinary: at a certain club where I once dined in the character of "my partner, Mr. Dodd," the dice-box came on the table with the wine, an artless substitute for after-dinner wit. Of all our visitors, I believe I preferred Emperor Norton; the very mention of whose name reminds me I am doing scanty justice to the folks of San Francisco. In what other city would a harmless madman who supposed himself emperor of the two Americas have been so fostered and encouraged? Where else would even the people of the streets have respected the poor soul's illusion? Where else would bankers and merchants have received his visits, cashed his cheques, and submitted to his small assessments? Where else would he have been suffered to attend and address the exhibition days of schools and colleges? Where else, in God's green earth, have taken his pick of restaurants, ransacked the bill of fare, and departed scatheless? They tell me he was even an exacting patron, threatening to withdraw his custom when dissatisfied; and I can believe it, for his face wore an expression distinctly gastronomical. Pinkerton had received from this monarch a cabinet appointment; I have seen the brevet, wondering mainly at the good-nature of the printer who had executed the forms, and I think my friend was at the head either of foreign affairs or education: it mattered, indeed, nothing, the prestation being in all offices identical. It was at a comparatively early date that I saw Jim in the exercise of his public functions. His Majesty entered the office--a portly, rather flabby man, with the face of a gentleman, rendered unspeakably pathetic and absurd by the great sabre at his side and the peacock's feather in his hat. "I have called to remind you, Mr. Pinkerton, that you are somewhat in arrear of taxes," he said, with old-fashioned, stately courtesy. "Well, your Majesty, what is the amount?" asked Jim; and, when the figure was named (it was generally two or three dollars), paid upon the nail and offered a bonus in the shape of Thirteen Star. "I am always delighted to patronise native industries," said Norton the First. "San Francisco is public-spirited in what concerns its emperor; and indeed, sir, of all my domains, it is my favourite city." "Come," said I, when he was gone, "I prefer that customer to the lot." "It's really rather a distinction," Jim admitted. "I think it must have been the umbrella racket that attracted him." We were distinguished under the rose by the notice of other and greater men. There were days when Jim wore an air of unusual capacity and resolve, spoke with more brevity, like one pressed for time, and took often on his tongue such phrases as "Longhurst told me so this morning," or, "I had it straight from Longhurst himself." It was no wonder, I used to think, that Pinkerton was called to council with such Titans; for the creature's quickness and resource were beyond praise. In the early days when he consulted me without reserve, pacing the room, projecting, ciphering, extending hypothetical interests, trebling imaginary capital, his "engine" (to renew an excellent old word) labouring full steam ahead, I could never decide whether my sense of respect or entertainment were the stronger. But these good hours were designed to curtailment. "Yes, it's smart enough," I once observed. "But, Pinkerton, do you think it's honest?" "You don't think it's honest?" he wailed. "O dear me, that ever I should have heard such an expression on your lips." At sight of his distress I plagiarised unblushingly from Myner. "You seem to think honesty as simple as Blind Man's Buff," said I. "It's a more delicate affair than that: delicate as any art." "O well, at that rate!" he exclaimed, with complete relief; "that's casuistry." "I am perfectly certain of one thing; that what you propose is dishonest," I returned. "Well, say no more about it; that's settled," he replied. Thus, almost at a word, my point was carried. But the trouble was that such differences continued to recur, until we began to regard each other with alarm. If there were one thing Pinkerton valued himself upon, it was his honesty; if there were one thing he clung to, it was my good opinion; and when both were involved, as was the case in these commercial cruces, the man was on the rack. My own position, if you consider how much I owed him, how hateful is the trade of fault-finder, and that yet I lived and fattened on these questionable operations, was perhaps equally distressing. If I had been more sterling or more combative, things might have gone extremely far. But, in truth, I was just base enough to profit by what was not forced on my attention, rather than seek scenes; Pinkerton quite cunning enough to avail himself of my weakness; and it was a relief to both when he began to involve his proceedings in a decent mystery. Our last dispute, which had a most unlooked-for consequence, turned on the refitting of condemned ships. He had bought a miserable hulk, and came, rubbing his hands, to inform me she was already on the slip, under a new name, to be repaired. When first I had heard of this industry I suppose I scarcely comprehended; but much discussion had sharpened my faculties, and now my brow became heavy. "I can be no party to that, Pinkerton," said I. He leaped like a man shot. "What next?" he cried. "What ails you anyway? You seem to me to dislike everything that's profitable." "This ship has been condemned by Lloyd's agent," said I. "But I tell you it's a deal. The ship's in splendid condition; there's next to nothing wrong with her but the garboard streak and the sternpost. I tell you, Lloyd's is a ring, like everybody else; only it's an English ring, and that's what deceives you. If it was American, you would be crying it down all day. It's Anglomania--common Anglomania," he cried, with growing irritation. "I will not make money by risking men's lives," was my ultimatum. "Great Cæsar! isn't all speculation a risk? Isn't the fairest kind of shipowning to risk men's lives? And mining--how's that for risk? And look at the elevator business--there's danger if you like! Didn't I take my risk when I bought her? She might have been too far gone; and where would I have been? Loudon," he cried, "I tell you the truth: you're too full of refinement for this world!" "I condemn you out of your own lips," I replied. "'The fairest kind of shipowning,' says you. If you please, let us only do the fairest kind of business." The shot told; the Irrepressible was silenced; and I profited by the chance to pour in a broadside of another sort. He was all sunk in money-getting, I pointed out; he never dreamed of anything but dollars. Where were all his generous, progressive sentiments? Where was his culture? I asked. And where was the American Type? "It's true, Loudon," he cried striding up and down the room, and wildly scouring at his hair. "You're perfectly right. I'm becoming materialised. O, what a thing to have to say, what a confession to make! Materialised! Me! Loudon, this must go on no longer. You've been a loyal friend to me once more; give me your hand--you've saved me again. I must do something to rouse the spiritual side; something desperate; study something, something dry and tough. What shall it be? Theology? Algebra? What's algebra?" "It's dry and tough enough," said I; "_a^2 + 2ab + b^2._" "It's stimulating, though?" he inquired. I told him I believed so, and that it was considered fortifying to Types. "Then that's the thing for me. I'll study algebra," he concluded. The next day, by application to one of his typewriting women, he got word of a young lady, one Miss Mamie McBride, who was willing and able to conduct him in these bloomless meadows; and, her circumstances being lean, and terms consequently moderate, he and Mamie were soon in agreement for two lessons in the week. He took fire with unexampled rapidity; he seemed unable to tear himself away from the symbolic art; an hour's lesson occupied the whole evening; and the original two was soon increased to four, and then to five. I bade him beware of female blandishments. "The first thing you know, you'll be falling in love with the algebraist," said I. "Don't say it, even in jest," he cried. "She's a lady I revere. I could no more lay a hand upon her than I could upon a spirit. Loudon, I don't believe God ever made a purer-minded woman." Which appeared to me too fervent to be reassuring. Meanwhile I had been long expostulating with my friend upon a different matter. "I'm the fifth wheel," I kept telling him. "For any use I am, I might as well be in Senegambia. The letters you give me to attend to might be answered by a sucking child. And I tell you what it is, Pinkerton; either you've got to find me some employment, or I'll have to start in and find it for myself." This I said with a corner of my eye in the usual quarter, towards the arts, little dreaming what destiny was to provide. "I've got it, Loudon," Pinkerton at last replied. "Got the idea on the Potrero cars. Found I hadn't a pencil, borrowed one from the conductor, and figured on it roughly all the way in town. I saw it was the thing at last; gives you a real show. All your talents and accomplishments come in. Here's a sketch advertisement. Just run your eye over it. '_Sun, Ozone and Music!_ PINKERTON'S HEBDOMADARY PICNICS!' (That's a good, catching phrase, 'hebdomadary,' though it's hard to say. I made a note of it when I was looking in the dictionary how to spell _hectagonal_. 'Well, you're a boss word,' I said. 'Before you're very much older, I'll have you in type as long as yourself.' And here it is, you see.) '_Five dollars a head, and ladies free_. MONSTER OLIO OF ATTRACTIONS.' (How does that strike you?) '_Free luncheon under the greenwood tree. Dance on the elastic sward. Home again in the Bright Evening Hours_. _Manager and Honorary Steward, H. Loudon Dodd, Esq., the well-known connoisseur._'" Singular how a man runs from Scylla to Charybdis! I was so intent on securing the disappearance of a single epithet that I accepted the rest of the advertisement and all that it involved without discussion. So it befell that the words "well-known connoisseur" were deleted; but that H. Loudon Dodd became manager and honorary steward of Pinkerton's Hebdomadary Picnics, soon shortened by popular consent, to The Dromedary. By eight o'clock, any Sunday morning, I was to be observed by an admiring public on the wharf. The garb and attributes of sacrifice consisted of a black frockcoat, rosetted, its pockets bulging with sweetmeats and inferior cigars, trousers of light blue, a silk hat like a reflector, and a varnished wand. A goodly steamer guarded my one flank, panting and throbbing, flags fluttering fore and aft of her, illustrative of the Dromedary and patriotism. My other flank was covered by the ticket-office, strongly held by a trusty character of the Scots persuasion, rosetted like his superior, and smoking a cigar to mark the occasion festive. At half-past, having assured myself that all was well with the free luncheons, I lit a cigar myself, and awaited the strains of the "Pioneer Band." I had never to wait long--they were German and punctual--and by a few minutes after the half-hour I would hear them booming down street with a long military roll of drums, some score of gratuitous asses prancing at the head in bearskin hats and buckskin aprons, and conspicuous with resplendent axes. The band, of course, we paid for; but so strong is the San Franciscan passion for public masquerade, that the asses (as I say) were all gratuitous, pranced for the love of it, and cost us nothing but their luncheon. The musicians formed up in the bows of my steamer, and struck into a skittish polka; the asses mounted guard upon the gangway and the ticket-office; and presently after, in family parties of father, mother, and children, in the form of duplicate lovers or in that of solitary youth, the public began to descend upon us by the carful at a time: four to six hundred perhaps, with a strong German flavour, and all merry as children. When these had been shepherded on board, and the inevitable belated two or three had gained the deck amidst the cheering of the public, the hawser was cast off, and we plunged into the bay. And now behold the honorary steward in the hour of duty and glory; see me circulate amid the crowd, radiating affability and laughter, liberal with my sweetmeats and cigars. I say unblushing things to hobble-dehoy girls, tell shy young persons this is the married people's boat, roguishly ask the abstracted if they are thinking of their sweethearts, offer paterfamilias a cigar, am struck with the beauty and grow curious about the age of mamma's youngest, who (I assure her gaily) will be a man before his mother; or perhaps it may occur to me, from the sensible expression of her face, that she is a person of good counsel, and I ask her earnestly if she knows any particularly pleasant place on the Saucelito or San Rafael coast--for the scene of our picnic is always supposed to be uncertain. The next moment I am back at my giddy badinage with the young ladies, wakening laughter as I go, and leaving in my wake applausive comments of "Isn't Mr. Dodd a funny gentleman?" and "O, I think he's just too nice!" An hour having passed in this airy manner, I start upon my rounds afresh, with a bag full of coloured tickets all with pins attached, and all with legible inscriptions: "Old Germany," "California," "True Love," "Old Fogies," "La Belle France," "Green Erin," "The Land of Cakes," "Washington," "Blue Jay," "Robin Red-Breast"--twenty of each denomination; for when it comes to the luncheon we sit down by twenties. These are distributed with anxious tact--for, indeed, this is the most delicate part of my functions--but outwardly with reckless unconcern, amidst the gayest flutter and confusion; and are immediately after sported upon hats and bonnets, to the extreme diffusion of cordiality, total strangers hailing each other by "the number of their mess"--so we humorously name it--and the deck ringing with cries of, "Here, all Blue Jays to the rescue!" or, "I say, am I alone in this blame' ship? Ain't there no more Californians?" By this time we are drawing near to the appointed spot. I mount upon the bridge, the observed of all observers. "Captain," I say, in clear, emphatic tones, heard far and wide, "the majority of the company appear to be in favour of the little cove beyond One-Tree Point." "All right, Mr. Dodd," responds the captain heartily; "all one to me. I am not exactly sure of the place you mean; but just you stay here and pilot me." I do, pointing with my wand. I do pilot him, to the inexpressible entertainment of the picnic, for I am (why should I deny it?) the popular man. We slow down off the mouth of a grassy valley, watered by a brook and set in pines and redwoods. The anchor is let go, the boats are lowered--two of them already packed with the materials of an impromptu bar--and the Pioneer Band, accompanied by the resplendent asses, fill the other, and move shoreward to the inviting strains of "Buffalo Gals, won't you come out to-night?" It is a part of our programme that one of the asses shall, from sheer clumsiness, in the course of this embarkation, drop a dummy axe into the water, whereupon the mirth of the picnic can hardly be assuaged. Upon one occasion the dummy axe floated, and the laugh turned rather the wrong way. In from ten to twenty minutes the boats are alongside again, the messes are marshalled separately on the deck, and the picnic goes ashore, to find the band and the impromptu bar awaiting them. Then come the hampers, which are piled up on the beach, and surrounded by a stern guard of stalwart asses, axe on shoulder. It is here I take my place, note-book in hand, under a banner bearing the legend, "Come here for hampers." Each hamper contains a complete outfit for a separate twenty--cold provender, plates, glasses, knives, forks, and spoons. An agonised printed appeal from the fevered pen of Pinkerton, pasted on the inside of the lid, beseeches that care be taken of the glass and silver. Beer, wine, and lemonade are flowing already from the bar, and the various clans of twenty file away into the woods, with bottles under their arms and the hampers strung upon a stick. Till one they feast there, in a very moderate seclusion, all being within earshot of the band. From one till four dancing takes place upon the grass; the bar does a roaring business; and the honorary steward, who has already exhausted himself to bring life into the dullest of the messes, must now indefatigably dance with the plainest of the women. At four a bugle-call is sounded, and by half-past behold us on board again--Pioneers, corrugated iron bar, empty bottles, and all; while the honorary steward, free at last, subsides into the captain's cabin over a brandy and soda and a book. Free at last, I say; yet there remains before him the frantic leave-takings at the pier, and a sober journey up to Pinkerton's office with two policemen and the day's takings in a bag. What I have here sketched was the routine. But we appealed to the taste of San Francisco more distinctly in particular fêtes. "Ye Olde Time Pycke-Nycke," largely advertised in hand-bills beginning "Oyez, Oyez!" and largely frequented by knights, monks, and cavaliers, was drowned out by unseasonable rain, and returned to the city one of the saddest spectacles I ever remember to have witnessed. In pleasing contrast, and certainly our chief success, was "The Gathering of the Clans," or Scottish picnic. So many milk-white knees were never before simultaneously exhibited in public, and, to judge by the prevalence of "Royal Stewart" and the number of eagles' feathers, we were a high-born company. I threw forward the Scottish flank of my own ancestry, and passed muster as a clansman with applause. There was, indeed, but one small cloud on this red-letter day. I had laid in a large supply of the national beverage in the shape of the "Rob Roy MacGregor O' Blend, Warranted Old and Vatted"; and this must certainly have been a generous spirit, for I had some anxious work between four and half-past, conveying on board the inanimate forms of chieftains. To one of our ordinary festivities, where he was the life and soul of his own mess, Pinkerton himself came incognito, bringing the algebraist on his arm. Miss Mamie proved to be a well-enough-looking mouse, with a large limpid eye, very good manners, and a flow of the most correct expressions I have ever heard upon the human lip. As Pinkerton's incognito was strict, I had little opportunity to cultivate the lady's acquaintance, but I was informed afterwards that she considered me "the wittiest gentleman she had ever met." "The Lord mend your taste in wit!" thought I; but I cannot conceal that such was the general impression. One of my pleasantries even went the round of San Francisco, and I have heard it (myself all unknown) bandied in saloons. To be unknown began at last to be a rare experience; a bustle woke upon my passage, above all, in humble neighbourhoods. "Who's that?" one would ask, and the other would cry, "That! why, Dromedary Dodd!" or, with withering scorn, "Not know Mr. Dodd of the picnics? Well!" and, indeed, I think it marked a rather barren destiny; for our picnics, if a trifle vulgar, were as gay and innocent as the age of gold. I am sure no people divert themselves so easily and so well, and even with the cares of my stewardship I was often happy to be there. Indeed, there were but two drawbacks in the least considerable. The first was my terror of the hobble-dehoy girls, to whom (from the demands of my situation) I was obliged to lay myself so open. The other, if less momentous, was more mortifying. In early days--at my mother's knee, as a man may say--I had acquired the unenviable accomplishment (which I have never since been able to lose) of singing "Just before the Battle." I have what the French call a fillet of voice--my best notes scarce audible about a dinner-table, and the upper register rather to be regarded as a higher power of silence. Experts tell me, besides, that I sing flat; nor, if I were the best singer in the world, does "Just before the Battle" occur to my mature taste as the song that I would choose to sing. In spite of all which considerations, at one picnic, memorably dull, and after I had exhausted every other art of pleasing, I gave, in desperation, my one song. From that hour my doom was gone forth. Either we had a chronic passenger (though I could never detect him), or the very wood and iron of the steamer must have retained the tradition. At every successive picnic word went round that Mr. Dodd was a singer; that Mr. Dodd sang "Just before the Battle"; and, finally, that now was the time when Mr. Dodd sang "Just before the Battle." So that the thing became a fixture, like the dropping of the dummy axe; and you are to conceive me, Sunday after Sunday, piping up my lamentable ditty, and covered, when it was done, with gratuitous applause. It is a beautiful trait in human nature that I was invariably offered an encore. I was well paid, however, even to sing. Pinkerton and I, after an average Sunday, had five hundred dollars to divide. Nay, and the picnics were the means, although indirectly, of bringing me a singular windfall. This was at the end of the season, after the "Grand Farewell Fancy Dress Gala." Many of the hampers had suffered severely; and it was judged wiser to save storage, dispose of them, and lay in a fresh stock when the campaign reopened. Among my purchasers was a working man of the name of Speedy, to whose house, after several unavailing letters, I must proceed in person, wondering to find myself once again on the wrong side, and playing the creditor to some one else's debtor. Speedy was in the belligerent stage of fear. He could not pay. It appeared he had already resold the hampers, and he defied me to do my worst. I did not like to lose my own money; I hated to lose Pinkerton's; and the bearing of my creditor incensed me. "Do you know, Mr. Speedy, that I can send you to the penitentiary?" said I, willing to read him a lesson. The dire expression was overheard in the next room. A large, fresh, motherly Irishwoman ran forth upon the instant, and fell to besiege me with caresses and appeals. "Sure now, and ye couldn't have the heart to ut, Mr. Dodd--you, that's so well known to be a pleasant gentleman; and it's a pleasant face ye have, and the picture of me own brother that's dead and gone. It's a truth that he's been drinking. Ye can smell it off of him, more blame to him. But, indade, and there's nothing in the house beyont the furnicher, and Thim Stock. It's the stock that ye'll be taking, dear. A sore penny it has cost me, first and last, and, by all tales, not worth an owld tobacco-pipe." Thus adjured, and somewhat embarrassed by the stern attitude I had adopted, I suffered myself to be invested with a considerable quantity of what is called "wild-cat stock," in which this excellent if illogical female had been squandering her hard-earned gold. It could scarce be said to better my position, but the step quieted the woman; and, on the other hand, I could not think I was taking much risk, for the shares in question (they were those of what I will call the Catamount Silver Mine) had fallen some time before to the bed-rock quotation, and now lay perfectly inert, or were only kicked (like other waste-paper) about the kennel of the exchange by bankrupt speculators. A month or two after, I perceived by the stock-list that Catamount had taken a bound; before afternoon "thim stock" were worth a quite considerable pot of money; and I learned, upon inquiry, that a bonanza had been found in a condemned lead, and the mine was now expected to do wonders. Remarkable to philosophers how bonanzas are found in condemned leads, and how the stock is always at freezing-point immediately before! By some stroke of chance the Speedys had held on to the right thing; they had escaped the syndicate; yet a little more, if I had not come to dun them, and Mrs. Speedy would have been buying a silk dress. I could not bear, of course, to profit by the accident, and returned to offer restitution. The house was in a bustle; the neighbours (all stock-gamblers themselves) had crowded to condole; and Mrs. Speedy sat with streaming tears, the centre of a sympathetic group. "For fifteen year I've been at ut," she was lamenting as I entered, "and grudging the babes the very milk--more shame to me!--to pay their dhirty assessments. And now, my dears, I should be a lady, and driving in my coach, if all had their rights; and a sorrow on that man Dodd! As soon as I set eyes on him, I seen the divil was in the house." It was upon these words that I made my entrance, which was therefore dramatic enough, though nothing to what followed. For when it appeared that I was come to restore the lost fortune, and when Mrs. Speedy (after copiously weeping on my bosom) had refused the restitution, and when Mr. Speedy (summoned to that end from a camp of the Grand Army of the Republic) had added his refusal, and when I had insisted, and they had insisted, and the neighbours had applauded and supported each of us in turn; and when at last it was agreed we were to hold the stock together, and share the proceeds in three parts--one for me, one for Mr. Speedy, and one for his spouse--I will leave you to conceive the enthusiasm that reigned in that small, bare apartment, with the sewing-machine in the one corner, and the babes asleep in the other, and pictures of Garfield and the Battle of Gettysburg on the yellow walls. Port-wine was had in by a sympathiser, and we drank it mingled with tears. "And I dhrink to your health, my dear," sobbed Mrs. Speedy, especially affected by my gallantry in the matter of the third share; "and I'm sure we all dhrink to his health--Mr. Dodd of the picnics, no gentleman better known than him; and it's my prayer, dear, the good God may be long spared to see ye in health and happiness!" In the end I was the chief gainer; for I sold my third while it was worth five thousand dollars, but the Speedys more adventurously held on until the syndicate reversed the process, when they were happy to escape with perhaps a quarter of that sum. It was just as well; for the bulk of the money was (in Pinkerton's phrase) reinvested; and when next I saw Mrs. Speedy, she was still gorgeously dressed from the proceeds of the late success, but was already moist with tears over the new catastrophe. "We're froze out, me darlin'! All the money we had, dear, and the sewing-machine, and Jim's uniform, was in the Golden West; and the vipers has put on a new assessment." By the end of the year, therefore, this is how I stood. I had made By Catamount Silver Mine $5,000 By the picnics 3,000 By the lecture 600 By profit and loss on capital in Pinkerton's business 1,350 ------ $9,950 to which must be added What remained of my grandfather's donation 8,500 ------ $18,450 It appears, on the other hand, that I had spent 4,000 ------ Which thus left me to the good $14,450 a result on which I am not ashamed to say I looked with gratitude and pride. Some eight thousand (being late conquest) was liquid and actually tractile in the bank; the rest whirled beyond reach and even sight (save in the mirror of a balance-sheet) under the compelling spell of wizard Pinkerton. Dollars of mine were tacking off the shores of Mexico, in peril of the deep and the guardacostas; they rang on saloon counters in the city of Tombstone, Arizona; they shone in faro-tents among the mountain diggings: the imagination flagged in following them, so wide were they diffused, so briskly they span to the turning of the wizard's crank. But here, there, or everywhere I could still tell myself it was all mine, and--what was more convincing--draw substantial dividends. My fortune, I called it; and it represented, when expressed in dollars or even British pounds, an honest pot of money; when extended into francs, a veritable fortune. Perhaps I have let the cat out of the bag; perhaps you see already where my hopes were pointing, and begin to blame my inconsistency. But I must first tell you my excuse, and the change that had befallen Pinkerton. About a week after the picnic to which he escorted Mamie, Pinkerton avowed the state of his affections. From what I had observed on board the steamer--where, methought, Mamie waited on him with her limpid eyes--I encouraged the bashful lover to proceed; and the very next evening he was carrying me to call on his affianced. "You must befriend her, Loudon, as you have always befriended me," he said pathetically. "By saying disagreeable things? I doubt if that be the way to a young lady's favour," I replied; "and since this picnicking I begin to be a man of some experience." "Yes, you do nobly there; I can't describe how I admire you," he cried. "Not that she will ever need it; she has had every advantage. God knows what I have done to deserve her. O man, what a responsibility this is for a rough fellow and not always truthful!" "Brace up, old man--brace up!" said I. But when we reached Mamie's boarding-house, it was almost with tears that he presented me. "Here is Loudon, Mamie," were his words. "I want you to love him; he has a grand nature." "You are certainly no stranger to me, Mr. Dodd," was her gracious expression. "James is never weary of descanting on your goodness." "My dear lady," said I, "when you know our friend a little better, you will make a large allowance for his warm heart. My goodness has consisted in allowing him to feed and clothe and toil for me when he could ill afford it. If I am now alive, it is to him I owe it; no man had a kinder friend. You must take good care of him," I added, laying my hand on his shoulder, "and keep him in good order, for he needs it." Pinkerton was much affected by this speech, and so, I fear, was Mamie. I admit it was a tactless performance. "When you know our friend a little better," was not happily said; and even "keep him in good order, for he needs it," might be construed into matter of offence. But I lay it before you in all confidence of your acquittal: was the general tone of it "patronising"? Even if such was the verdict of the lady, I cannot but suppose the blame was neither wholly hers nor wholly mine; I cannot but suppose that Pinkerton had already sickened the poor woman of my very name; so that if I had come with the songs of Apollo, she must still have been disgusted. Here, however, were two finger-posts to Paris--Jim was going to be married, and so had the less need of my society; I had not pleased his bride, and so was, perhaps, better absent. Late one evening I broached the idea to my friend. It had been a great day for me; I had just banked my five thousand Catamountain dollars; and as Jim had refused to lay a finger on the stock, risk and profit were both wholly mine, and I was celebrating the event with stout and crackers. I began by telling him that if it caused him any pain or any anxiety about his affairs, he had but to say the word, and he should hear no more of my proposal. He was the truest and best friend I ever had, or was ever like to have; and it would be a strange thing if I refused him any favour he was sure he wanted. At the same time I wished him to be sure; for my life was wasting in my hands. I was like one from home: all my true interests summoned me away. I must remind him, besides, that he was now about to marry and assume new interests, and that our extreme familiarity might be even painful to his wife. "O no, Loudon; I feel you are wrong there," he interjected warmly; "she _does_ appreciate your nature." "So much the better, then," I continued; and went on to point out that our separation need not be for long; that, in the way affairs were going, he might join me in two years with a fortune--small, indeed, for the States, but in France almost conspicuous; that we might unite our resources, and have one house in Paris for the winter and a second near Fontainebleau for summer, where we could be as happy as the day was long, and bring up little Pinkertons as practical artistic workmen, far from the money-hunger of the West. "Let me go, then," I concluded; "not as a deserter, but as the vanguard, to lead the march of the Pinkerton men." So I argued and pleaded, not without emotion; my friend sitting opposite, resting his chin upon his hand and (but for that single interjection) silent. "I have been looking for this, Loudon," said he, when I had done. "It does pain me, and that's the fact--I'm so miserably selfish. And I believe it's a death-blow to the picnics; for it's idle to deny that you were the heart and soul of them with your wand and your gallant bearing, and wit and humour and chivalry, and throwing that kind of society atmosphere about the thing. But, for all that, you're right, and you ought to go. You may count on forty dollars a week; and if Depew City--one of nature's centres for this State--pan out the least as I expect, it may be double. But it's forty dollars anyway; and to think that two years ago you were almost reduced to beggary!" "I _was_ reduced to it," said I. "Well, the brutes gave you nothing, and I'm glad of it now!" cried Jim. "It's the triumphant return I glory in! Think of the master, and that cold-blooded Myner too! Yes, just let the Depew City boom get on its legs, and you shall go; and two years later, day for day, I'll shake hands with you in Paris, with Mamie on my arm, God bless her!" We talked in this vein far into the night. I was myself so exultant in my new found liberty, and Pinkerton so proud of my triumph, so happy in my happiness, in so warm a glow about the gallant little woman of his choice, and the very room so filled with castles in the air and cottages at Fontainebleau, that it was little wonder if sleep fled our eyelids, and three had followed two upon the office-clock before Pinkerton unfolded the mechanism of his patent sofa. CHAPTER VIII FACES ON THE CITY FRONT It is very much the custom to view life as if it were exactly ruled in two, like sleep and waking--the provinces of play and business standing separate. The business side of my career in San Francisco has been now disposed of; I approach the chapter of diversion; and it will be found they had about an equal share in building up the story of the Wrecker--a gentleman whose appearance may be presently expected. With all my occupations, some six afternoons and two or three odd evenings remained at my disposal every week: a circumstance the more agreeable as I was a stranger in a city singularly picturesque. From what I had once called myself, "The Amateur Parisian," I grew (or declined) into a water-side prowler, a lingerer on wharves, a frequenter of shy neighbourhoods, a scraper of acquaintance with eccentric characters. I visited Chinese and Mexican gambling-hells, German secret societies, sailors' boarding-houses, and "dives" of every complexion of the disreputable and dangerous. I have seen greasy Mexican hands pinned to the table with a knife for cheating, seamen (when blood-money ran high) knocked down upon the public street and carried insensible on board short-handed ships, shots exchanged, and the smoke (and the company) dispersing from the doors of the saloon. I have heard cold-minded Polacks debate upon the readiest method of burning San Francisco to the ground, hot-headed working men and women bawl and swear in the tribune at the Sandlot, and Kearney himself open his subscription for a gallows, name the manufacturers who were to grace it with their dangling bodies, and read aloud to the delighted multitude a telegram of adhesion from a member of the State legislature: all which preparations of proletarian war were (in a moment) breathed upon and abolished by the mere name and fame of Mr. Coleman. That lion of the Vigilantes had but to rouse himself and shake his ears, and the whole brawling mob was silenced. I could not but reflect what a strange manner of man this was, to be living unremarked there as a private merchant, and to be so feared by a whole city; and if I was disappointed, in my character of looker-on, to have the matter end ingloriously without the firing of a shot or the hanging of a single millionaire, philosophy tried to tell me that this sight was truly the more picturesque. In a thousand towns and different epochs I might have had occasion to behold the cowardice and carnage of street-fighting; where else, but only there and then, could I have enjoyed a view of Coleman (the intermittent despot) walking meditatively up hill in a quiet part of town, with a very rolling gait, and slapping gently his great thigh? _Minora canamus_. This historic figure stalks silently through a corner of the San Francisco of my memory. The rest is bric-à-brac, the reminiscences of a vagrant sketcher. My delight was much in slums. "Little Italy," was a haunt of mine. There I would look in at the windows of small eating-shops transported bodily from Genoa or Naples, with their macaroni, and chianti flasks, and portraits of Garibaldi, and coloured political caricatures; or (entering in) hold high debate with some ear-ringed fisher of the bay as to the designs of "Mr. Owstria" and "Mr. Rooshia." I was often to be observed (had there been any to observe me) in that dis-peopled, hill-side solitude of "Little Mexico," with its crazy wooden houses, endless crazy wooden stairs, and perilous mountain-goat paths in the sand. China-town by a thousand eccentricities drew and held me; I could never have enough of its ambiguous, inter-racial atmosphere, as of a vitalised museum; never wonder enough at its outlandish, necromantic-looking vegetables set forth to sell in commonplace American shop-windows, its temple doors open and the scent of the joss-stick streaming forth on the American air, its kites of Oriental fashion hanging fouled in Western telegraph-wires, its flights of paper prayers which the trade-wind hunts and dissipates along Western gutters. I was a frequent wanderer on North Beach, gazing at the straits, and the huge Cape Horners creeping out to sea, and imminent Tamalpais. Thence, on my homeward way, I might visit that strange and filthy shed, earth-paved and walled with the cages of wild animals and birds, where at a ramshackle counter, amid the yells of monkeys, and a poignant atmosphere of menagerie, forty-rod whisky was administered by a proprietor as dirty as his beasts. Nor did I even neglect Nob Hill, which is itself a kind of slum, being the habitat of the mere millionaire. There they dwell upon the hill-top, high raised above man's clamour, and the trade-wind blows between their palaces about deserted streets. But San Francisco is not herself only. She is not only the most interesting city in the Union, and the hugest smelting-pot of races and the precious metals. She keeps, besides, the doors of the Pacific, and is the port of entry to another world and an earlier epoch in man's history. Nowhere else shall you observe (in the ancient phrase) so many tall ships as here convene from round the Horn, from China, from Sydney, and the Indies. But, scarce remarked amid that craft of deep-sea giants, another class of craft, the Island schooner, circulates--low in the water, with lofty spars and dainty lines, rigged and fashioned like a yacht, manned with brown-skinned, soft-spoken, sweet-eyed native sailors, and equipped with their great double-ender boats that tell a tale of boisterous sea-beaches. These steal out and in again, unnoted by the world or even the newspaper press, save for the line in the clearing column, "Schooner So-and-so for Yap and South Sea Islands"--steal out with nondescript cargoes of tinned salmon, gin, bolts of gaudy cotton stuff, women's hats, and Waterbury watches, to return, after a year, piled as high as to the eaves of the house with copra, or wallowing deep with the shells of the tortoise or the pearl oyster. To me, in my character of the Amateur Parisian, this island traffic, and even the island world, were beyond the bounds of curiosity, and how much more of knowledge. I stood there on the extreme shore of the West and of to-day. Seventeen hundred years ago, and seven thousand miles to the east, a legionary stood, perhaps, upon the wall of Antoninus, and looked northward toward the mountains of the Picts. For all the interval of time and space, I, when I looked from the cliff-house on the broad Pacific, was that man's heir and analogue: each of us standing on the verge of the Roman Empire (or, as we now call it, Western civilisation), each of us gazing onwards into zones unromanised. But I was dull. I looked rather backward, keeping a kind eye on Paris; and it required a series of converging incidents to change my attitude of nonchalance for one of interest, and even longing, which I little dreamed that I should live to gratify. The first of these incidents brought me in acquaintance with a certain San Francisco character, who had something of a name beyond the limits of the city, and was known to many lovers of good English. I had discovered a new slum, a place of precarious sandy cliffs, deep sandy cuttings, solitary ancient houses, and the butt-ends of streets. It was already environed. The ranks of the street lamps threaded it unbroken. The city, upon all sides of it, was tightly packed, and growled with traffic. To-day, I do not doubt the very landmarks are all swept away; but it offered then, within narrow limits, a delightful peace, and (in the morning, when I chiefly went there) a seclusion almost rural. On a steep sand-hill in this neighbourhood toppled, on the most insecure foundation, a certain row of houses, each with a bit of garden, and all (I have to presume) inhabited. Thither I used to mount by a crumbling footpath, and in front of the last of the houses would sit down to sketch. The very first day I saw I was observed out of the ground-floor window by a youngish, good-looking fellow, prematurely bald, and with an expression both lively and engaging. The second, as we were still the only figures in the landscape, it was no more than natural that we should nod. The third he came out fairly from his entrenchments, praised my sketch, and with the _impromptu_ cordiality of artists carried me into his apartment; where I sat presently in the midst of a museum of strange objects--paddles, and battle-clubs, and baskets, rough-hewn stone images, ornaments of threaded shell, cocoa-nut bowls, snowy cocoa-nut plumes--evidences and examples of another earth, another climate, another race, and another (if a ruder) culture. Nor did these objects lack a fitting commentary in the conversation of my new acquaintance. Doubtless you have read his book. You know already how he tramped and starved, and had so fine a profit of living in his days among the islands; and meeting him as I did, one artist with another, after months of offices and picnics, you can imagine with what charm he would speak, and with what pleasure I would hear. It was in such talks, which we were both eager to repeat, that I first heard the names--first fell under the spell--of the islands; and it was from one of the first of them that I returned (a happy man) with "Omoo" under one arm, and my friend's own adventures under the other. The second incident was more dramatic, and had, besides, a bearing on my future. I was standing one day near a boat-landing under Telegraph Hill. A large barque, perhaps of eighteen hundred tons, was coming more than usually close about the point to reach her moorings; and I was observing her with languid inattention, when I observed two men to stride across the bulwarks, drop into a shore boat, and, violently dispossessing the boatman of his oars, pull toward the landing where I stood. In a surprisingly short time they came tearing up the steps, and I could see that both were too well dressed to be foremast hands--the first even with research, and both, and especially the first, appeared under the empire of some strong emotion. "Nearest police office!" cried the leader. "This way," said I, immediately falling in with their precipitate pace. "What's wrong? What ship is that?" "That's the _Gleaner_," he replied. "I am chief officer, this gentleman's third, and we've to get in our depositions before the crew. You see, they might corral us with the captain, and that's no kind of berth for me. I've sailed with some hard cases in my time, and seen pins flying like sand on a squally day--but never a match to our old man. It never let up from the Hook to the Farallones, and the last man was dropped not sixteen hours ago. Packet rats our men were, and as tough a crowd as ever sand-bagged a man's head in; but they looked sick enough when the captain started in with his fancy shooting." "O, he's done up," observed the other. "He won't go to sea no more." "You make me tired," retorted his superior. "If he gets ashore in one piece, and isn't lynched in the next ten minutes, he'll do yet. The owners have a longer memory than the public, they'll stand by him; they don't find as smart a captain every day in the year." "O, he's a son of a gun of a fine captain; there ain't no doubt of that," concurred the other heartily. "Why, I don't suppose there's been no wages paid aboard that _Gleaner_ for three trips." "No wages?" I exclaimed, for I was still a novice in maritime affairs. "Not to sailor-men before the mast," agreed the mate. "Men cleared out; wasn't the soft job they maybe took it for. She isn't the first ship that never paid wages." I could not but observe that our pace was progressively relaxing; and, indeed, I have often wondered since whether the hurry of the start were not intended for the gallery alone. Certain it is, at least, that when we had reached the police office, and the mates had made their deposition, and told their horrid tale of five men murdered--some with savage passion, some with cold brutality--between Sandy Hook and San Francisco, the police were despatched in time to be too late. Before we arrived the ruffian had slipped out upon the dock, and mingled with the crowd, and found a refuge in the house of an acquaintance; and the ship was only tenanted by his late victims. Well for him that he had been thus speedy; for when word began to go abroad among the shore-side characters, when the last victim was carried by to the hospital, when those who had escaped (as by miracle) from that floating shambles began to circulate and show their wounds in the crowd, it was strange to witness the agitation that seized and shook that portion of the city. Men shed tears in public; bosses of lodging-houses, long inured to brutality,--and above all, brutality to sailors--shook their fists at heaven. If hands could have been laid on the captain of the _Gleaner_, his shrift would have been short. That night (so gossip reports) he was headed up in a barrel and smuggled across the bay. In two ships already he had braved the penitentiary and the gallows; and yet, by last accounts, he now commands another on the Western Ocean. As I have said, I was never quite certain whether Mr. Nares (the mate) did not intend that his superior should escape. It would have been like his preference of loyalty to law; it would have been like his prejudice, which was all in favour of the after-guard. But it must remain a matter of conjecture only. Well as I came to know him in the sequel, he was never communicative on that point--nor, indeed, on any that concerned the voyage of the _Gleaner_. Doubtless he had some reason for his reticence. Even during our walk to the police office he debated several times with Johnson, the third officer, whether he ought not to give up himself, as well as to denounce the captain. He had decided in the negative, arguing that "it would probably come to nothing; and even if there was a stink, he had plenty good friends in San Francisco." And to nothing it came; though it must have very nearly come to something, for Mr. Nares disappeared immediately from view, and was scarce less closely hidden than his captain. Johnson, on the other hand, I often met. I could never learn this man's country; and though he himself claimed to be American, neither his English nor his education warranted the claim. In all likelihood he was of Scandinavian birth and blood, long pickled in the forecastles of English and American ships. It is possible that, like so many of his race in similar positions, he had already lost his native tongue. In mind, at least, he was quite denationalised; thought only in English--to call it so; and though by nature one of the mildest, kindest, and most feebly playful of mankind, he had been so long accustomed to the cruelty of sea discipline that his stories (told perhaps with a giggle) would sometimes turn me chill. In appearance he was tall, light of weight, bold and high-bred of feature, dusky-haired, and with a face of a clean even brown--the ornament of outdoor men. Seated in a chair, you might have passed him off for a baronet or a military officer; but let him rise, and it was Fo'c's'le Jack that came rolling toward you, crab-like; let him but open his lips, and it was Fo'c's'le Jack that piped and drawled his ungrammatical gibberish. He had sailed (among other places) much among the islands; and after a Cape Horn passage with its snow-squalls and its frozen sheets, he announced his intention of "taking a turn among them Kanakas." I thought I should have lost him soon; but, according to the unwritten usage of mariners, he had first to dissipate his wages. "Guess I'll have to paint this town red," was his hyperbolical expression; for sure no man ever embarked upon a milder course of dissipation, most of his days being passed in the little parlour behind Black Tom's public-house, with a select corps of old particular acquaintances, all from the South Seas, and all patrons of a long yarn, a short pipe, and glasses round. Black Tom's, to the front, presented the appearance of a fourth-rate saloon, devoted to Kanaka seamen, dirt, negrohead tobacco, bad cigars, worse gin, and guitars and banjos in a state of decline. The proprietor, a powerful coloured man, was at once a publican, a ward politician, leader of some brigade of "lambs" or "smashers," at the wind of whose clubs the party bosses and the mayor were supposed to tremble, and (what hurt nothing) an active and reliable crimp. His front quarters, then, were noisy, disreputable, and not even safe. I have seen worse-frequented saloons where there were fewer scandals; for Tom was often drunk himself: and there is no doubt the Lambs must have been a useful body, or the place would have been closed. I remember one day, not long before an election, seeing a blind man, very well dressed, led up to the counter and remain a long while in consultation with the negro. The pair looked so ill-assorted, and the awe with which the drinkers fell back and left them in the midst of an _impromptu_ privacy was so unusual in such a place, that I turned to my next neighbour with a question. He told me the blind man was a distinguished party boss, called by some the King of San Francisco, but perhaps better known by his picturesque Chinese nickname of the Blind White Devil. "The Lambs must be wanted pretty bad, I guess," my informant added. I have here a sketch of the Blind White Devil leaning on the counter; on the next page, and taken the same hour, a jotting of Black Tom threatening a whole crowd of customers with a long Smith and Wesson--to such heights and depths we rose and fell in the front parts of the saloon! Meanwhile, away in the back quarters, sat the small informal South Sea Club, talking of another world, and surely of a different century. Old schooner captains they were, old South Sea traders, cooks, and mates; fine creatures, softened by residence among a softer race: full men besides, though not by reading, but by strange experience; and for days together I could hear their yarns with an unfading pleasure. All had, indeed, some touch of the poetic; for the beach-comber, when not a mere ruffian, is the poor relation of the artist. Even through Johnson's inarticulate speech, his "O yes, there ain't no harm in them Kanakas," or "O yes, that's a son of a gun of a fine island, mountainous right down; I didn't never ought to have left that island," there pierced a certain gusto of appreciation; and some of the rest were master-talkers. From their long tales, their traits of character and unpremeditated landscape, there began to piece itself together in my head some image of the islands and the island life; precipitous shores, spired mountain-tops, the deep shade of hanging forests, the unresting surf upon the reef, and the unending peace of the lagoon; sun, moon, and stars of an imperial brightness; man moving in these scenes scarce fallen, and woman lovelier than Eve; the primal curse abrogated, the bed made ready for the stranger, life set to perpetual music, and the guest welcomed, the boat urged, and the long night beguiled with poetry and choral song. A man must have been an unsuccessful artist; he must have starved on the streets of Paris; he must have been yoked to a commercial force like Pinkerton, before he can conceive the longings that at times assailed me. The draughty, rowdy city of San Francisco, the bustling office where my friend Jim paced like a caged lion daily between ten and four, even (at times) the retrospect of Paris, faded in comparison. Many a man less tempted would have thrown up all to realise his visions; but I was by nature unadventurous and uninitiative; to divert me from all former paths and send me cruising through the isles of paradise, some force external to myself must be exerted; Destiny herself must use the fitting wedge; and, little as I deemed it, that tool was already in her hand of brass. I sat, one afternoon, in the corner of a great, glassy, silvered saloon, a free lunch at my one elbow, at the other a "conscientious nude" from the brush of local talent; when, with the tramp of feet and a sudden buzz of voices, the swing-doors were flung broadly open, and the place carried as by storm. The crowd which thus entered (mostly seafaring men, and all prodigiously excited) contained a sort of kernel or general centre of interest, which the rest merely surrounded and advertised, as children in the Old World surround and escort the Punch-and-Judy man; the word went round the bar like wildfire that these were Captain Trent and the survivors of the British brig _Flying Scud_, picked up by a British war-ship on Midway Island, arrived that morning in San Francisco Bay, and now fresh from making the necessary declarations. Presently I had a good sight of them; four brown, seamanlike fellows, standing by the counter, glass in hand, the centre of a score of questioners. One was a Kanaka--the cook, I was informed; one carried a cage with a canary, which occasionally trilled into thin song; one had his left arm in a sling, and looked gentlemanlike and somewhat sickly, as though the injury had been severe and he was scarce recovered; and the captain himself--a red-faced, blue-eyed, thick-set man of five-and-forty--wore a bandage on his right hand. The incident struck me; I was struck particularly to see captain, cook, and foremast hands walking the street and visiting saloons in company; and, as when anything impressed me, I got my sketch-book out, and began to steal a sketch of the four castaways. The crowd, sympathising with my design, made a clear lane across the room; and I was thus enabled, all unobserved myself, to observe with a still growing closeness the face and the demeanour of Captain Trent. Warmed by whisky and encouraged by the eagerness of the bystanders, that gentleman was now rehearsing the history of his misfortune. It was but scraps that reached me: how he "filled her on the starboard tack," and how "it came up sudden out of the nor'-nor'-west," and "there she was, high and dry." Sometimes he would appeal to one of the men--"That was how it was, Jack?"--and the man would reply, "That was the way of it, Captain Trent." Lastly, he started a fresh tide of popular sympathy by enunciating the sentiment, "Damn all these Admiralty Charts, and that's what I say!" From the nodding of heads and the murmurs of assent that followed, I could see that Captain Trent had established himself in the public mind as a gentleman and a thorough navigator: about which period, my sketch of the four men and the canary-bird being finished, and all (especially the canary-bird) excellent likenesses, I buckled up my book and slipped from the saloon. Little did I suppose that I was leaving Act I, Scene I of the drama of my life; and yet the scene--or, rather, the captain's face--lingered for some time in my memory. I was no prophet, as I say; but I was something else--I was an observer; and one thing I knew--I knew when a man was terrified. Captain Trent, of the British brig Flying Scud, had been glib; he had been ready; he had been loud; but in his blue eyes I could detect the chill, and in the lines of his countenance spy the agitation, of perpetual terror. Was he trembling for his certificate? In my judgment it was some livelier kind of fear that thrilled in the man's marrow as he turned to drink. Was it the result of recent shock, and had he not yet recovered the disaster to his brig? I remembered how a friend of mine had been in a railway accident, and shook and started for a month; and although Captain Trent of the _Flying Scud_ had none of the appearance of a nervous man, I told myself, with incomplete conviction, that his must be a similar case. CHAPTER IX THE WRECK OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ The next morning I found Pinkerton, who had risen before me, seated at our usual table, and deep in the perusal of what I will call the _Daily Occidental_. This was a paper (I know not if it be so still) that stood out alone among its brethren in the West. The others, down to their smallest item, were defaced with capitals, headlines, alliterations, swaggering misquotations, and the shoddy picturesque and unpathetic pathos of the Harry Millers: the _Occidental_ alone appeared to be written by a dull, sane, Christian gentleman, singly desirous of communicating knowledge. It had not only this merit--which endeared it to me--but was admittedly the best informed on business matters, which attracted Pinkerton. "Loudon," said he, looking up from the journal, "you sometimes think I have too many irons in the fire. My notion, on the other hand, is, when you see a dollar lying, pick it up! Well, here I've tumbled over a whole pile of 'em on a reef in the middle of the Pacific." "Why, Jim, you miserable fellow!" I exclaimed; "haven't we Depew City, one of God's green centres for this State? haven't we----" "Just listen to this," interrupted Jim. "It's miserable copy; these _Occidental_ reporter fellows have no fire; but the facts are right enough, I guess." And he began to read:-- WRECK OF THE BRITISH BRIG _FLYING SCUD_ H.B.M.S. _Tempest_, which arrived yesterday at this port, brings Captain Trent and four men of the British brig _Flying Scud_, cast away February 12th on Midway Island, and most providentially rescued the next day. The _Flying Scud_ was of 200 tons burthen, owned in London, and has been out nearly two years tramping. Captain Trent left Hong Kong December 8th, bound for this port in rice and a small mixed cargo of silks, teas, and China notions, the whole valued at $10,000, fully covered by insurance. The log shows plenty of fine weather, with light airs, calms, and squalls. In lat. 28 N., long. 177 W., his water going rotten, and misled by Hoyt's "North Pacific Directory," which informed him there was a coaling station on the island, Captain Trent put in to Midway Island. He found it a literal sandbank, surrounded by a coral reef, mostly submerged. Birds were very plenty, there was good fish in the lagoon, but no firewood; and the water, which could be obtained by digging, brackish. He found good holding-ground off the north end of the larger bank in fifteen fathoms water; bottom sandy, with coral patches. Here he was detained seven days by a calm, the crew suffering severely from the water, which was gone quite bad; and it was only on the evening of the 12th that a little wind sprang up, coming puffy out of N.N.E. Late as it was, Captain Trent immediately weighed anchor and attempted to get out. While the vessel was beating up to the passage, the wind took a sudden lull, and then veered squally into N., and even N.N.W., driving the brig ashore on the sand at about twenty minutes before six o'clock. John Wallen, a native of Finland, and Charles Holdorsen, a native of Sweden, were drowned alongside, in attempting to lower a boat, neither being able to swim, the squall very dark, and the noise of the breakers drowning everything. At the same time John Brown, another of the crew, had his arm broken by the falls. Captain Trent further informed the _Occidental_ reporter that the brig struck heavily at first bows on, he supposes upon coral; that she then drove over the obstacle, and now lies in sand, much down by the head, and with a list to starboard. In the first collision she must have sustained some damage, as she was making water forward. The rice will probably be all destroyed: but the more valuable part of the cargo is fortunately in the afterhold. Captain Trent was preparing his long-boat for sea, when the providential arrival of the _Tempest_, pursuant to Admiralty orders to call at islands in her course for castaways, saved the gallant captain from all further danger. It is scarcely necessary to add that both the officers and men of the unfortunate vessel speak in high terms of the kindness they received on board the man-of-war. We print a list of the survivors: Jacob Trent, master, of Hull, England; Elias Goddedaal, mate, native of Christiansand, Sweden; Ah Wing, cook, native of Sana, China; John Brown, native of Glasgow, Scotland; John Hardy, native of London, England. The _Flying Scud_ is ten years old, and this morning will be sold as she stands, by order of Lloyd's agent, at public auction, for the benefit of the underwriters. The auction will take place in the Merchants' Exchange at ten o'clock. _Further Particulars._--Later in the afternoon the _Occidental_ reporter found Lieutenant Sebright, first officer of H.B.M.S. _Tempest_ at the Palace Hotel. The gallant officer was somewhat pressed for time, but confirmed the account given by Captain Trent in all particulars. He added that the _Flying Scud_ is in an excellent berth, and, except in the highly improbable event of a heavy N.W. gale, might last until next winter. "You will never know anything of literature," said I, when Jim had finished. "That is a good, honest, plain piece of work, and tells the story clearly. I see only one mistake: the cook is not a Chinaman; he is a Kanaka, and, I think, a Hawaiian." "Why, how do you know that?" asked Jim. "I saw the whole gang yesterday in a saloon," said I; "I even heard the tale, or might have heard it, from Captain Trent himself, who struck me as thirsty and nervous." "Well, that's neither here nor there," cried Pinkerton; "the point is, how about these dollars lying on a reef?" "Will it pay?" I asked. "Pay like a sugar trust!" exclaimed Pinkerton. "Don't you see what this British officer says about the safety? Don't you see the cargo's valued at ten thousand? Schooners are begging just now; I can get my pick of them at two hundred and fifty a month; and how does that foot up? It looks like three hundred per cent. to me." "You forget," I objected, "the captain himself declares the rice is damaged." "That's a point, I know," admitted Jim. "But the rice is the sluggish article, anyway; it's little more account than ballast; it's the tea and silks that I look to: all we have to find is the proportion, and one look at the manifest will settle that. I've rung up Lloyd's on purpose; the captain is to meet me there in an hour, and then I'll be as posted on that brig as if I built her. Besides, you've no idea what pickings there are about a wreck--copper, lead, rigging, anchors, chains, even the crockery, Loudon." "You seem to me to forget one trifle," said I. "Before you pick that wreck, you've got to buy her, and how much will she cost?" "One hundred dollars," replied Jim, with the promptitude of an automaton. "How on earth do you guess that?" I cried. "I don't guess; I know it," answered the Commercial Force. "My dear boy, I may be a galoot about literature, but you'll always be an outsider in business. How do you suppose I bought the _James L. Moody_ for two hundred and fifty, her boats alone worth four times the money? Because my name stood first in the list. Well, it stands there again; I have the naming of the figure, and I name a small one because of the distance: but it wouldn't matter what I named; that would be the price." "It sounds mysterious enough," said I. "Is this public auction conducted in a subterranean vault? Could a plain citizen--myself, for instance--come and see?" "O, everything's open and above-board!" he cried indignantly. "Anybody can come, only nobody bids against us; and if he did, he would get frozen out. It's been tried before now, and once was enough. We hold the plant; we've got the connection; we can afford to go higher than any outsider: there's two million dollars in the ring; and we stick at nothing. Or suppose anybody did buy over our head--I tell you, Loudon, he would think this town gone crazy; he could no more get business through on the city front than I can dance; schooners, divers, men--all he wanted--the prices would fly right up and strike him." "But how did you get in?" I asked. "You were once an outsider like your neighbours, I suppose?" "I took hold of that thing, Loudon, and just studied it up," he replied. "It took my fancy; it was so romantic, and then I saw there was boodle in the thing; and I figured on the business till no man alive could give me points. Nobody knew I had an eye on wrecks till one fine morning I dropped in upon Douglas B. Longhurst in his den, gave him all the facts and figures, and put it to him straight: 'Do you want me in this ring? or shall I start another?' He took half an hour, and when I came back, 'Pink,' says he, 'I've put your name on.' The first time I came to the top it was that _Moody_ racket; now it's the _Flying Scud_." Whereupon Pinkerton, looking at his watch, uttered an exclamation, made a hasty appointment with myself for the doors of the Merchants' Exchange, and fled to examine manifests and interview the skipper. I finished my cigarette with the deliberation of a man at the end of many picnics; reflecting to myself that of all forms of the dollar-hunt, this wrecking had by far the most address to my imagination. Even as I went down town, in the brisk bustle and chill of the familiar San Francisco thoroughfares, I was haunted by a vision of the wreck, baking so far away in the strong sun, under a cloud of sea-birds; and even then, and for no better reason, my heart inclined towards the adventure. If not myself, something that was mine, some one at least in my employment, should voyage to that ocean-bounded pin-point, and descend to that deserted cabin. Pinkerton met me at the appointed moment, pinched of lip, and more than usually erect of bearing, like one conscious of great resolves. "Well?" I asked. "Well," said he, "it might be better, and it might be worse. This Captain Trent is a remarkably honest fellow--one out of a thousand. As soon as he knew I was in the market, he owned up about the rice in so many words. By his calculation, if there's thirty mats of it saved, it's an outside figure. However, the manifest was cheerier. There's about five thousand dollars of the whole value in silks and teas and nut-oils and that, all in the lazarette, and as safe as if it was in Kearney Street. The brig was new coppered a year ago. There's upwards of a hundred and fifty fathom away-up chain. It's not a bonanza, but there's boodle in it; and we'll try it on." It was by that time hard on ten o'clock, and we turned at once into the place of sale. The _Flying Scud_, although so important to ourselves, appeared to attract a very humble share of popular attention. The auctioneer was surrounded by perhaps a score of lookers-on--big fellows for the most part, of the true Western build, long in the leg, broad in the shoulder, and adorned (to a plain man's taste) with needless finery. A jaunty, ostentatious comradeship prevailed. Bets were flying, and nicknames. "The boys" (as they would have called themselves) were very boyish; and it was plain they were here in mirth, and not on business. Behind, and certainly in strong contrast to these gentlemen, I could detect the figure of my friend Captain Trent, come (as I could very well imagine that a captain would) to hear the last of his old vessel. Since yesterday he had rigged himself anew in ready-made black clothes, not very aptly fitted; the upper left-hand pocket showing a corner of silk handkerchief, the lower, on the other side, bulging with papers. Pinkerton had just given this man a high character. Certainly he seemed to have been very frank, and I looked at him again to trace (if possible) that virtue in his face. It was red and broad and flustered and (I thought) false. The whole man looked sick with some unknown anxiety: and as he stood there, unconscious of my observation, he tore at his nails, scowled on the floor, or glanced suddenly, sharply, and fearfully at passers-by. I was still gazing at the man in a kind of fascination, when the sale began. Some preliminaries were rattled through, to the irreverent, uninterrupted gambolling of the boys; and then, amid a trifle more attention, the auctioneer sounded for some two or three minutes the pipe of the charmer. "Fine brig--new copper--valuable fittings--three fine boats--remarkably choice cargo--what the auctioneer would call a perfectly safe investment; nay, gentlemen, he would go further, he would put a figure on it: he had no hesitation (had that bold auctioneer) in putting it in figures; and in his view, what with this and that, and one thing and another, the purchaser might expect to clear a sum equal to the entire estimated value of the cargo; or, gentlemen, in other words, a sum of ten thousand dollars." At this modest computation the roof immediately above the speaker's head (I suppose, through the intervention of a spectator of ventriloquial tastes) uttered a clear "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"--whereat all laughed, the auctioneer himself obligingly joining. "Now, gentlemen, what shall we say?" resumed that gentleman, plainly ogling Pinkerton,--"what shall we say for this remarkable opportunity?" "One hundred dollars," said Pinkerton. "One hundred dollars from Mr. Pinkerton," went the auctioneer, "one hundred dollars. No other gentleman inclined to make any advance? One hundred dollars, only one hundred dollars----" The auctioneer was droning on to some such tune as this, and I, on my part, was watching with something between sympathy and amazement the undisguised emotion of Captain Trent, when we were all startled by the interjection of a bid. "And fifty," said a sharp voice. Pinkerton, the auctioneer, and the boys, who were all equally in the open secret of the ring, were now all equally and simultaneously taken aback. "I beg your pardon," said the auctioneer; "anybody bid?" "And fifty," reiterated the voice, which I was now able to trace to its origin, on the lips of a small unseemly rag of human-kind. The speaker's skin was grey and blotched; he spoke in a kind of broken song, with much variety of key; his gestures seemed (as in the disease called St. Vitus's dance) to be imperfectly under control; he was badly dressed; he carried himself with an air of shrinking assumption, as though he were proud to be where he was and to do what he was doing, and yet half expected to be called in question and kicked out. I think I never saw a man more of a piece; and the type was new to me: I had never before set eyes upon his parallel, and I thought instinctively of Balzac and the lower regions of the _Comédie Humaine_. Pinkerton stared a moment on the intruder with no friendly eye, tore a leaf from his note-book, and scribbled a line in pencil, turned, beckoned a messenger boy, and whispered, "To Longhurst." Next moment the boy had sped upon his errand, and Pinkerton was again facing the auctioneer. "Two hundred dollars," said Jim. "And fifty," said the enemy. "This looks lively," whispered I to Pinkerton. "Yes; the little beast means cold-drawn biz," returned my friend. "Well, he'll have to have a lesson. Wait till I see Longhurst.--Three hundred," he added aloud. "And fifty," came the echo. It was about this moment when my eye fell again on Captain Trent. A deeper shade had mounted to his crimson face; the new coat was unbuttoned and all flying open, the new silk handkerchief in busy requisition; and the man's eye, of a clear sailor blue, shone glassy with excitement. He was anxious still, but now (if I could read a face) there was hope in his anxiety. "Jim," I whispered, "look at Trent. Bet you what you please he was expecting this." "Yes," was the reply, "there's some blame' thing going on here"; and he renewed his bid. The figure had run up into the neighbourhood of a thousand when I was aware of a sensation in the faces opposite, and, looking over my shoulder, saw a very large, bland, handsome man come strolling forth and make a little signal to the auctioneer. "One word, Mr. Borden," said he; and then to Jim, "Well, Pink, where are we up to now?" Pinkerton gave him the figure. "I ran up to that on my own responsibility, Mr. Longhurst," he added, with a flush. "I thought it the square thing." "And so it was," said Mr. Longhurst, patting him kindly on the shoulder, like a gratified uncle. "Well, you can drop out now; we take hold ourselves. You can run it up to five thousand; and if he likes to go beyond that, he's welcome to the bargain." "By-the-bye, who is he?" asked Pinkerton. "He looks away down." "I've sent Billy to find out"; and at the very moment Mr. Longhurst received from the hands of one of the expensive young gentlemen a folded paper. It was passed round from one to another till it came to me, and I read: "Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-Law; defended Clara Varden: twice nearly disbarred." "Well, that gets me!" observed Mr. Longhurst. "Who can have put up a shyster[3] like that? Nobody with money, that's a sure thing. Suppose you tried a big bluff? I think I would, Pink. Well, ta-ta! Your partner, Mr. Dodd? Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir"; and the great man withdrew. "Well, what do you think of Douglas B.?" whispered Pinkerton, looking reverently after him as he departed. "Six foot of perfect gentleman and culture to his boots." During this interview the auctioneer had stood transparently arrested--the auctioneer, the spectators, and even Bellairs, all well aware that Mr. Longhurst was the principal, and Jim but a speaking-trumpet. But now that the Olympian Jupiter was gone, Mr. Borden thought proper to affect severity. "Come, come, Mr. Pinkerton; any advance?" he snapped. And Pinkerton, resolved on the big bluff, replied, "Two thousand dollars." Bellairs preserved his composure. "And fifty," said he. But there was a stir among the onlookers, and--what was of more importance--Captain Trent had turned pale and visibly gulped. "Pitch it in again, Jim," said I. "Trent is weakening." "Three thousand," said Jim. "And fifty," said Bellairs. And then the bidding returned to its original movement by hundreds and fifties; but I had been able in the meanwhile to draw two conclusions. In the first place, Bellairs had made his last advance with a smile of gratified vanity, and I could see the creature was glorying in the _kudos_ of an unusual position and secure of ultimate success. In the second, Trent had once more changed colour at the thousand leap, and his relief when he heard the answering fifty was manifest and unaffected. Here, then, was a problem: both were presumably in the same interest, yet the one was not in the confidence of the other. Nor was this all. A few bids later it chanced that my eye encountered that of Captain Trent, and his, which glittered with excitement, was instantly, and I thought guiltily, withdrawn. He wished, then, to conceal his interest? As Jim had said, there was some blamed thing going on. And for certain here were these two men, so strangely united, so strangely divided, both sharp-set to keep the wreck from us, and that at an exorbitant figure. Was the wreck worth more than we supposed? A sudden heat was kindled in my brain; the bids were nearing Longhurst's limit of five thousand; another minute and all would be too late. Tearing a leaf from my sketch-book, and inspired (I suppose) by vanity in my own powers of inference and observation, I took the one mad decision of my life. "If you care to go ahead," I wrote, "I'm in for all I'm worth." Jim read and looked round at me like one bewildered; then his eyes lightened, and turning again to the auctioneer he bid, "Five thousand one hundred dollars." "And fifty," said monotonous Bellairs. Presently Pinkerton scribbled, "What can it be?" and I answered, still on paper: "I can't imagine, but there's something. Watch Bellairs; he'll go up to the ten thousand, see if he don't." And he did, and we followed. Long before this word had gone abroad that there was battle royal. We were surrounded by a crowd that looked on wondering, and when Pinkerton had offered ten thousand dollars (the outside value of the cargo, even were it safe in San Francisco Bay) and Bellairs, smirking from ear to ear to be the centre of so much attention, had jerked out his answering "And fifty," wonder deepened to excitement. "Ten thousand one hundred," said Jim; and even as he spoke he made a sudden gesture with his hand, his face changed, and I could see that he had guessed, or thought that he had guessed, the mystery. As he scrawled another memorandum in his note-book, his hand shook like a telegraph operator's. "Chinese ship," ran the legend; and then in big, tremulous half-text, and with a flourish that overran the margin, "Opium!" "To be sure," thought I, "this must be the secret." I knew that scarce a ship came in from any Chinese port but she carried somewhere, behind a bulkhead or in some cunning hollow of the beams, a nest of the valuable poison. Doubtless there was some such treasure on the _Flying Scud_. How much was it worth? We knew not; we were gambling in the dark. But Trent knew, and Bellairs; and we could only watch and judge. By this time neither Pinkerton nor I were of sound mind. Pinkerton was beside himself, his eyes like lamps; I shook in every member. To any stranger entering, say, in the course of the fifteenth thousand, we should probably have cut a poorer figure than Bellairs himself. But we did not pause; and the crowd watched us--now in silence, now with a buzz of whispers. Seventeen thousand had been reached, when Douglas B. Longhurst, forcing his way into the opposite row of faces, conspicuously and repeatedly shook his head at Jim, Jim's answer was a note of two words: "My racket!" which, when the great man had perused, he shook his finger warningly and departed--I thought, with a sorrowful countenance. Although Mr. Longhurst knew nothing of Bellairs, the shady lawyer knew all about the Wrecker Boss. He had seen him enter the ring with manifest expectation; he saw him depart, and the bids continue, with manifest surprise and disappointment. "Hallo," he plainly thought, "this is not the ring I'm fighting, then?" And he determined to put on a spurt. "Eighteen thousand," said he. "And fifty," said Jim, taking a leaf out of his adversary's book. "Twenty thousand," from Bellairs. "And fifty," from Jim, with a little nervous titter. And with one consent they returned to the old pace--only now it was Bellairs who took the hundreds, and Jim who did the fifty business. But by this time our idea had gone abroad. I could hear the word "opium" passed from mouth to mouth, and by the looks directed at us I could see we were supposed to have some private information. And here an incident occurred highly typical of San Francisco. Close at my back there had stood for some time a stout middle-aged gentleman, with pleasant eyes, hair pleasantly grizzled, and a ruddy, pleasing face. All of a sudden he appeared as a third competitor, skied the _Flying Scud_ with four fat bids of a thousand dollars each, and then as suddenly fled the field, remaining thenceforth (as before) a silent, interested spectator. Ever since Mr. Longhurst's useless intervention Bellairs had seemed uneasy, and at this new attack he began (in his turn) to scribble a note between the bids. I imagined, naturally enough, that it would go to Captain Trent; but when it was done and the writer turned and looked behind him in the crowd, to my unspeakable amazement, he did not seem to remark the captain's presence. "Messenger boy, messenger boy!" I heard him say. "Somebody call me a messenger boy." At last somebody did, but it was not the captain. "_He's sending for instructions_," I wrote to Pinkerton. "_For money,_" he wrote back. "_Shall I strike out? I think this is the time_." I nodded. "Thirty thousand," said Pinkerton, making a leap of close upon three thousand dollars. I could see doubt in Bellairs's eye; then, sudden resolution. "Thirty-five thousand," said he. "Forty thousand," said Pinkerton. There was a long pause, during which Bellairs's countenance was as a book, and then, not much too soon for the impending hammer, "Forty thousand and five dollars," said he. Pinkerton and I exchanged eloquent glances. We were of one mind. Bellairs had tried a bluff; now he perceived his mistake, and was bidding against time; he was trying to spin out the sale until the messenger boy returned. "Forty-five thousand dollars," said Pinkerton: his voice was like a ghost's and tottered with emotion. "Forty-five thousand and five dollars," said Bellairs. "Fifty thousand," said Pinkerton. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinkerton. Did I hear you make an advance, sir?" asked the auctioneer. "I--I have a difficulty in speaking," gasped Jim. "It's fifty thousand, Mr. Borden." Bellairs was on his feet in a moment. "Auctioneer," he said, "I have to beg the favour of three moments at the telephone. In this matter I am acting on behalf of a certain party to whom I have just written----" "I have nothing to do with any of this," said the auctioneer brutally. "I am here to sell this wreck. Do you make any advance on fifty thousand?" "I have the honour to explain to you, sir," returned Bellairs, with a miserable assumption of dignity, "fifty thousand was the figure named by my principal; but if you will give me the small favour of two moments at the telephone----" "O, nonsense!" said the auctioneer. "If you make no advance I'll knock it down to Mr. Pinkerton." "I warn you," cried the attorney, with sudden shrillness. "Have a care what you're about. You are here to sell for the underwriters, let me tell you--not to act for Mr. Douglas Longhurst. This sale has been already disgracefully interrupted to allow that person to hold a consultation with his minions; it has been much commented on." "There was no complaint at the time," said the auctioneer, manifestly discountenanced. "You should have complained at the time." "I am not here to conduct this sale," replied Bellairs; "I am not paid for that." "Well, I am, you see," retorted the auctioneer, his impudence quite restored; and he resumed his sing-song. "Any advance on fifty thousand dollars? No advance on fifty thousand? No advance, gentlemen? Going at fifty thousand, the wreck of the brig _Flying Scud_ going--going--gone!" "My God, Jim, can we pay the money?" I cried, as the stroke of the hammer seemed to recall me from a dream. "It's got to be raised," said he, white as a sheet. "It'll be a hell of a strain, Loudon. The credit's good for it, I think; but I shall have to get around. Write me a cheque for your stuff. Meet me at the Occidental in an hour." I wrote my cheque at a desk, and I declare I could never have recognised my signature. Jim was gone in a moment; Trent had vanished even earlier; only Bellairs remained, exchanging insults with the auctioneer; and, behold! as I pushed my way out of the exchange, who should run full tilt into my arms but the messenger boy! It was by so near a margin that we became the owners of the _Flying Scud_. FOOTNOTE: [3] A low lawyer. CHAPTER X IN WHICH THE CREW VANISH At the door of the exchange I found myself alongside of the short middle-aged gentleman who had made an appearance, so vigorous and so brief, in the great battle. "Congratulate you, Mr. Dodd," he said. "You and your friend stuck to your guns nobly." "No thanks to you, sir," I replied, "running us up a thousand at a time, and tempting all the speculators in San Francisco to come and have a try." "O, that was temporary insanity," said he; "and I thank the higher powers I am still a free man. Walking this way, Mr. Dodd? I'll walk along with you. It's pleasant for an old fogey like myself to see the young bloods in the ring; I've done some pretty wild gambles in my time in this very city, when it was a smaller place and I was a younger man. Yes, I know you, Mr. Dodd. By sight, I may say I know you extremely well, you and your followers, the fellows in the kilts, eh? Pardon me. But I have the misfortune to own a little box on the Saucelito shore. I'll be glad to see you there any Sunday--without the fellows in kilts, you know; and I can give you a bottle of wine, and show you the best collection of Arctic voyages in the States. Morgan is my name--Judge Morgan--a Welshman and a forty-niner." "O, if you're a pioneer," cried I, "come to me, and I'll provide you with an axe." "You'll want your axes for yourself, I fancy," he returned, with one of his quick looks. "Unless you have private knowledge, there will be a good deal of rather violent wrecking to do before you find that--opium, do you call it?" "Well, it's either opium, or we are stark staring mad," I replied. "But I assure you we have no private information. We went in (as I suppose you did yourself) on observation." "An observer, sir?" inquired the judge. "I may say it is my trade--or, rather, was," said I. "Well now, and what did you think of Bellairs?" he asked. "Very little indeed," said I. "I may tell you," continued the judge, "that to me the employment of a fellow like that appears inexplicable. I knew him: he knows me, too; he has often heard from me in court; and I assure you the man is utterly blown upon; it is not safe to trust him with a dollar, and here we find him dealing up to fifty thousand. I can't think who can have so trusted him, but I am very sure it was a stranger in San Francisco." "Some one for the owners, I suppose," said I. "Surely not!" exclaimed the judge. "Owners in London can have nothing to say to opium smuggled between Hong Kong and San Francisco. I should rather fancy they would be the last to hear of it--until the ship was seized. No; I was thinking of the captain. But where would he get the money--above all, after having laid out so much to buy the stuff in China?--unless, indeed, he were acting for some one in 'Frisco; and in that case--here we go round again in the vicious circle--Bellairs would not have been employed." "I think I can assure you it was not the captain," said I, "for he and Bellairs are not acquainted." "Wasn't that the captain with the red face and coloured handkerchief? He seemed to me to follow Bellairs's game with the most thrilling interest," objected Mr. Morgan. "Perfectly true," said I. "Trent is deeply interested; he very likely knew Bellairs, and he certainly knew what he was there for; but I can put my hand in the fire that Bellairs didn't know Trent." "Another singularity," observed the judge. "Well, we have had a capital forenoon. But you take an old lawyer's advice, and get to Midway Island as fast as you can. There's a pot of money on the table, and Bellairs and Co. are not the men to stick at trifles." With this parting counsel Judge Morgan shook hands and made off along Montgomery Street, while I entered the Occidental Hotel, on the steps of which we had finished our conversation. I was well known to the clerks, and as soon as it was understood that I was there to wait for Pinkerton and lunch, I was invited to a seat inside the counter. Here, then, in a retired corner, I was beginning to come a little to myself after these so violent experiences, when who should come hurrying in, and (after a moment with a clerk) fly to one of the telephone-boxes but Mr. Henry D. Bellairs in person! Call it what you will, but the impulse was irresistible, and I rose and took a place immediately at the man's back. It may be some excuse that I had often practised this very innocent form of eavesdropping upon strangers and for fun. Indeed, I scarce know anything that gives a lower view of man's intelligence than to overhear (as you thus do) one side of a communication. "Central," said the attorney, "2241 and 584 B" (or some such numbers)--"Who's that?--All right--Mr. Bellairs--Occidental; the wires are fouled in the other place--Yes, about three minutes--Yes--Yes--Your figure, I am sorry to say--No--I had no authority--Neither more nor less--I have every reason to suppose so--O, Pinkerton, Montana Block--Yes--Yes--Very good, sir--As you will, sir--Disconnect 584 B." Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands, and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack. "O, it's you!" he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, "Mr. Pinkerton's partner, I believe? I am pleased to see you, sir--to congratulate you on your late success"; and with that he was gone, obsequiously bowing as he passed. And now a madcap humour came upon me. It was plain Bellairs had been communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name. Should I ring up at once? It was more than likely he would return in person to the telephone. "Why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money?" I pressed the bell. "Central," said I, "connect again 2241 and 584 B." A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then "Two two four one" came in a tiny voice into my ear--a voice with the English sing-song--the voice plainly of a gentleman. "Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?" it trilled. "I tell you it's no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?" "I only want to put a single question," said I, civilly. "Why do you want to buy the _Flying Scud_?" No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all the numerous talk of a great city: but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once and twice I put my question; but the tiny sing-song English voice I heard no more. The man, then, had fled--fled from an impertinent question. It scarce seemed natural to me--unless on the principle that the wicked fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the number up: "2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street." And that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in person, was all that I could do. Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous, in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain Trent mopping his red brow--the picture of a man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question struck suddenly as white as ashes. From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock. An hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed for the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me, who knew so well his gluttonous despatch of business, and had so frequently admired his iron punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly stretched into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and I still sat in my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of the hall, a prey to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour for lunch was nearly over before I remembered that I had not eaten. Heaven knows I had no appetite; but there might still be much to do--it was needful I should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to digest the now too probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for Pinkerton, I sat down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint of champagne. I was not long set before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea. "I suppose all's up?" said I, with an incredible sinking. "No," he replied; "I've pulled it through, Loudon--just pulled it through. I couldn't have raised another cent in all 'Frisco. People don't like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn't a three-card-monte man." "Well, what's the odds?" said I. "That's all we wanted, isn't it?" "Loudon, I tell you I've had to pay blood for that money," cried my friend, with almost savage energy and gloom. "It's all on ninety days, too; I couldn't get another day--not another day. If we go ahead with this affair, Loudon, you'll have to go yourself and make the fur fly. I'll stay, of course--I've got to stay and face the trouble in this city; though, I tell you, I just long to go. I would show these fat brutes of sailors what work was; I would be all through that wreck and out at the other end, before they had boosted themselves upon the deck! But you'll do your level best, Loudon; I depend on you for that. You must be all fire and grit and dash from the word 'go.' That schooner, and the boodle on board of her, are bound to be here before three months, or it's B U S T--bust." "I'll swear I'll do my best, Jim; I'll work double tides," said I. "It is my fault that you are in this thing, and I'll get you out again, or kill myself. But what is that you say? 'If we go ahead?' Have we any choice, then?" "I'm coming to that," said Jim. "It isn't that I doubt the investment. Don't blame yourself for that; you showed a fine sound business instinct: I always knew it was in you, but then it ripped right out. I guess that little beast of an attorney knew what he was doing; and he wanted nothing better than to go beyond. No, there's profit in the deal; it's not that; it's these ninety-day bills, and the strain I've given the credit--for I've been up and down borrowing, and begging and bribing to borrow. I don't believe there's another man but me in 'Frisco," he cried, with a sudden fervour of self-admiration, "who could have raised that last ten thousand! Then there's another thing. I had hoped you might have peddled that opium through the islands, which is safer and more profitable. But with this three-month limit, you must make tracks for Honolulu straight, and communicate by steamer. I'll try to put up something for you there; I'll have a man spoken to who's posted on that line of biz. Keep a bright look-out for him as soon's you make the islands; for it's on the cards he might pick you up at sea in a whale-boat or a steam-launch, and bring the dollars right on board." It shows how much I had suffered morally during my sojourn in San Francisco that even now, when our fortunes trembled in the balance, I should have consented to become a smuggler--and (of all things) a smuggler of opium. Yet I did, and that in silence; without a protest, not without a twinge. "And suppose," said I, "suppose the opium is so securely hidden that I can't get hands on it?" "Then you will stay there till that brig is kindling-wood, and stay and split that kindling-wood with your penknife," cried Pinkerton. "The stuff is there; we know that; and it must be found. But all this is only the one string to our bow--though I tell you I've gone into it head-first, as if it was our bottom dollar. Why, the first thing I did before I'd raised a cent, and with this other notion in my head already--the first thing I did was to secure the schooner. The _Norah Creina_ she is, sixty-four tons--quite big enough for our purpose since the rice is spoiled, and the fastest thing of her tonnage out of San Francisco. For a bonus of two hundred, and a monthly charter of three, I have her for my own time; wages and provisions, say four hundred more: a drop in the bucket. They began firing the cargo out of her (she was part loaded) near two hours ago; and about the same time John Smith got the order for the stores. That's what I call business." "No doubt of that," said I; "but the other notion?" "Well, here it is," said Jim. "You agree with me that Bellairs was ready to go higher?" I saw where he was coming. "Yes--and why shouldn't he?" said I. "Is that the line?" "That's the line, Loudon Dodd," assented Jim. "If Bellairs and his principal have any desire to go me better, I'm their man." A sudden thought, a sudden fear, shot into my mind. What if I had been right? What if my childish pleasantry had frightened the principal away, and thus destroyed our chance? Shame closed my mouth; I began instinctively a long course of reticence; and it was without a word of my meeting with Bellairs, or my discovery of the address in Mission Street, that I continued the discussion. "Doubtless fifty thousand was originally mentioned as a round sum," said I, "or, at least, so Bellairs supposed. But at the same time it may be an outside sum; and to cover the expenses we have already incurred for the money and the schooner--I am far from blaming you; I see how needful it was to be ready for either event--but to cover them we shall want a rather large advance." "Bellairs will go to sixty thousand; it's my belief, if he were properly handled, he would take the hundred," replied Pinkerton. "Look back on the way the sale ran at the end." "That is my own impression as regards Bellairs," I admitted; "the point I am trying to make is that Bellairs himself may be mistaken; that what he supposed to be a round sum was really an outside figure." "Well, Loudon, if that is so," said Jim, with extraordinary gravity of face and voice, "if that is so, let him take the _Flying Scud_ at fifty thousand, and joy go with her! I prefer the loss." "Is that so, Jim? Are we dipped as bad as that?" I cried. "We've put our hand farther out than we can pull it in again, Loudon," he replied. "Why, man, that fifty thousand dollars, before we get clear again, will cost us nearer seventy. Yes, it figures up overhead to more than ten per cent, a month; and I could do no better, and there isn't the man breathing could have done as well. It was a miracle, Loudon. I couldn't but admire myself. O, if we had just the four months! And you know, Loudon, it may still be done. With your energy and charm, if the worst comes to the worst, you can run that schooner as you ran one of your picnics; and we may have luck. And O man! if we do pull it through, what a dashing operation it will be! What an advertisement! what a thing to talk of and remember all our lives! However," he broke off suddenly, "we must try the safe thing first. Here's for the shyster!" There was another struggle in my mind, whether I should even now admit my knowledge of the Mission Street address. But I had let the favourable moment slip. I had now, which made it the more awkward, not merely the original discovery, but my late suppression to confess. I could not help reasoning, besides, that the more natural course was to approach the principal by the road of his agent's office; and there weighed upon my spirits a conviction that we were already too late, and that the man was gone two hours ago. Once more, then, I held my peace; and after an exchange of words at the telephone to assure ourselves he was at home, we set out for the attorney's office. The endless streets of any American city pass, from one end to another, through strange degrees and vicissitudes of splendour and distress, running under the same name between monumental warehouses, the dens and taverns of thieves, and the sward and shrubbery of villas. In San Francisco the sharp inequalities of the ground, and the sea bordering on so many sides, greatly exaggerate these contrasts. The street for which we were now bound took its rise among blowing sands, somewhere in view of the Lone Mountain Cemetery; ran for a term across that rather windy Olympus of Nob Hill, or perhaps just skirted its frontier; passed almost immediately after through a stage of little houses, rather impudently painted, and offering to the eye of the observer this diagnostic peculiarity, that the huge brass plates upon the small and highly coloured doors bore only the first names of ladies--Norah or Lily or Florence; traversed China Town, where it was doubtless undermined with opium cellars, and its blocks pierced, after the similitude of rabbit-warrens, with a hundred doors and passages and galleries; enjoyed a glimpse of high publicity at the corner of Kearney; and proceeded, among dives and warehouses, towards the City Front and the region of the water-rats. In this last stage of its career, where it was both grimy and solitary, and alternately quiet and roaring to the wheels of drays, we found a certain house of some pretension to neatness, and furnished with a rustic outside stair. On the pillar of the stair a black plate bore in gilded lettering this device: "Harry D. Bellairs, Attorney-at-law. Consultations, 9 to 6." On ascending the stairs a door was found to stand open on the balcony, with this further inscription, "Mr. Bellairs In." "I wonder what we do next," said I. "Guess we sail right in," returned Jim, and suited the action to the word. The room in which we found ourselves was clean, but extremely bare. A rather old-fashioned secretaire stood by the wall, with a chair drawn to the desk; in one corner was a shelf with half-a-dozen law-books; and I can remember literally not another stick of furniture. One inference imposed itself: Mr. Bellairs was in the habit of sitting down himself and suffering his clients to stand. At the far end, and veiled by a curtain of red baize, a second door communicated with the interior of the house. Hence, after some coughing and stamping, we elicited the shyster, who came timorously forth, for all the world like a man in fear of bodily assault, and then, recognising his guests, suffered from what I can only call a nervous paroxysm of courtesy. "Mr. Pinkerton and partner!" said he. "I will go and fetch you seats." "Not the least," said Jim. "No time. Much rather stand. This is business, Mr. Bellairs. This morning, as you know, I bought the wreck _Flying Scud_." The lawyer nodded. "And bought her," pursued my friend, "at a figure out of all proportion to the cargo and the circumstances, as they appeared." "And now you think better of it, and would like to be off with your bargain? I have been figuring upon this," returned the lawyer. "My client, I will not hide from you, was displeased with me for putting her so high. I think we were both too heated, Mr. Pinkerton: rivalry--the spirit of competition. But I will be quite frank--I know when I am dealing with gentlemen--and I am almost certain, if you leave the matter in my hands, my client would relieve you of the bargain, so as you would lose--" he consulted our faces with gimlet-eyed calculation--"nothing," he added shrilly. And here Pinkerton amazed me. "That's a little too thin," said he. "I have the wreck. I know there's boodle in her, and I mean to keep her. What I want is some points which may save me needless expense, and which I'm prepared to pay for, money down. The thing for you to consider is just this, Am I to deal with you or direct with your principal? If you are prepared to give me the facts right off, why, name your figure. Only one thing," added Jim, holding a finger up, "when I say 'money down,' I mean bills payable when the ship returns, and if the information proves reliable. I don't buy pigs in pokes." I had seen the lawyer's face light up for a moment, and then, at the sound of Jim's proviso, miserably fade. "I guess you know more about this wreck than I do, Mr. Pinkerton," said he. "I only know that I was told to buy the thing, and tried, and couldn't." "What I like about you, Mr. Bellairs, is that you waste no time," said Jim. "Now then, your client's name and address." "On consideration," replied the lawyer, with indescribable furtivity, "I cannot see that I am entitled to communicate my client's name. I will sound him for you with pleasure, if you care to instruct me, but I cannot see that I can give you his address." "Very well," said Jim, and put his hat on. "Rather a strong step, isn't it?" (Between every sentence was a clear pause.) "Not think better of it? Well, come, call it a dollar?" "Mr. Pinkerton, sir!" exclaimed the offended attorney and, indeed, I myself was almost afraid that Jim had mistaken his man and gone too far. "No present use for a dollar?" says Jim. "Well, look here, Mr. Bellairs--we're both busy men, and I'll go to my outside figure with you right away--" "Stop this, Pinkerton," I broke in; "I know the address: 924 Mission Street." I do not know whether Pinkerton or Bellairs was the more taken aback. "Why in snakes didn't you say so, Loudon?" cried my friend. "You didn't ask for it before," said I, colouring to my temples under his troubled eyes. It was Bellairs who broke silence, kindly supplying me with all that I had yet to learn. "Since you know Mr. Dickson's address," said he, plainly burning to be rid of us, "I suppose I need detain you no longer." I do not know how Pinkerton felt, but I had death in my soul as we came down the outside stair from the den of this blotched spider. My whole being was strung, waiting for Jim's first question, and prepared to blurt out--I believe, almost with tears--a full avowal. But my friend asked nothing. "We must hack it," said he, tearing off in the direction of the nearest stand. "No time to be lost. You saw how I changed ground. No use in paying the shyster's commission." Again I expected a reference to my suppression; again I was disappointed. It was plain Jim feared the subject, and I felt I almost hated him for that fear. At last, when we were already in the hack and driving towards Mission Street, I could bear my suspense no longer. "You do not ask me about that address," said I. "No," said he, quickly and timidly, "what was it? I would like to know." The note of timidity offended me like a buffet; my temper rose as hot as mustard. "I must request you do not ask me," said I; "it is a matter I cannot explain." The moment the foolish words were said, that moment I would have given worlds to recall them; how much more when Pinkerton, patting my hand, replied, "All right, dear boy, not another word; that's all done; I'm convinced it's perfectly right!" To return upon the subject was beyond my courage; but I vowed inwardly that I should do my utmost in the future for this mad speculation, and that I would cut myself in pieces before Jim should lose one dollar. We had no sooner arrived at the address than I had other things to think of. "Mr. Dickson? He's gone," said the landlady. Where had he gone? "I'm sure I can't tell you," she answered. "He was quite a stranger to me." "Did he express his baggage, ma'am?" asked Pinkerton. "Hadn't any," was the reply. "He came last night, and left again to-day with a satchel." "When did he leave?" I inquired. "It was about noon," replied the landlady. "Some-one rang up the telephone, and asked for him; and I reckon he got some news, for he left right away, although his rooms were taken by the week. He seemed considerable put out: I reckon it was a death." My heart sank; perhaps my idiotic jest had indeed driven him away; and again I asked myself, "Why?" and whirled for a moment in a vortex of untenable hypotheses. "What was he like, ma'am?" Pinkerton was asking, when I returned to consciousness of my surroundings. "A clean-shaved man," said the woman, and could be led or driven into no more significant description. "Pull up at the nearest drug-store," said Pinkerton to the driver; and when there, the telephone was put in operation, and the message sped to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company's office--this was in the days before Spreckels had arisen--"When does the next China steamer touch at Honolulu?" "The _City of Pekin_; she cast off the dock to-day, at half-past one," came the reply. "It's a clear case of bolt," said Jim. "He's skipped, or my name's not Pinkerton. He's gone to head us off at Midway Island." Somehow I was not so sure; there were elements in the case not known to Pinkerton--the fears of the captain, for example--that inclined me otherwise; and the idea that I had terrified Mr. Dickson into flight, though resting on so slender a foundation, clung obstinately in my mind. "Shouldn't we see the list of passengers?" I asked. "Dickson is such a blamed common name," returned Jim; "and then, as like as not, he would change it." At this I had another intuition. A negative of a street scene, taken unconsciously when I was absorbed in other thought, rose in my memory with not a feature blurred: a view, from Bellairs's door as we were coming down, of muddy roadway, passing drays, matted telegraph wires, a China-boy with a basket on his head, and (almost opposite) a corner grocery with the name of Dickson in great gilt letters. "Yes," said I, "you are right; he would change it. And anyway, I don't believe it was his name at all; I believe he took it from a corner grocery beside Bellairs's." "As like as not," said Jim, still standing on the side-walk with contracted brows. "Well, what shall we do next?" I asked. "The natural thing would be to rush the schooner," he replied. "But I don't know. I telephoned the captain to go at it head down and heels in air; he answered like a little man; and I guess he's getting around. I believe, Loudon, we'll give Trent a chance. Trent was in it; he was in it up to the neck; even if he couldn't buy, he could give us the straight tip." "I think so, too," said I. "Where shall we find him?" "British consulate, of course," said Jim. "And that's another reason for taking him first. We can hustle that schooner up all evening; but when the consulate's shut, it's shut." At the consulate we learned that Captain Trent had alighted (such is, I believe, the classic phrase) at the What Cheer House. To that large and unaristocratic hostelry we drove, and addressed ourselves to a large clerk, who was chewing a toothpick and looking straight before him. "Captain Jacob Trent?" "Gone," said the clerk. "Where has he gone?" asked Pinkerton. "Cain't say," said the clerk. "When did he go?" I asked. "Don't know," said the clerk, and with the simplicity of a monarch offered us the spectacle of his broad back. What might have happened next I dread to picture, for Pinkerton's excitement had been growing steadily, and now burned dangerously high; but we were spared extremities by the intervention of a second clerk. "Why, Mr. Dodd!" he exclaimed, running forward to the counter. "Glad to see you, sir! Can I do anything in your way?" How virtuous actions blossom! Here was a young man to whose pleased ears I had rehearsed "Just before the Battle, Mother," at some weekly picnic; and now, in that tense moment of my life, he came (from the machine) to be my helper. "Captain Trent of the wreck? O yes, Mr. Dodd, he left about twelve; he and another of the men. The Kanaka went earlier, by the _City of Pekin_; I know that; I remember expressing his chest. Captain Trent? I'll inquire, Mr. Dodd. Yes, they were all here. Here are the names on the register; perhaps you would care to look at them while I go and see about the baggage?" I drew the book toward me, and stood looking at the four names, all written in the same hand--rather a big, and rather a bad one: Trent, Brown, Hardy, and (instead of Ah Wing) Jos. Amalu. "Pinkerton," said I suddenly, "have you that _Occidental_ in your pocket?" "Never left me," said Pinkerton, producing the paper. I turned to the account of the wreck. "Here," said I, "here's the name. 'Elias Goddedaal, mate.' Why do we never come across Elias Goddedaal?" "That's so," said Jim. "Was he with the rest in that saloon when you saw them?" "I don't believe it," said I. "They were only four, and there was none that behaved like a mate." At this moment the clerk returned with his report. "The captain," it appeared, "came with some kind of an express wagon, and he and the man took off three chests and a big satchel. Our porter helped to put them on, but they drove the cart themselves. The porter thinks they went down town. It was about one." "Still in time for the _City of Pekin_," observed Jim. "How many of them were here?" I inquired. "Three, sir, and the Kanaka," replied the clerk. "I can't somehow find out about the third, but he's gone too." "Mr. Goddedaal, the mate, wasn't here then?" I asked. "No, Mr. Dodd, none but what you see," says the clerk. "Nor you never heard where he was?" "No. Any particular reason for finding these men, Mr. Dodd?" inquired the clerk. "This gentleman and I have bought the wreck," I explained; "we wish to get some information, and it is very annoying to find the men all gone." A certain group had gradually formed about us, for the wreck was still a matter of interest; and at this, one of the bystanders, a rough seafaring man, spoke suddenly. "I guess the mate won't be gone," said he. "He's main sick; never left the sick-bay aboard the _Tempest_; so they tell _me_." Jim shook me by the sleeve. "Back to the consulate," said he. But even at the consulate nothing was known of Mr. Goddedaal. The doctor of the _Tempest_ had certified him very sick; he had sent his papers in, but never appeared in person before the authorities. "Have you a telephone laid on to the _Tempest_?" asked Pinkerton. "Laid on yesterday," said the clerk. "Do you mind asking, or letting me ask? We are very anxious to get hold of Mr. Goddedaal." "All right," said the clerk, and turned to the telephone. "I'm sorry," he said presently, "Mr. Goddedaal has left the ship, and no one knows where he is." "Do you pay the men's passage home?" I inquired, a sudden thought striking me. "If they want it," said the clerk; "sometimes they don't. But we paid the Kanaka's passage to Honolulu this morning; and by what Captain Trent was saying, I understand the rest are going home together." "Then you haven't paid them?" said I. "Not yet," said the clerk. "And you would be a good deal surprised if I were to tell you they were gone already?" I asked. "O, I should think you were mistaken," said he. "Such is the fact, however," said I. "I am sure you must be mistaken," he repeated. "May I use your telephone one moment?" asked Pinkerton; and as soon as permission had been granted, I heard him ring up the printing-office where our advertisements were usually handled. More I did not hear, for, suddenly recalling the big bad hand in the register of the What Cheer House, I asked the consulate clerk if he had a specimen of Captain Trent's writing. Whereupon I learned that the captain could not write, having cut his hand open a little before the loss of the brig; that the latter part of the log even had been written up by Mr. Goddedaal; and that Trent had always signed with his left hand. By the time I had gleaned this information Pinkerton was ready. "That's all that we can do. Now for the schooner," said he; "and by to-morrow evening I lay hands on Goddedaal, or my name's not Pinkerton." "How have you managed?" I inquired. "You'll see before you get to bed," said Pinkerton. "And now, after all this backwarding and forwarding, and that hotel clerk, and that bug Bellairs, it'll be a change and a kind of consolation to see the schooner. I guess things are humming there." But on the wharf, when we reached it, there was no sign of bustle, and, but for the galley smoke, no mark of life on the _Norah Creina_. Pinkerton's face grew pale and his mouth straightened as he leaped on board. "Where's the captain of this----?" and he left the phrase unfinished, finding no epithet sufficiently energetic for his thoughts. It did not appear whom or what he was addressing; but a head, presumably the cook's, appeared in answer at the galley door. "In the cabin, at dinner," said the cook deliberately, chewing as he spoke. "Is that cargo out?" "No, sir." "None of it?" "O, there's some of it out. We'll get at the rest of it livelier to-morrow, I guess." "I guess there'll be something broken first," said Pinkerton, and strode to the cabin. Here we found a man, fat, dark, and quiet, seated gravely at what seemed a liberal meal. He looked up upon our entrance; and seeing Pinkerton continue to stand facing him in silence, hat on head, arms folded, and lips compressed, an expression of mingled wonder and annoyance began to dawn upon his placid face. "Well!" said Jim; "and so this is what you call rushing around?" "Who are you?" cries the captain. "Me! I'm Pinkerton!" retorted Jim, as though the name had been a talisman. "You're not very civil, whoever you are," was the reply. But still a certain effect had been produced, for he scrambled to his feet, and added hastily, "A man must have a bit of dinner, you know, Mr. Pinkerton." "Where's your mate?" snapped Jim. "He's up town," returned the other. "Up town!" sneered Pinkerton. "Now, I'll tell you what you are--you're a Fraud; and if I wasn't afraid of dirtying my boot, I would kick you and your dinner into that dock." "I'll tell you something, too," retorted the captain, duskily flushing. "I wouldn't sail this ship for the man you are, if you went upon your knees. I've dealt with gentlemen up to now." "I can tell you the names of a number of gentlemen you'll never deal with any more, and that's the whole of Longhurst's gang," said Jim. "I'll put your pipe out in that quarter, my friend. Here, rout out your traps as quick as look at it, and take your vermin along with you. I'll have a captain in, this very night, that's a sailor, and some sailors to work for him." "I'll go when I please, and that's to-morrow morning," cried the captain after us, as we departed for the shore. "There's something gone wrong with the world to-day; it must have come bottom up!" wailed Pinkerton. "Bellairs, and then the hotel clerk, and now this Fraud! And what am I to do for a captain, Loudon, with Longhurst gone home an hour ago and the boys all scattered?" "I know," said I; "jump in!" And then to the driver: "Do you know Black Tom's?" Thither then we rattled, passed through the bar, and found (as I had hoped) Johnson in the enjoyment of club life. The table had been thrust upon one side; a South Sea merchant was discoursing music from a mouth-organ in one corner; and in the middle of the floor Johnson and a fellow-seaman, their arms clasped about each other's bodies, somewhat heavily danced. The room was both cold and close; a jet of gas, which continually menaced the heads of the performers, shed a coarse illumination; the mouth-organ sounded shrill and dismal; and the faces of all concerned were church-like in their gravity. It were, of course, indelicate to interrupt these solemn frolics; so we edged ourselves to chairs, for all the world like belated comers in a concert-room, and patiently waited for the end. At length the organist, having exhausted his supply of breath, ceased abruptly in the middle of a bar. With the cessation of the strain the dancers likewise came to a full stop, swayed a moment, still embracing, and then separated, and looked about the circle for applause. "Very well danced!" said one; but it appears the compliment was not strong enough for the performers, who (forgetful of the proverb) took up the tale in person. "Well," said Johnson, "I mayn't be no sailor, but I can dance!" And his late partner, with an almost pathetic conviction, added, "My foot is as light as a feather." Seeing how the wind set, you may be sure I added a few words of praise before I carried Johnson alone into the passage: to whom, thus mollified, I told so much as I judged needful of our situation, and begged him, if he would not take the job himself, to find me a smart man. "Me!" he cried; "I couldn't no more do it than I could try to go to hell!" "I thought you were a mate?" said I. "So I am a mate," giggled Johnson, "and you don't catch me shipping noways else. But I'll tell you what: I believe I can get you Arty Nares. You seen Arty; first-rate navigator, and a son of a gun for style." And he proceeded to explain to me that Mr. Nares, who had the promise of a fine barque in six months, after things had quieted down, was in the meantime living very private, and would be pleased to have a change of air. I called out Pinkerton and told him. "Nares!" he cried, as soon as I had come to the name, "I would jump at the chance of a man that had had Nares's trousers on! Why, Loudon, he's the smartest deep-water mate out of San Francisco, and draws his dividends regular in service and out." This hearty indorsation clinched the proposal; Johnson agreed to produce Nares before six the following morning; and Black Tom, being called into the consultation, promised us four smart hands for the same hour, and even (what appeared to all of us excessive) promised them sober. The streets were fully lighted when we left Black Tom's: street after street sparkling with gas or electricity, line after line of distant luminaries climbing the steep sides of hills towards the over-vaulting darkness; and on the other hand, where the waters of the bay invisibly trembled, a hundred riding lanterns marked the position of a hundred ships. The sea-fog flew high in heaven; and at the level of man's life and business it was clear and chill. By silent consent we paid the hack off, and proceeded arm-in-arm towards the "Poodle Dog" for dinner. At one of the first hoardings I was aware of a bill-sticker at work: it was a late hour for this employment, and I checked Pinkerton until the sheet should be unfolded. This is what I read:-- +--------------------------------------------------+ | TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. | | | | OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE | | | | WRECKED BRIG "FLYING SCUD" | | | | APPLYING, | | PERSONALLY OR BY LETTER | | AT THE OFFICE OF JAMES PINKERTON, MONTANA BLOCK, | | | | BEFORE NOON TO-MORROW, TUESDAY, 12TH, | | | | WILL RECEIVE | | | | TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD. | +--------------------------------------------------+ "This is your idea, Pinkerton!" I cried. "Yes. They've lost no time; I'll say that for them--not like the Fraud," said he. "But mind you, Loudon, that's not half of it. The cream of the idea's here: we know our man's sick; well, a copy of that has been mailed to every hospital, every doctor, and every drug-store in San Francisco." Of course, from the nature of our business, Pinkerton could do a thing of that kind at a figure extremely reduced; for all that, I was appalled at the extravagance, and said so. "What matter a few dollars now?" he replied sadly; "it's in three months that the pull comes, Loudon." We walked on again in silence, not without a shiver. Even at the "Poodle Dog" we took our food with small appetite and less speech; and it was not until he was warmed with a third glass of champagne that Pinkerton cleared his throat and looked upon me with a deprecating eye. "Loudon," said he, "there was a subject you didn't wish to be referred to. I only want to do so indirectly. It wasn't"--he faltered--"it wasn't because you were dissatisfied with me?" he concluded, with a quaver. "Pinkerton!" cried I. "No, no, not a word just now," he hastened to proceed "let me speak first. I appreciate, though I can't intimate, the delicacy of your nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it, and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B. Longhurst--a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters--weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and--I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better--but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best." "My poor Jim," said I, "as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy and resource. And as for that affair----" "No, Loudon, no more--not a word more! I don't want to hear," cried Jim. "Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you," said I; "for it's a thing I'm ashamed of." "Ashamed, Loudon? O, don't say that; don't use such an expression, even in jest!" protested Pinkerton. "Do you never do anything you're ashamed of?" I inquired. "No," says he, rolling his eyes; "why? I'm sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I can't see what I would want to be ashamed for." I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's character. Then I sighed. "Do you know, Jim, what I'm sorriest for?" said I. "At this rate I can't be best man at your marriage." "My marriage!" he repeated, echoing the sigh. "No marriage for me now. I'm going right down to-night to break it to her. I think that's what's shaken me all day. I feel as if I had had no right (after I was engaged) to operate so widely." "Well, you know, Jim, it was my doing, and you must lay the blame on me," said I. "Not a cent of it!" he cried. "I was as eager as yourself, only not so bright at the beginning. No; I've myself to thank for it; but it's a wrench." While Jim departed on his dolorous mission, I returned alone to the office, lit the gas, and sat down to reflect on the events of that momentous day: on the strange features of the tale that had been so far unfolded, the disappearances, the terrors, the great sums of money; and on the dangerous and ungrateful task that awaited me in the immediate future. It is difficult, in the retrospect of such affairs, to avoid attributing to ourselves in the past a measure of the knowledge we possess to-day. But I may say, and yet be well within the mark, that I was consumed that night with a fever of suspicion and curiosity; exhausted my fancy in solutions, which I still dismissed as incommensurable with the facts; and in the mystery by which I saw myself surrounded, found a precious stimulus for my courage and a convenient soothing draught for conscience. Even had all been plain sailing, I do not hint that I should have drawn back. Smuggling is one of the meanest of crimes, for by that we rob a whole country _pro rata_, and are therefore certain to impoverish the poor: to smuggle opium is an offence particularly dark, since it stands related--not so much to murder, as to massacre. Upon all these points I was quite clear; my sympathy was all in arms against my interest; and had not Jim been involved, I could have dwelt almost with satisfaction on the idea of my failure. But Jim, his whole fortune, and his marriage depended upon my success; and I preferred the interests of my friend before those of all the islanders in the South Seas. This is a poor, private morality, if you like; but it is mine, and the best I have; and I am not half so much ashamed of having embarked at all on this adventure, as I am proud that (while I was in it, and for the sake of my friend) I was up early and down late, set my own hand to everything, took dangers as they came, and for once in my life played the man throughout. At the same time I could have desired another field of energy; and I was the more grateful for the redeeming element of mystery. Without that, though I might have gone ahead and done as well, it would scarce have been with ardour; and what inspired me that night with an impatient greed of the sea, the island, and the wreck, was the hope that I might stumble there upon the answer to a hundred questions, and learn why Captain Trent fanned his red face in the exchange, and why Mr. Dickson fled from the telephone in the Mission Street lodging-house. CHAPTER XI IN WHICH JIM AND I TAKE DIFFERENT WAYS I was unhappy when I closed my eyes; and it was to unhappiness that I opened them again next morning, to a confused sense of some calamity still inarticulate, and to the consciousness of jaded limbs and of a swimming head. I must have lain for some time inert and stupidly miserable before I became aware of a reiterated knocking at the door; with which discovery all my wits flowed back in their accustomed channels, and I remembered the sale and the wreck, and Goddedaal and Nares, and Johnson and Black Tom, and the troubles of yesterday and the manifold engagements of the day that was to come. The thought thrilled me like a trumpet in the hour of battle. In a moment I had leaped from bed, crossed the office where Pinkerton lay in a deep trance of sleep on the convertible sofa, and stood in the doorway, in my night gear, to receive our visitors. Johnson was first, by way of usher, smiling. From a little behind, with his Sunday hat tilted forward over his brow and a cigar glowing between his lips, Captain Nares acknowledged our previous acquaintance with a succinct nod. Behind him again, in the top of the stairway, a knot of sailors, the new crew of the _Norah Creina_, stood polishing the wall with back and elbow. These I left without to their reflections. But our two officers I carried at once into the office, where (taking Jim by the shoulder) I shook him slowly into consciousness. He sat up, all abroad for the moment, and stared on the new captain. "Jim," said I, "this is Captain Nares. Captain, Mr. Pinkerton." Nares repeated his curt nod, still without speech; and I thought he held us both under a watchful scrutiny. "O!" says Jim, "this is Captain Nares, is it? Good-morning, Captain Nares. Happy to have the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir. I know you well by reputation." Perhaps, under the circumstances of the moment, this was scarce a welcome speech. At least, Nares received it with a grunt. "Well, captain," Jim continued, "you know about the size of the business? You're to take the _Norah Creina_ to Midway Island, break up a wreck, call at Honolulu, and back to this port? I suppose that's understood?" "Well," returned Nares, with the same unamiable reserve, "for a reason, which I guess you know, the cruise may suit me: but there's a point or two to settle. We shall have to talk, Mr. Pinkerton. But whether I go or not, somebody will. There's no sense in losing time; and you might give Mr. Johnson a note, let him take the hands right down, and set to to overhaul the rigging. The beasts look sober," he added, with an air of great disgust, "and need putting to work to keep them so." This being agreed upon, Nares watched his subordinate depart, and drew a visible breath. "And now we're alone and can talk," said he. "What's this thing about? It's been advertised like Barnum's museum; that poster of yours has set the Front talking. That's an objection in itself, for I'm laying a little dark just now; and, anyway, before I take the ship, I require to know what I'm going after." Thereupon Pinkerton gave him the whole tale, beginning with a business-like precision, and working himself up, as he went on, to the boiling-point of narrative enthusiasm. Nares sat and smoked, hat still on head, and acknowledged each fresh feature of the story with a frowning nod. But his pale blue eyes betrayed him, and lighted visibly. "Now you see for yourself," Pinkerton concluded; "there's every last chance that Trent has skipped to Honolulu, and it won't take much of that fifty thousand dollars to charter a small schooner down to Midway. Here's where I want a man!" cried Jim, with contagious energy. "That wreck's mine; I've paid for it, money down; and if it's got to be fought for, I want to see it fought for lively. If you're not back in ninety days, I tell you plainly I'll make one of the biggest busts ever seen upon this coast. It's life or death for Mr. Dodd and me. As like as not it'll come to grapples on the island; and when I heard your name last night--and a blame' sight more this morning when I saw the eye you've got in your head--I said, 'Nares is good enough for me!'" "I guess," observed Nares, studying the ash of his cigar, "the sooner I get that schooner outside the Farallones the better you'll be pleased." "You're the man I dreamed of!" cried Jim, bouncing on the bed. "There's not five per cent. of fraud in all your carcass." "Just hold on," said Nares. "There's another point. I heard some talk about a supercargo." "That's Mr. Dodd here, my partner," said Jim. "I don't see it," returned the captain drily. "One captain's enough for any ship that ever I was aboard." "Now, don't you start disappointing me," said Pinkerton, "for you're talking without thought. I'm not going to give you the run of the books of this firm, am I? I guess not. Well, this is not only a cruise, it's a business operation, and that's in the hands of my partner. You sail that ship, you see to breaking up that wreck and keeping the men upon the jump, and you'll find your hands about full. Only, no mistake about one thing; it has to be done to Mr. Dodd's satisfaction, for it's Mr. Dodd that's paying." "I'm accustomed to give satisfaction," said Mr. Nares, with a dark flush. "And so you will here!" cried Pinkerton. "I understand you. You're prickly to handle, but you're straight all through." "The position's got to be understood, though," returned Nares, perhaps a trifle mollified. "My position, I mean. I'm not going to ship sailing-master; it's enough out of my way already, to set a foot on this mosquito schooner." "Well, I'll tell you," retorted Jim, with an indescribable twinkle: "you just meet me on the ballast, and we'll make it a barquantine." Nares laughed a little; tactless Pinkerton had once more gained a victory in tact. "Then there's another point," resumed the captain, tacitly relinquishing the last. "How about the owners?" "O, you leave that to me; I'm one of Longhurst's crowd, you know," said Jim, with sudden bristling vanity. "Any man that's good enough for me, is good enough for them." "Who are they?" asked Nares. "M'Intyre and Spittal," said Jim. "O well, give me a card of yours," said the captain; "you needn't bother to write; I keep M'Intyre and Spittal in my vest-pocket." Boast for boast; it was always thus with Nares and Pinkerton--the two vainest men of my acquaintance. And having thus reinstated himself in his own opinion, the captain rose, and, with a couple of his stiff nods, departed. "Jim," I cried, as the door closed behind him, "I don't like that man." "You've just got to, Loudon," returned Jim. "He's a typical American seaman--brave as a lion, full of resource, and stands high with his owners. He's a man with a record." "For brutality at sea," said I. "Say what you like," exclaimed Pinkerton, "it was a good hour we got him in: I'd trust Mamie's life to him to-morrow." "Well, and talking of Mamie?" says I. Jim paused with his trousers half on. "She's the gallantest little soul God ever made!" he cried. "Loudon, I'd meant to knock you up last night, and I hope you won't take it unfriendly that I didn't. I went in and looked at you asleep; and I saw you were all broken up, and let you be. The news would keep, anyway; and even you, Loudon, couldn't feel it the same way as I did." "What news?" I asked. "It's this way," says Jim. "I told her how we stood, and that I backed down from marrying. 'Are you tired of me?' says she: God bless her! Well, I explained the whole thing over again, the chance of smash, your absence unavoidable, the point I made of having you for the best man, and that. 'If you're not tired of me, I think I see one way to manage,' says she. 'Let's get married to-morrow, and Mr. Loudon can be best man before he goes to sea.' That's how she said it, crisp and bright, like one of Dickens's characters. It was no good for me to talk about the smash. 'You'll want me all the more,' she said. Loudon, I only pray I can make it up to her; I prayed for it last night beside your bed, while you lay sleeping--for you, and Mamie and myself; and--I don't know if you quite believe in prayer, I'm a bit Ingersollian myself--but a kind of sweetness came over me, and I couldn't help but think it was an answer. Never was a man so lucky! You and me and Mamie; it's a triple cord, Loudon. If either of you were to die! And she likes you so much, and thinks you so accomplished and distingué-looking, and was just as set as I was to have you for best man. 'Mr. Loudon,' she calls you; seems to me so friendly! And she sat up till three in the morning fixing up a costume for the marriage; it did me good to see her, Loudon, and to see that needle going, going, and to say 'All this hurry, Jim, is just to marry you!' I couldn't believe it; it was so like some blame' fairy story. To think of those old tin-type times about turned my head; I was so unrefined then, and so illiterate, and so lonesome; and here I am in clover, and I'm blamed if I can see what I've done to deserve it." So he poured forth with innocent volubility the fulness of his heart; and I, from these irregular communications, must pick out, here a little and there a little, the particulars of his new plan. They were to be married, sure enough, that day; the wedding breakfast was to be at Frank's; the evening to be passed in a visit of God-speed abroad the _Norah Creina_; and then we were to part, Jim and I--he to his married life, I on my sea-enterprise. If ever I cherished an ill-feeling for Miss Mamie, I forgave her now; so brave and kind, so pretty and venturesome, was her decision. The weather frowned overhead with a leaden sky, and San Francisco had never (in all my experience) looked so bleak and gaunt, and shoddy and crazy, like a city prematurely old; but through all my wanderings and errands to and fro, by the dockside or in the jostling street, among rude sounds and ugly sights, there ran in my mind, like a tiny strain of music, the thought of my friend's happiness. For that was indeed a day of many and incongruous occupations. Breakfast was scarce swallowed before Jim must run to the City Hall and Frank's about the cares of marriage, and I hurry to John Smith's upon the account of stores, and thence, on a visit of certification, to the _Norah Creina_. Methought she looked smaller than ever, sundry great ships overspiring her from close without. She was already a nightmare of disorder; and the wharf alongside was piled with a world of casks and cases and tins, and tools and coils of rope, and miniature barrels of giant powder, such as it seemed no human ingenuity could stuff on board of her. Johnson was in the waist, in a red shirt and dungaree trousers, his eye kindled with activity. With him I exchanged a word or two; thence stepped aft along the narrow alleyway between the house and the rail, and down the companion to the main cabin, where the captain sat with the commissioner at wine. I gazed with disaffection at the little box which for many a day I was to call home. On the starboard was a stateroom for the captain; on the port a pair of frowsy berths, one over the other, and abutting astern upon the side of an unsavoury cupboard. The walls were yellow and damp, the floor black and greasy; there was a prodigious litter of straw, old newspapers, and broken packing-cases; and by way of ornament, only a glass-rack, a thermometer presented "with compliments" of some advertising whisky-dealer, and a swinging lamp. It was hard to foresee that, before a week was up, I should regard that cabin as cheerful, lightsome, airy, and even spacious. I was presented to the commissioner, and to a young friend of his whom he had brought with him for the purpose (apparently) of smoking cigars; and after we had pledged one another in a glass of California port, a trifle sweet and sticky for a morning beverage, the functionary spread his papers on the table, and the hands were summoned. Down they trooped, accordingly, into the cabin; and stood eyeing the ceiling or the floor, the picture of sheepish embarrassment, and with a common air of wanting to expectorate and not quite daring. In admirable contrast stood the Chinese cook, easy, dignified, set apart by spotless raiment, the hidalgo of the seas. I dare say you never had occasion to assist at the farce which followed. Our shipping laws in the United States (thanks to the inimitable Dana) are conceived in a spirit of paternal stringency, and proceed throughout on the hypothesis that poor Jack is an imbecile, and the other parties to the contract rogues and ruffians. A long and wordy paper of precautions, a fo'c'sle bill of rights, must be read separately to each man. I had now the benefit of hearing it five times in brisk succession; and you would suppose I was acquainted with its contents. But the commissioner (worthy man) spends his days in doing little else; and when we bear in mind the parallel case of the irreverent curate, we need not be surprised that he took the passage _tempo prestissimo_, in one roulade of gabble--that I, with the trained attention of an educated man, could gather but a fraction of its import--and the sailors nothing. No profanity in giving orders, no sheath-knives, Midway Island and any other port the master may direct, not to exceed six calendar months, and to this port to be paid off: so it seemed to run, with surprising verbiage; so ended. And with the end the commissioner, in each case, fetched a deep breath, resumed his natural voice, and proceeded to business. "Now, my man," he would say, "you ship A. B. at so many dollars, American gold coin. Sign your name here, if you have one, and can write." Whereupon, and the name (with infinite hard breathing) being signed, the commissioner would proceed to fill in the man's appearance, height, etc., on the official form. In this task of literary portraiture he seemed to rely wholly upon temperament; for I could not perceive him to cast one glance on any of his models. He was assisted, however, by a running commentary from the captain: "Hair blue and eyes red, nose five foot seven, and stature broken"--jests as old, presumably, as the American marine; and, like the similar pleasantries of the billiard board, perennially relished. The highest note of humour was reached in the case of the Chinese cook, who was shipped under the name of "One Lung," to the sound of his own protests and the self-approving chuckles of the functionary. "Now, captain," said the latter, when the men were gone, and he had bundled up his papers, "the law requires you to carry a slop-chest and a chest of medicines." "I guess I know that," said Nares. "I guess you do," returned the commissioner, and helped himself to port. But when he was gone, I appealed to Nares on the same subject, for I was well aware we carried none of these provisions. "Well," drawled Nares, "there's sixty pounds of niggerhead on the quay, isn't there? and twenty pounds of salts; and I never travel without some pain-killer in my gripsack." As a matter of fact, we were richer. The captain had the usual sailor's provision of quack medicines, with which, in the usual sailor fashion, he would daily drug himself, displaying an extreme inconstancy, and flitting from Kennedy's Red Discovery to Kennedy's White, and from Hood's Sarsaparilla to Mother Seigel's Syrup. And there were, besides, some mildewed and half-empty bottles, the labels obliterated, over which Nares would sometimes sniff and speculate. "Seems to smell like diarrhoea stuff," he would remark. "I wish't I knew, and I would try it." But the slop-chest was indeed represented by the plugs of niggerhead and nothing else. Thus paternal laws are made, thus they are evaded; and the schooner put to sea, like plenty of her neighbours, liable to a fine of six hundred dollars. This characteristic scene, which has delayed me over-long, was but a moment in that day of exercise and agitation. To fit out a schooner for sea and improvise a marriage, between dawn and dusk, involves heroic effort. All day Jim and I ran and tramped, and laughed and came near crying, and fell in sudden anxious consultations, and were sped (with a prepared sarcasm on our lips) to some fallacious milliner, and made dashes to the schooner and John Smith's, and at every second corner were reminded (by our own huge posters) of our desperate estate. Between-whiles I had found the time to hover at some half a dozen jewellers' windows; and my present, thus intemperately chosen, was graciously accepted. I believe, indeed, that was the last (though not the least) of my concerns, before the old minister, shabby and benign, was routed from his house and led to the office like a performing poodle; and there, in the growing dusk, under the cold glitter of Thirteen Star, two hundred strong, and beside the garish glories of the agricultural engine, Mamie and Jim were made one. The scene was incongruous, but the business pretty, whimsical, and affecting; the typewriters with such kindly faces and fine posies, Madame so demure, and Jim--how shall I describe that poor, transfigured Jim? He began by taking the minister aside to the far end of the office. I knew not what he said, but I have reason to believe he was protesting his unfitness, for he wept as he said it; and the old minister, himself genuinely moved, was heard to console and encourage him, and at one time to use this expression: "I assure you, Mr. Pinkerton, that there are not many who can say so much"--from which I gathered that my friend had tempered his self-accusations with at least one legitimate boast. From this ghostly counselling, Jim turned to me; and though he never got beyond the explosive utterance of my name and one fierce handgrip, communicated some of his own emotion, like a charge of electricity, to his best man. We stood up to the ceremony at last, in a general and kindly discomposure. Jim was all abroad; and the divine himself betrayed his sympathy in voice and demeanour, and concluded with a fatherly allocution, in which he congratulated Mamie (calling her "my dear") upon the fortune of an excellent husband, and protested he had rarely married a more interesting couple. At this stage, like a glory descending, there was handed in, _ex machinâ,_ the card of Douglas B. Longhurst, with congratulations and four dozen Perrier-Jouet. A bottle was opened, and the minister pledged the bride, and the bridesmaids simpered and tasted, and I made a speech with airy bacchanalianism, glass in hand, But poor Jim must leave the wine untasted. "Don't touch it," I had found the opportunity to whisper; "in your state it will make you as drunk as a fiddler." And Jim had wrung my hand with a "God bless you, Loudon!--saved me again!" Hard following upon this, the supper passed off at Frank's with somewhat tremulous gaiety; and thence, with one-half of the Perrier-Jouet--I would accept no more--we voyaged in a hack to the _Norah Creina_. "What a dear little ship!" cried Mamie, as our miniature craft was pointed out to her; and then, on second thought, she turned to the best man. "And how brave you must be, Mr. Dodd," she cried, "to go in that tiny thing so far upon the ocean!" And I perceived I had risen in the lady's estimation. The "dear little ship" presented a horrid picture of confusion, and its occupants of weariness and ill-humour. From the cabin the cook was storing tins into the lazarette, and the four hands, sweaty and sullen, were passing them from one to another from the waist. Johnson was three parts asleep over the table; and in his bunk, in his own cabin, the captain sourly chewed and puffed at a cigar. "See here," he said, rising; "you'll be sorry you came. We can't stop work if we're to get away to-morrow. A ship getting ready for sea is no place for people, anyway. You'll only interrupt my men." I was on the point of answering something tart; but Jim, who was acquainted with the breed, as he was with most things that had a bearing on affairs, made haste to pour in oil. "Captain," he said, "I know we're a nuisance here, and that you've had a rough time. But all we want is that you should drink one glass of wine with us, Perrier-Jouet, from Longhurst, on the occasion of my marriage, and Loudon's--Mr. Dodd's--departure." "Well, it's your look-out," said Nares. "I don't mind half an hour. Spell, O!" he added to the men; "go and kick your heels for half an hour, and then you can turn to again a trifle livelier. Johnson, see if you can't wipe off a chair for the lady." His tone was no more gracious than his language; but when Mamie had turned upon him the soft fire of her eyes, and informed him that he was the first sea-captain she had ever met, "except captains of steamers, of course"--she so qualified the statement--and had expressed a lively sense of his courage, and perhaps implied (for I suppose the arts of ladies are the same as those of men) a modest consciousness of his good looks, our bear began insensibly to soften; and it was already part as an apology, though still with unaffected heat of temper, that he volunteered some sketch of his annoyances. "A pretty mess we've had," said he. "Half the stores were wrong; I'll wring John Smith's neck for him some of these days. Then two newspaper beasts came down, and tried to raise copy out of me, till I threatened them with the first thing handy; and then some kind of missionary bug, wanting to work his passage to Raiatea or somewhere. I told him I would take him off the wharf with the butt end of my boot, and he went away cursing. This vessel's been depreciated by the look of him." While the captain spoke, with his strange, humorous, arrogant abruptness, I observed Jim to be sizing him up, like a thing at once quaint and familiar, and with a scrutiny that was both curious and knowing. "One word, dear boy," he said, turning suddenly to me. And when he had drawn me on deck--"That man," says he, "will carry sail till your hair grows white; but never you let on--never breathe a word. I know his line: he'll die before he'll take advice; and if you get his back up, he'll run you right under. I don't often jam in my advice, Loudon; and when I do, it means I'm thoroughly posted." The little party in the cabin, so disastrously begun, finished, under the mellowing influence of wine and woman, in excellent feeling and with some hilarity. Mamie, in a plush Gainsborough hat and a gown of wine-coloured silk, sat, an apparent queen, among her rude surroundings and companions. The dusky litter of the cabin set off her radiant trimness: tarry Johnson was a foil to her fair beauty; she glowed in that poor place, fair as a star; until even I, who was not usually of her admirers, caught a spark of admiration; and even the captain, who was in no courtly humour, proposed that the scene should be commemorated by my pencil. It was the last act of the evening. Hurriedly as I went about my task, the half-hour had lengthened out to more than three before it was completed: Mamie in full value, the rest of the party figuring in outline only, and the artist himself introduced in a back view, which was pronounced a likeness. But it was to Mamie that I devoted the best of my attention, and it was with her I made my chief success. "O!" she cried, "am I really like that? No wonder Jim..." She paused. "Why, it's just as lovely as he's good!" she cried: an epigram which was appreciated, and repeated as we made our salutations, and called out after the retreating couple as they passed away under the lamplight on the wharf. Thus it was that our farewells were smuggled through under an ambuscade of laughter, and the parting over ere I knew it was begun. The figures vanished, the steps died away along the silent city front; on board, the men had returned to their labours, the captain to his solitary cigar; and after that long and complex day of business and emotion, I was at last alone and free. It was, perhaps, chiefly fatigue that made my heart so heavy. I leaned, at least, upon the house, and stared at the foggy heaven, or over the rail at the wavering reflection of the lamps, like a man that was quite done with hope and would have welcomed the asylum of the grave. And all at once, as I thus stood, the _City of Pekin_ flashed into my mind, racing her thirteen knots for Honolulu, with the hated Trent--perhaps with the mysterious Goddedaal--on board; and with the thought the blood leaped and careered through all my body. It seemed no chase at all; it seemed we had no chance, as we laid there bound to iron pillars, and fooling away the precious moments over tins of beans. "Let them get there first!" I thought. "Let them! We can't be long behind." And from that moment I date myself a man of a rounded experience: nothing had lacked but this--that I should entertain and welcome the grim thought of bloodshed. It was long before the toil remitted in the cabin, and it was worth my while to get to bed; long after that before sleep favoured me; and scarce a moment later (or so it seemed) when I was recalled to consciousness by bawling men and the jar of straining hawsers. The schooner was cast off before I got on deck. In the misty obscurity of the first dawn I saw the tug heading us with glowing fires and blowing smoke, and heard her beat the roughened waters of the bay. Beside us, on her flock of hills, the lighted city towered up and stood swollen in the raw fog. It was strange to see her burn on thus wastefully, with half-quenched luminaries, when the dawn was already grown strong enough to show me, and to suffer me to recognise, a solitary figure standing by the piles. Or was it really the eye, and not rather the heart, that identified the shadow in the dusk, among the shoreside lamps? I know not. It was Jim, at least; Jim, come for a last look; and we had but time to wave a valedictory gesture and exchange a wordless cry. This was our second parting, and our capacities were now reversed. It was mine to play the Argonaut, to speed affairs, to plan and to accomplish--if need were, at the price of life; it was his to sit at home, to study the calendar, and to wait. I knew, besides, another thing that gave me joy. I knew that my friend had succeeded in my education; that the romance of business, if our fantastic purchase merited the name, had at last stirred my dilettante nature; and as we swept under cloudy Tamalpais and through the roaring narrows of the bay, the Yankee blood sang in my veins with suspense and exultation. Outside the heads, as if to meet my desire, we found it blowing fresh from the north-east. No time had been lost. The sun was not yet up before the tug cast off the hawser, gave us a salute of three whistles, and turned homeward toward the coast, which now began to gleam along its margin with the earliest rays of day. There was no other ship in view when the _Norah Creina_, lying over under all plain sail, began her long and lonely voyage to the wreck. CHAPTER XII THE _NORAH CREINA_ I love to recall the glad monotony of a Pacific voyage, when the trades are not stinted, and the ship, day after day, goes free. The mountain scenery of trade-wind clouds, watched (and in my case painted) under every vicissitude of light--blotting stars, withering in the moon's glory, barring the scarlet eve, lying across the dawn collapsed into the unfeatured morning bank, or at noon raising their snowy summits between the blue roof of heaven and the blue floor of sea; the small, busy, and deliberate world of the schooner, with its unfamiliar scenes, the spearing of dolphin from the bowsprit end, the holy war on sharks, the cook making bread on the main hatch; reefing down before a violent squall, with the men hanging out on the foot-ropes; the squall itself, the catch at the heart, the opened sluices of the sky; and the relief, the renewed loveliness of life, when all is over, the sun forth again, and our out-fought enemy only a blot upon the leeward sea. I love to recall, and would that I could reproduce that life, the unforgettable, the unrememberable. The memory, which shows so wise a backwardness in registering pain, is besides an imperfect recorder of extended pleasures; and a long-continued well-being escapes (as it were, by its mass) our petty methods of commemoration. On a part of our life's map there lies a roseate, undecipherable haze, and that is all. Of one thing, if I am at all to trust my own annals, I was delightedly conscious. Day after day, in the sun-gilded cabin, the whisky-dealer's thermometer stood at 84°. Day after day the air had the same indescribable liveliness and sweetness, soft and nimble, and cool as the cheek of health. Day after day the sun flamed; night after night the moon beaconed, or the stars paraded their lustrous regiment. I was aware of a spiritual change, or, perhaps, rather a molecular reconstitution. My bones were sweeter to me. I had come home to my own climate, and looked back with pity on those damp and wintry zones, miscalled the temperate. "Two years of this, and comfortable quarters to live in, kind of shake the grit out of a man," the captain remarked; "can't make out to be happy anywhere else. A townie of mine was lost down this way, in a coalship that took fire at sea. He struck the beach somewhere in the Navigators; and he wrote to me that when he left the place it would be feet first. He's well off, too, and his father owns some coasting craft Down East; but Billy prefers the beach, and hot rolls off the bread-fruit trees." A voice told me I was on the same track as Billy. But when was this? Our outward track in the _Norah Creina_ lay well to the northward; and perhaps it is but the impression of a few pet days which I have unconsciously spread longer, or perhaps the feeling grew upon me later, in the run to Honolulu. One thing I am sure: it was before I had ever seen an island worthy of the name that I must date my loyalty to the South Seas. The blank sea itself grew desirable under such skies; and wherever the trade-wind blows I know no better country than a schooner's deck. But for the tugging anxiety as to the journey's end, the journey itself must thus have counted for the best of holidays. My physical wellbeing was over-proof; effects of sea and sky kept me for ever busy with my pencil; and I had no lack of intellectual exercise of a different order in the study of my inconsistent friend, the captain. I call him friend, here on the threshold; but that is to look well ahead. At first I was too much horrified by what I considered his barbarities, too much puzzled by his shifting humours, and too frequently annoyed by his small vanities, to regard him otherwise than as the cross of my existence. It was only by degrees, in his rare hours of pleasantness, when he forgot (and made me forget) the weaknesses to which he was so prone, that he won me to a kind of unconsenting fondness. Lastly, the faults were all embraced in a more generous view; I saw them in their place, like discords in a musical progression; and accepted them and found them picturesque, as we accept and admire, in the habitable face of nature, the smoky head of the volcano or the pernicious thicket of the swamp. He was come of good people Down East, and had the beginnings of a thorough education. His temper had been ungovernable from the first; and it is likely the defect was inherited, and the blame of the rupture not entirely his. He ran away at least to sea; suffered horrible maltreatment, which seemed to have rather hardened than enlightened him; ran away again to shore in a South American port; proved his capacity and made money, although still a child; fell among thieves and was robbed; worked back a passage to the States, and knocked one morning at the door of an old lady whose orchard he had often robbed. The introduction appears insufficient; but Nares knew what he was doing. The sight of her old neighbourly depredator shivering at the door in tatters, the very oddity of his appeal, touched a soft spot in the spinster's heart. "I always had a fancy for the old lady," Nares said, "even when she used to stampede me out of the orchard, and shake her thimble and her old curls at me out of the window as I was going by; I always thought she was a kind of pleasant old girl. Well, when she came to the door that morning, I told her so, and that I was stone-broke; and she took me right in, and fetched out the pie." She clothed him, taught him, and had him to sea again in better shape, welcomed him to her hearth on his return from every cruise, and when she died bequeathed him her possessions. "She was a good old girl," he would say; "I tell you, Mr. Dodd, it was a queer thing to see me and the old lady talking a _pasear_ in the garden, and the old man scowling at us over the pickets. She lived right next door to the old man, and I guess that's just what took me there. I wanted him to know that I was badly beat, you see, and would rather go to the devil than to him. What made the dig harder, he had quarrelled with the old lady about me and the orchard: I guess that made him rage. Yes, I was a beast when I was young; but I was always pretty good to the old lady." Since then he had prospered, not uneventfully, in his profession; the old lady's money had fallen in during the voyage of the _Gleaner_, and he was now, as soon as the smoke of that engagement cleared away, secure of his ship. I suppose he was about thirty: a powerful, active man, with a blue eye, a thick head of hair, about the colour of oakum and growing low over the brow; clean-shaved and lean about the jaw; a good singer; a good performer on that sea-instrument, the accordion; a quick observer, a close reasoner; when he pleased, of a really elegant address; and when he chose, the greatest brute upon the seas. His usage of the men, his hazing, his bullying, his perpetual fault-finding for no cause, his perpetual and brutal sarcasm, might have raised a mutiny in a slave-galley. Suppose the steersman's eye to have wandered; "You ----, ----, little, mutton-faced Dutchman," Nares would bawl, "you want a booting to keep you on your course! I know a little city-front slush when I see one. Just you glue your eye to that compass, or I'll show you round the vessel at the butt-end of my boot." Or suppose a hand to linger aft, whither he had perhaps been summoned not a minute before. "Mr. Daniells, will you oblige me by stepping clear of that main-sheet?" the captain might begin, with truculent courtesy. "Thank you. And perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me what the hell you're doing on my quarter-deck? I want no dirt of your sort here. Is there nothing for you to do? Where's the mate? Don't you set _me_ to find work for you, or I'll find you some that will keep you on your back a fortnight." Such allocutions, conceived with a perfect knowledge of his audience, so that every insult carried home, were delivered with a mien so menacing, and an eye so fiercely cruel, that his unhappy subordinates shrank and quailed. Too often violence followed; too often I have heard and seen and boiled at the cowardly aggression; and the victim, his hands bound by law, has risen again from deck and crawled forward stupefied--I know not what passion of revenge in his wronged heart. It seems strange I should have grown to like this tyrant. It may even seem strange that I should have stood by and suffered his excesses to proceed. But I was not quite such a chicken as to interfere in public, for I would rather have a man or two mishandled than one half of us butchered in a mutiny and the rest suffer on the gallows. And in private I was unceasing in my protests. "Captain," I once said to him, appealing to his patriotism, which was of a hardy quality, "this is no way to treat American seamen. You don't call it American to treat men like dogs?" "Americans?" he said grimly. "Do you call these Dutchmen and Scattermouches[4] Americans? I've been fourteen years to sea, all but one trip under American colours, and I've never laid eye on an American foremast hand. There used to be such things in the old days, when thirty-five dollars were the wages out of Boston; and then you could see ships handled and run the way they want to be. But that's all past and gone, and nowadays the only thing that flies in an American ship is a belaying-pin. You don't know, you haven't a guess. How would you like to go on deck for your middle watch, fourteen months on end, with all your duty to do, and every one's life depending on you, and expect to get a knife ripped into you as you come out of your state-room, or be sand-bagged as you pass the boat, or get tripped into the hold if the hatches are off in fine weather? That kind of shakes the starch out of the brotherly love and New Jerusalem business. You go through the mill, and you'll have a bigger grudge against every old shellback that dirties his plate in the three oceans than the Bank of California could settle up. No; it has an ugly look to it, but the only way to run a ship is to make yourself a terror." "Come, captain," said I, "there are degrees in everything. You know American ships have a bad name, you know perfectly well if it wasn't for the high wage and the good food, there's not a man would ship in one if he could help; and even as it is, some prefer a British ship, beastly food and all." "O, the lime-juicers?" said he. "There's plenty booting in lime-juicers, I guess; though I don't deny but what some of them are soft." And with that he smiled, like a man recalling something. "Look here, that brings a yarn in my head," he resumed, "and for the sake of the joke I'll give myself away. It was in 1874 I shipped mate in the British ship _Maria_, from 'Frisco for Melbourne. She was the queerest craft in some ways that ever I was aboard of. The food was a caution; there was nothing fit to put your lips to but the lime-juice, which was from the end bin no doubt; it used to make me sick to see the men's dinners, and sorry to see my own. The old man was good enough, I guess. Green was his name--a mild, fatherly old galoot. But the hands were the lowest gang I ever handled, and whenever I tried to knock a little spirit into them the old man took their part. It was Gilbert and Sullivan on the high seas; but you bet I wouldn't let any man dictate to me. 'You give me your orders, Captain Green,' I said, 'and you'll find I'll carry them out; that's all you've got to say. You'll find I do my duty,' I said; 'how I do it is my look-out, and there's no man born that's going to give me lessons.' Well, there was plenty dirt on board that _Maria_ first and last. Of course the old man put my back up, and of course he put up the crew's, and I had to regular fight my way through every watch. The men got to hate me, so's I would hear them grit their teeth when I came up. At last one day I saw a big hulking beast of a Dutchman booting the ship's boy. I made one shoot of it off the house and laid that Dutchman out. Up he came, and I laid him out again. 'Now,' I said, 'if there's a kick left in you, just mention it, and I'll stamp your ribs in like a packing-case.' He thought better of it, and never let on; lay there as mild as a deacon at a funeral, and they took him below to reflect on his native Dutchland. One night we got caught in rather a dirty thing about 25 south. I guess we were all asleep, for the first thing I knew there was the fore-royal gone. I ran forward, bawling blue hell; and just as I came by the foremast something struck me right through the fore-arm and stuck there. I put my other hand up, and, by George, it was the grain; the beasts had speared me like a porpoise. 'Cap'n!' I cried. 'What's wrong?' says he. 'They've grained me,' says I. 'Grained you?' says he. 'Well, I've been looking for that.' 'And by God,' I cried, 'I want to have some of these beasts murdered for it!' 'Now, Mr. Nares,' says he, 'you better go below. If I had been one of the men, you'd have got more than this. And I want no more of your language on deck. You've cost me my fore-royal already,' says he; 'and if you carry on, you'll have the three sticks out of her.' That was old man Green's idea of supporting officers. But you wait a bit; the cream's coming. We made Melbourne right enough, and the old man said: 'Mr. Nares, you and me don't draw together. You're a first-rate seaman, no mistake of that; but you're the most disagreeable man I ever sailed with, and your language and your conduct to the crew I cannot stomach. I guess we'll separate.' I didn't care about the berth, you may be sure; but I felt kind of mean, and if he made one kind of stink I thought I could make another. So I said I would go ashore and see how things stood; went, found I was all right, and came aboard again on the top rail. 'Are you getting your traps together, Mr. Nares?' says the old man. 'No,' says I, 'I don't know as we'll separate much before 'Frisco--at least,' I said, 'it's a point for your consideration. I'm very willing to say good-bye to the _Maria_, but I don't know whether you'll care to start me out with three months' wages.' He got his money-box right away. 'My son,' says he, 'I think it cheap at the money.' He had me there." It was a singular tale for a man to tell of himself; above all, in the midst of our discussion; but it was quite in character for Nares. I never made a good hit in our disputes, I never justly resented any act or speech of his, but what I found it long after carefully posted in his day-book and reckoned (here was the man's oddity) to my credit. It was the same with his father, whom he had hated; he would give a sketch of the old fellow, frank and credible, and yet so honestly touched that it was charming. I have never met a man so strangely constituted: to possess a reason of the most equal justice, to have his nerves at the same time quivering with petty spite, and to act upon the nerves and not the reason. A kindred wonder in my eyes was the nature of his courage. There was never a braver man: he went out to welcome danger; an emergency (came it never so sudden) strung him like a tonic. And yet, upon the other hand, I have known none so nervous, so oppressed with possibilities, looking upon the world at large, and the life of a sailor in particular, with so constant and haggard a consideration of the ugly chances. All his courage was in blood, not merely cold, but icy with reasoned apprehension. He would lay our little craft rail under, and "hang on" in a squall, until I gave myself up for lost, and the men were rushing to their stations of their own accord. "There," he would say, "I guess there's not a man on board would have hung on as long as I did that time: they'll have to give up thinking me no schooner sailor. I guess I can shave just as near capsizing as any other captain of this vessel, drunk or sober." And then he would fall to repining and wishing himself well out of the enterprise, and dilate on the peril of the seas, the particular dangers of the schooner rig, which he abhorred, the various ways in which we might go to the bottom, and the prodigious fleet of ships that have sailed out in the course of history, dwindled from the eyes of watchers, and returned no more. "Well," he would wind up, "I guess it don't much matter. I can't see what any one wants to live for, anyway. If I could get into some one else's apple-tree, and be about twelve years old, and just stick the way I was, eating stolen apples, I won't say. But there's no sense in this grown-up business--sailorising, politics, the piety mill, and all the rest of it. Good clean drowning is good enough for me." It is hard to imagine any more depressing talk for a poor landsman on a dirty night; it is hard to imagine anything less sailor-like (as sailors are supposed to be, and generally are) than this persistent harping on the minor. But I was to see more of the man's gloomy constancy ere the cruise was at an end. On the morning of the seventeenth day I came on deck, to find the schooner under double reefs, and flying rather wild before a heavy run of sea. Snoring trades and humming sails had been our portion hitherto. We were already nearing the island. My restrained excitement had begun again to overmaster me; and for some time my only book had been the patent log that trailed over the taffrail, and my chief interest the daily observation and our caterpillar progress across the chart. My first glance, which was at the compass, and my second, which was at the log, were all that I could wish. We lay our course; we had been doing over eight since nine the night before, and I drew a heavy breath of satisfaction. And then I know not what odd and wintry appearance of the sea and sky knocked suddenly at my heart. I observed the schooner to look more than usually small, the men silent and studious of the weather. Nares, in one of his rusty humours, afforded me no shadow of a morning salutation. He, too, seemed to observe the behaviour of the ship with an intent and anxious scrutiny. What I liked still less, Johnson himself was at the wheel, which he span busily, often with a visible effort; and as the seas ranged up behind us, black and imminent, he kept casting behind him eyes of animal swiftness, and drawing in his neck between his shoulders, like a man dodging a blow. From these signs I gathered that all was not exactly for the best; and I would have given a good handful of dollars for a plain answer to the questions which I dared not put. Had I dared, with the present danger-signal in the captain's face, I should only have been reminded of my position as supercargo--an office never touched upon in kindness--and advised, in a very indigestible manner, to go below. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to entertain my vague apprehensions as best I should be able, until it pleased the captain to enlighten me of his own accord. This he did sooner than I had expected--as soon, indeed, as the Chinaman had summoned us to breakfast, and we sat face to face across the narrow board. "See here, Mr. Dodd," he began, looking at me rather queerly, "here is a business point arisen. This sea's been running up for the last two days, and now it's too high for comfort. The glass is falling, the wind is breezing up, and I won't say but what there's dirt in it. If I lay her to, we may have to ride out a gale of wind, and drift God knows where--on these French Frigate Shoals, for instance. If I keep her as she goes, we'll make that island to-morrow afternoon, and have the lee of it to lie under, if we can't make out to run in. The point you have to figure on, is whether you'll take the big chances of that Captain Trent making the place before you, or take the risk of something happening. I'm to run this ship to your satisfaction," he added, with an ugly sneer. "Well, here's a point for the supercargo." "Captain," I returned, with my heart in my mouth, "risk is better than certain failure." "Life is all risk, Mr. Dodd," he remarked. "But there's one thing: it's now or never; in half an hour Archdeacon Gabriel couldn't lay her to, if he came downstairs on purpose." "All right," said I; "let's run." "Run goes," said he; and with that he fell to breakfast, and passed half an hour in stowing away pie, and devoutly wishing himself back in San Francisco. When we came on deck again, he took the wheel from Johnson--it appears they could trust none among the hands--and I stood close beside him, feeling safe in this proximity, and tasting a fearful joy from our surroundings and the consciousness of my decision. The breeze had already risen, and as it tore over our heads, it uttered at times a long hooting note that sent my heart into my boots. The sea pursued us without remission, leaping to the assault of the low rail. The quarter-deck was all awash, and we must close the companion doors. "And all this, if you please, for Mr. Pinkerton's dollars!" the captain suddenly exclaimed. "There's many a fine fellow gone under, Mr. Dodd, because of drivers like your friend. What do they care for a ship or two? Insured, I guess. What do they care for sailors' lives alongside of a few thousand dollars? What they want is speed between ports, and a damned fool of a captain that'll drive a ship under as I'm doing this one. You can put in the morning, asking why I do it." I sheered off to another part of the vessel as fast as civility permitted. This was not at all the talk that I desired, nor was the train of reflection which it started anyway welcome. Here I was, running some hazard of my life, and perilling the lives of seven others; exactly for what end, I was now at liberty to ask myself. For a very large amount of a very deadly poison, was the obvious answer; and I thought if all tales were true, and I were soon to be subjected to cross-examination at the bar of Eternal Justice, it was one which would not increase my popularity with the court. "Well, never mind, Jim," thought I; "I'm doing it for you." Before eleven a third reef was taken in the mainsail, and Johnson filled the cabin with a storm-sail of No. 1 duck, and sat cross-legged on the streaming floor, vigorously putting it to rights with a couple of the hands. By dinner I had fled the deck, and sat in the bench corner, giddy, dumb, and stupefied with terror. The frightened leaps of the poor _Norah Creina_, spanking like a stag for bare existence, bruised me between the table and the berths. Overhead, the wild huntsman of the storm passed continuously in one blare of mingled noises; screaming wind, straining timber, lashing rope's-end, pounding block and bursting sea contributed; and I could have thought there was at times another, a more piercing, a more human note, that dominated all, like the wailing of an angel; I could have thought I knew the angel's name, and that his wings were black. It seemed incredible that any creature of man's art could long endure the barbarous mishandling of the seas, kicked as the schooner was from mountain-side to mountain-side, beaten and blown upon and wrenched in every joint and sinew, like a child upon the rack. There was not a plank of her that did not cry aloud for mercy; and as she continued to hold together, I became conscious of a growing sympathy with her endeavours, a growing admiration for her gallant staunchness, that amused and at times obliterated my terrors for myself. God bless every man that swung a mallet on that tiny and strong hull! It was not for wages only that he laboured, but to save men's lives. All the rest of the day, and all the following night, I sat in the corner or lay wakeful in my bunk; and it was only with the return of morning that a new phase of my alarms drove me once more on deck. A gloomier interval I never passed. Johnson and Nares steadily relieved each other at the wheel and came below. The first glance of each was at the glass, which he repeatedly knuckled and frowned upon; for it was sagging lower all the time. Then, if Johnson were the visitor, he would pick a snack out of the cupboard, and stand, braced against the table, eating it, and perhaps obliging me with a word or two of his hee-haw conversation: how it was "a son of a gun of a cold night on deck, Mr. Dodd" (with a grin); how "it wasn't no night for pan-jammers, he could tell me"; having transacted all which, he would throw himself down in his bunk and sleep his two hours with compunction. But the captain neither ate nor slept. "You there, Mr. Dodd?" he would say, after the obligatory visit to the glass. "Well, my son, we're one hundred and four miles" (or whatever it was) "off the island, and scudding for all we're worth. We'll make it to-morrow about four, or not, as the case may be. That's the news. And now, Mr. Dodd, I've stretched a point for you; you can see I'm dead tired; so just you stretch away back to your bunk again." And with this attempt at geniality, his teeth would settle hard down on his cigar, and he would pass his spell below staring and blinking at the cabin lamp through a cloud of tobacco-smoke. He has told me since that he was happy, which I should never have divined. "You see," he said, "the wind we had was never anything out of the way; but the sea was really nasty, the schooner wanted a lot of humouring, and it was clear from the glass that we were close to some dirt. We might be running out of it, or we might be running right crack into it. Well, there's always something sublime about a big deal like that; and it kind of raises a man in his own liking. We're a queer kind of beasts, Mr. Dodd." The morning broke with sinister brightness; the air alarmingly transparent, the sky pure, the rim of the horizon clear and strong against the heavens. The wind and the wild seas, now vastly swollen, indefatigably hunted us. I stood on deck, choking with fear; I seemed to lose all power upon my limbs; my knees were as paper when she plunged into the murderous valleys; my heart collapsed when some black mountain fell in avalanche beside her counter, and the water, that was more than spray, swept round my ankles like a torrent. I was conscious of but one strong desire--to bear myself decently in my terrors, and, whatever should happen to my life, preserve my character: as the captain said, we are a queer kind of beasts. Breakfast-time came, and I made shift to swallow some hot tea. Then I must stagger below to take the time, reading the chronometer with dizzy eyes, and marvelling the while what value there could be in observations taken in a ship launched (as ours then was) like a missile among flying seas. The forenoon dragged on in a grinding monotony of peril; every spoke of the wheel a rash but an obliged experiment--rash as a forlorn hope, needful as the leap that lands a fireman from a burning staircase. Noon was made; the captain dined on his day's work, and I on watching him; and our place was entered on the chart with a meticulous precision which seemed to me half pitiful and half absurd, since the next eye to behold that sheet of paper might be the eye of an exploring fish. One o'clock came, then two; the captain gloomed and chafed, as he held to the coaming of the house, and if ever I saw dormant murder in man's eye, it was in his. God help the man that should have disobeyed him. Of a sudden he turned towards the mate, who was doing his trick at the wheel. "Two points on the port bow," I heard him say; and he took the wheel himself. Johnson nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his wet hand, watched a chance as the vessel lunged up hill, and got to the main rigging, where he swarmed aloft. Up and up I watched him go, hanging on at every ugly plunge, gaining with every lull of the schooner's movement, until, clambering into the cross-trees and clinging with one arm around the masts, I could see him take one comprehensive sweep of the south-westerly horizon. The next moment he had slid down the backstay and stood on deck, with a grin, a nod, and a gesture of the finger that said "yes"; the next again, and he was back sweating and squirming at the wheel, his tired face streaming and smiling, and his hair and the rags and corners of his clothes lashing round him in the wind. Nares went below, fetched up his binocular, and fell into a silent perusal of the sea-line: I also, with my unaided eyesight. Little by little, in that white waste of water, I began to make out a quarter where the whiteness appeared more condensed: the sky above was whitish likewise, and misty like a squall; and little by little there thrilled upon my ears a note deeper and more terrible than the yelling of the gale--the long thundering roll of breakers. Nares wiped his night-glass on his sleeve and passed it to me, motioning, as he did so, with his hand. An endless wilderness of raging billows came and went and danced in the circle of the glass; now and then a pale corner of sky, or the strong line of the horizon rugged with the heads of waves; and then of a sudden--come and gone ere I could fix it, with a swallow's swiftness--one glimpse of what we had come so far and paid so dear to see; the masts and rigging of a brig pencilled on heaven, with an ensign streaming at the main, and the ragged ribbons of a top-sail thrashing from the yard. Again and again, with toilful searching, I recalled that apparition. There was no sign of any land; the wreck stood between sea and sky, a thing the most isolated I had ever viewed; but as we drew nearer, I perceived her to be defended by a line of breakers which drew off on either hand, and marked, indeed, the nearest segment of the reef. Heavy spray hung over them like a smoke, some hundred feet into the air; and the sound of their consecutive explosions rolled like a cannonade. In half an hour we were close in; for perhaps as long again we skirted that formidable barrier toward its farther side; and presently the sea began insensibly to moderate and the ship to go more sweetly. We had gained the lee of the island, as (for form's sake) I may call that ring of foam and haze and thunder; and shaking out a reef, wore ship and headed for the passage. FOOTNOTE: [4] In sea-lingo (Pacific) _Dutchman_ includes all Teutons and folk from the basin of the Baltic; _Scattermouch_, all Latins and Levantines. CHAPTER XIII THE ISLAND AND THE WRECK All hands were filled with joy. It was betrayed in their alacrity and easy faces: Johnson smiling broadly at the wheel, Nares studying the sketch chart of the island with an eye at peace, and the hands clustered forward, eagerly talking and pointing: so manifest was our escape, so wonderful the attraction of a single foot of earth after so many suns had set and risen on an empty sea! To add to the relief, besides, by one of those malicious coincidences which suggest for Fate the image of an underbred and grinning schoolboy, we had no sooner worn ship than the wind began to abate. For myself, however, I did but exchange anxieties. I was no sooner out of one fear than I fell upon another; no sooner secure that I should myself make the intended haven, than I began to be convinced that Trent was there before me. I climbed into the rigging, stood on the board, and eagerly scanned that ring of coral reef and bursting breaker, and the blue lagoon which they enclosed. The two islets within began to show plainly--Middle Brooks and Lower Brooks Island, the Directory named them: two low, bush-covered, rolling strips of sand, each with glittering beaches, each perhaps a mile or a mile and a half in length, running east and west, and divided by a narrow channel. Over these, innumerable as maggots, there hovered, chattered, and screamed millions of twinkling sea-birds; white and black; the black by far the largest. With singular scintillations, this vortex of winged life swayed to and fro in the strong sunshine, whirled continually through itself, and would now and again burst asunder and scatter as wide as the lagoon: so that I was irresistibly reminded of what I had read of nebular convulsions. A thin cloud overspread the area of the reef and the adjacent sea--the dust, as I could not but fancy, of earlier explosions. And, a little apart, there was yet another focus of centrifugal and centripetal flight, where, hard by the deafening line of breakers, her sails (all but the tattered topsail) snugly furled down, and the red rag that marks Old England on the seas beating, union down, at the main--the _Flying Scud_, the fruit of so many toilers, a recollection of so many lives of men, whose tall spars had been mirrored in the remotest corners of the sea--lay stationary at last and for ever, in the first stage of naval dissolution. Towards her the taut _Norah Creina_, vulture-wise, wriggled to windward: come from so far to pick her bones. And, look as I pleased, there was no other presence of man or of man's handiwork; no Honolulu schooner lay there crowded with armed rivals, no smoke rose from the fire at which I fancied Trent cooking a meal of sea-birds. It seemed, after all, we were in time, and I drew a mighty breath. I had not arrived at this reviving certainty before the breakers were already close aboard, the leadsman at his station, and the captain posted in the fore cross-trees to con us through the coral lumps of the lagoon. All circumstances were in our favour, the light behind, the sun low, the wind still fresh and steady, and the tide about the turn. A moment later we shot at racing speed betwixt two pier heads of broken water; the lead began to be cast, the captain to bawl down his anxious directions, the schooner to tack and dodge among the scattered dangers of the lagoon; and at one bell in the first dog-watch we had come to our anchor off the north-east end of Middle Brooks Island, in five fathoms water. The sails were gasketed and covered, the boats emptied of the miscellaneous stores and odds and ends of sea-furniture, that accumulate in the course of a voyage, the kedge sent ashore, and the decks tidied down: a good three-quarters of an hour's work, during which I raged about the deck like a man with a strong toothache. The transition from the wild sea to the comparative immobility of the lagoon had wrought strange distress among my nerves: I could not hold still whether in hand or foot; the slowness of the men, tired as dogs after our rough experience outside, irritated me like something personal; and the irrational screaming of the seabirds saddened me like a dirge. It was a relief when, with Nares, and a couple of hands, I might drop into the boat and move off at last for the _Flying Scud_. "She looks kind of pitiful, don't she?" observed the captain, nodding towards the wreck, from which we were separated by some half a mile. "Looks as if she didn't like her berth, and Captain Trent had used her badly.--Give her ginger, boys," he added to the hands, "and you can all have shore liberty to-night to see the birds and paint the town red." We all laughed at the pleasantry, and the boat skimmed the faster over the rippling face of the lagoon. The _Flying Scud_ would have seemed small enough beside the wharves of San Francisco, but she was some thrice the size of the _Norah Creina_, which had been so long our continent; and as we craned up at her wall-sides, she impressed us with a mountain magnitude. She lay head to the reef, where the huge blue wall of the rollers was for ever ranging up and crumbling down; and to gain her starboard side, we must pass below the stern. The rudder was hard aport, and we could read the legend-- FLYING SCUD HULL On the other side, about the break of the poop, some half a fathom of rope-ladder trailed over the rail, and by this we made our entrance. She was a roomy ship inside, with a raised poop standing some three feet higher than the deck, and a small forward house, for the men's bunks and the galley, just abaft the foremast. There was one boat on the house, and another and larger one, in beds on deck, on either hand of it. She had been painted white, with tropical economy, outside and in; and we found, later on, that the stanchions of the rail, hoops of the scuttle-butt, etc., were picked out with green. At that time, however, when we first stepped aboard, all was hidden under the droppings of innumerable sea-birds. The birds themselves gyrated and screamed meanwhile among the rigging; and when we looked into the galley, their outrush drove us back. Savage-looking fowl they were, savagely beaked, and some of the black ones great as eagles. Half-buried in the slush, we were aware of a litter of kegs in the waist; and these, on being somewhat cleaned, proved to be water-beakers and quarter-casks of mess beef with some colonial brand, doubtless collected there before the _Tempest_ hove in sight, and while Trent and his men had no better expectation than to strike for Honolulu in the boats. Nothing else was notable on deck, save where the loose topsail had played some havoc with the rigging, and there hung, and swayed, and sang in the declining wind, a raffle of intorted cordage. With a shyness that was almost awe, Nares and I descended the companion. The stair turned upon itself and landed us just forward of a thwart-ship bulkhead that cut the poop in two. The fore part formed a kind of miscellaneous store-room, with a double-bunked division for the cook (as Nares supposed) and second mate. The after part contained, in the midst, the main cabin, running in a kind of bow into the curvature of the stern; on the port side, a pantry opening forward and a stateroom for the mate; and on the starboard, the captain's berth and water-closet. Into these we did but glance, the main cabin holding us. It was dark, for the sea-birds had obscured the skylight with their droppings; it smelt rank and fusty: and it was beset with a loud swarm of flies that beat continually in our faces. Supposing them close attendants upon man and his broken meat, I marvelled how they had found their way to Midway Reef; it was sure at least some vessel must have brought them, and that long ago, for they had multiplied exceedingly. Part of the floor was strewn with a confusion of clothes, books, nautical instruments, odds and ends of finery, and such trash as might be expected from the turning out of several seamen's chests, upon a sudden emergency and after a long cruise. It was strange in that dim cabin, quivering with the near thunder of the breakers and pierced with the screaming of the fowls, to turn over so many things that other men had coveted, and prized, and worn on their warm bodies--frayed old underclothing, pyjamas of strange design, duck suits in every stage of rustiness, oil-skins, pilot coats, embroidered shirts, jackets of Ponjee silk--clothes for the night watch at sea or the day ashore in the hotel verandah: and mingled among these, books, cigars, bottles of scent, fancy pipes, quantities of tobacco, many keys, a rusty pistol, and a sprinkling of cheap curiosities--Benares brass, Chinese jars and pictures, and bottles of odd shells in cotton, each designed, no doubt, for somebody at home--perhaps in Hull, of which Trent had been a native and his ship a citizen. Thence we turned our attention to the table, which stood spread, as if for a meal, with stout ship's crockery and the remains of food--a pot of marmalade, dregs of coffee in the mugs, unrecognisable remains of food, bread, some toast, and a tin of condensed milk. The table-cloth, originally of a red colour, was stained a dark brown at the captain's end, apparently with coffee; at the other end it had been folded back, and a pen and ink-pot stood on the bare table. Stools were here and there about the table, irregularly placed, as though the meal had been finished and the men smoking and chatting; and one of the stools lay on the floor, broken. "See! they were writing up the log," said Nares, pointing to the ink-bottle. "Caught napping, as usual. I wonder if there ever was a captain yet that lost a ship with his log-book up to date? He generally has about a month to fill up on a clean break, like Charles Dickens and his serial novels.--What a regular lime-juicer spread!" he added contemptuously. "Marmalade--and toast for the old man! Nasty, slovenly pigs!" There was something in this criticism of the absent that jarred upon my feelings. I had no love indeed for Captain Trent or any of his vanished gang; but the desertion and decay of this once habitable cabin struck me hard. The death of man's handiwork is melancholy, like the death of man himself; and I was impressed with an involuntary and irrational sense of tragedy in my surroundings. "This sickens me," I said; "let's go on deck and breathe." The captain nodded. "It is kind of lonely, isn't it?" he said; "but I can't go up till I get the code signals. I want to run up 'Got Left' or something, just to brighten up this island home. Captain Trent hasn't been here yet, but he'll drop in before long; and it'll cheer him up to see a signal on the brig." "Isn't there some official expression we could use?" I asked, vastly taken by the fancy. "'Sold for the benefit of the underwriters: for further particulars apply to J. Pinkerton, Montana Block, S.F.'" "Well," returned Nares, "I won't say but what an old navy quartermaster might telegraph all that, if you gave him a day to do it in and a pound of tobacco for himself. But it's above my register. I must try something short and sweet: KB, urgent signal, 'Heave all aback'; or LM, urgent, 'The berth you're now in is not safe'; or what do you say to PQH?--'Tell my owners the ship answers remarkably well.'" "It's premature," I replied; "but it seems calculated to give pain to Trent. PQH for me." The flags were found in Trent's cabin, neatly stored behind a lettered grating; Nares chose what he required, and (I following) returned on deck, where the sun had already dipped, and the dusk was coming. "Here! don't touch that, you fool!" shouted the captain to one of the hands, who was drinking from the scuttle-butt. "That water's rotten!" "Beg pardon, sir," replied the man. "Tastes quite sweet." "Let me see," returned Nares, and he took the dipper and held it to his lips. "Yes, it's all right," he said. "Must have rotted and come sweet again.--Queer, isn't it, Mr. Dodd? Though I've known the same on a Cape Horner." There was something in his intonation that made me look him in the face; he stood a little on tiptoe to look right and left about the ship, like a man filled with curiosity, and his whole expression and bearing testified to some suppressed excitement. "You don't believe what you're saying!" I broke out. "O, I don't know but what I do!" he replied, laying a hand upon me soothingly. "The thing's very possible. Only, I'm bothered about something else." And with that he called a hand, gave him the code flags, and stepped himself to the main signal halliards, which vibrated under the weight of the ensign overhead. A minute later, the American colours, which we had brought in the boat, replaced the English red, and PQH was fluttering at the fore. "Now, then," said Nares, who had watched the breaking out of his signal with the old-maidish particularity of an American sailor, "out with those handspikes, and let's see what water there is in the lagoon." The bars were shoved home; the barbarous cacophony of the clanking pump rose in the waist; and streams of ill-smelling water gushed on deck and made valleys in the slab guano. Nares leaned on the rail, watching the steady stream of bilge as though he found some interest in it. "What is it that bothers you?" I asked. "Well, I'll tell you one thing shortly," he replied. "But here's another. Do you see those boats there, one on the house and two on the beds? Well, where is the boat Trent lowered when he lost the hands?" "Got it aboard again, I suppose," said I. "Well, if you'll tell me why!" returned the captain. "Then it must have been another," I suggested. "She might have carried another on the main hatch, I won't deny," admitted Nares, "but I can't see what she wanted with it, unless it was for the old man to go out and play the accordion in on moonlight nights." "It can't much matter, anyway," I reflected. "O, I don't suppose it does," said he, glancing over his shoulders at the spouting of the scuppers. "And how long are we to keep up this racket?" I asked. "We're simply pumping up the lagoon. Captain Trent himself said she had settled down and was full forward." "Did he?" said Nares, with a significant dryness. And almost as he spoke the pumps sucked, and sucked again, and the men threw down their bars. "There, what do you make of that?" he asked. "Now, I'll tell, Mr. Dodd," he went on, lowering his voice, but not shifting from his easy attitude against the rail, "this ship is as sound as the _Norah Creina_. I had a guess of it before we came aboard, and now I know." "It's not possible!" I cried. "What do you make of Trent?" "I don't make anything of Trent; I don't know whether he's a liar or only an old wife; I simply tell you what's the fact," said Nares. "And I'll tell you something more," he added: "I've taken the ground myself in deep-water vessels; I know what I'm saying; and I say that, when she first struck and before she bedded down, seven or eight hours' work would have got this hooker off, and there's no man that ever went two years to sea but must have known it." I could only utter an exclamation. Nares raised his finger warningly. "Don't let _them_ get hold of it," said he. "Think what you like, but say nothing." I glanced round; the dusk was melting into early night; the twinkle of a lantern marked the schooner's position in the distance; and our men, free from further labour, stood grouped together in the waist, their faces illuminated by their glowing pipes. "Why didn't Trent get her off?" inquired the captain. "Why did he want to buy her back in 'Frisco for these fabulous sums, when he might have sailed her into the bay himself?" "Perhaps he never knew her value until then," I suggested. "I wish we knew her value now," exclaimed Nares. "However, I don't want to depress you; I'm sorry for you, Mr. Dodd; I know how bothering it must be to you, and the best I can say's this: I haven't taken much time getting down, and now I'm here I mean to work this thing in proper style. I just want to put your mind at rest; you shall have no trouble with me." There was something trusty and friendly in his voice; and I found myself gripping hands with him, in that hard, short shake that means so much with English-speaking people. "We'll do, old fellow," said he. "We've shaken down into pretty good friends, you and me; and you won't find me working the business any the less hard for that. And now let's scoot for supper." After supper, with the idle curiosity of the seafarer, we pulled ashore in a fine moonlight, and landed on Middle Brooks Island. A flat beach surrounded it upon all sides; and the midst was occupied by a thicket of bushes, the highest of them scarcely five feet high, in which the sea-fowl lived. Through this we tried at first to strike; but it were easier to cross Trafalgar Square on a day of demonstration than to invade these haunts of sleeping sea-birds. The nests sank, and the eggs burst under footing; wings beat in our faces, beaks menaced our eyes, our minds were confounded with the screeching, and the coil spread over the island and mounted high into the air. "I guess we'll saunter round the beach," said Nares, when we had made good our retreat. The hands were all busy after sea-birds' eggs, so there were none to follow us. Our way lay on the crisp sand by the margin of the water; on one side, the thicket from which we had been dislodged; on the other, the face of the lagoon, barred with a broad path of moonlight, and beyond that the line, alternately dark and shining, alternately hove high and fallen prone, of the external breakers. The beach was strewn with bits of wreck and drift; some redwood and spruce logs, no less than two lower masts of junks, and the stern-post of a European ship--all of which we looked on with a shade of serious concern, speaking of the dangers of the sea and the hard case of castaways. In this sober vein we made the greater part of the circuit of the island; had a near view of its neighbour from the southern end; walked the whole length of the westerly side in the shadow of the thicket; and came forth again into the moonlight at the opposite extremity. On our right, at the distance of about half a mile, the schooner lay faintly heaving at her anchors. About half a mile down the beach, at a spot still hidden from us by the thicket, an upboiling of the birds showed where the men were still (with sailor-like insatiability) collecting eggs. And right before us, in a small indentation of the sand, we were aware of a boat lying high and dry, and right side up. Nares crouched back into the shadow of the bushes. "What the devil's this?" he whispered. "Trent," I suggested, with a beating heart. "We were damned fools to come ashore unarmed," said he. "But I've got to know where I stand." In the shadow, his face looked conspicuously white, and his voice betrayed a strong excitement. He took his boat's whistle from his pocket. "In case I might want to play a tune," said he grimly, and thrusting it between his teeth, advanced into the moonlit open, which we crossed with rapid steps, looking guiltily about us as we went. Not a leaf stirred; and the boat, when we came up to it, offered convincing proof of long desertion. She was an eighteen-foot whaleboat of the ordinary type, equipped with oars and thole-pins. Two or three quarter-casks lay on the bilge amidships, one of which must have been broached, and now stank horribly; and these, upon examination, proved to bear the same New Zealand brand as the beef on board the wreck. "Well, here's the boat," said I; "here's one of your difficulties cleared away." "H'm," said he. There was a little water in the bilge, and here he stooped and tasted it. "Fresh," he said. "Only rain-water." "You don't object to that?" I asked. "No," said he. "Well, then, what ails you?" I cried. "In plain United States, Mr. Dodd," he returned, "a whaleboat, five ash sweeps, and a barrel of stinking pork." "Or, in other words, the whole thing?" I commented. "Well, it's this way," he condescended to explain. "I've no use for a fourth boat at all; but a boat of this model tops the business. I don't say the type's not common in these waters; it's as common as dirt; the traders carry them for surf-boats. But the _Flying Scud?_ a deep-water tramp, who was lime-juicing around between big ports, Calcutta and Rangoon and 'Frisco and the Canton River. No, I don't see it." We were leaning over the gunwale of the boat as we spoke. The captain stood nearest the bow, and he was idly playing with the trailing painter, when a thought arrested him. He hauled the line in hand over hand, and stared, and remained staring, at the end. "Anything wrong with it?" I asked. "Do you know, Mr. Dodd," said he, in a queer voice, "this painter's been cut? A sailor always seizes a rope's end, but this is sliced short off with the cold steel. This won't do at all for the men," he added. "Just stand by till I fix it up more natural." "Any guess what it all means?" I asked. "Well, it means one thing," said he. "It means Trent was a liar. I guess the story of the _Flying Scud_ was a sight more picturesque than he gave out." Half an hour later the whaleboat was lying astern of the _Norah Creina_; and Nares and I sought our bunks, silent and half-bewildered by our late discoveries. CHAPTER XIV THE CABIN OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ The sun of the morrow had not cleared the morning bank: the lake of the lagoon, the islets, and the wall of breakers now beginning to subside, still lay clearly pictured in the flushed obscurity of early day, when we stepped again upon the deck of the _Flying Scud_: Nares, myself, the mate, two of the hands, and one dozen bright, virgin axes, in war against that massive structure. I think we all drew pleasurable breath; so profound in man is the instinct of destruction, so engaging is the interest of the chase. For we were now about to taste, in a supreme degree, the double joys of demolishing a toy and playing "Hide the handkerchief"--sports from which we had all perhaps desisted since the days of infancy. And the toy we were to burst in pieces was a deep-sea ship; and the hidden good for which we were to hunt was a prodigious fortune. The decks were washed down, the main hatch removed, and a gun-tackle purchase rigged before the boat arrived with breakfast. I had grown so suspicious of the wreck, that it was a positive relief to me to look down into the hold, and see it full, or nearly full, of undeniable rice packed in the Chinese fashion in boluses of matting. Breakfast over, Johnson and the hands turned to upon the cargo; while Nares and I, having smashed open the skylight and rigged up a windsail on deck, began the work of rummaging the cabins. I must not be expected to describe our first day's work, or (for that matter) any of the rest, in order and detail as it occurred. Such particularity might have been possible for several officers and a draft of men from a ship of war, accompanied by an experienced secretary with a knowledge of shorthand. For two plain human beings, unaccustomed to the use of the broad-axe and consumed with an impatient greed of the result, the whole business melts, in the retrospect, into a nightmare of exertion, heat, hurry, and bewilderment; sweat pouring from the face like rain, the scurry of rats, the choking exhalations of the bilge, and the throbs and splinterings of the toiling axes. I shall content myself with giving the cream of our discoveries in a logical rather than a temporal order; though the two indeed practically coincided, and we had finished our exploration of the cabin, before we could be certain of the nature of the cargo. Nares and I began operations by tossing up pell-mell through the companion, and piling in a squalid heap about the wheel, all clothes, personal effects, the crockery, the carpet, stale victuals, tins of meat, and, in a word, all movables from the main cabin. Thence we transferred our attention to the captain's quarters on the starboard side. Using the blankets for a basket, we sent up the books, instruments, and clothes to swell our growing midden on the deck; and then Nares, going on hands and knees, began to forage underneath the bed. Box after box of Manilla cigars rewarded his search. I took occasion to smash some of these boxes open, and even to guillotine the bundles of cigars; but quite in vain--no secret _cache_ of opium encouraged me to continue. "I guess I've got hold of the dicky now!" exclaimed Nares, and turning round from my perquisitions I found he had drawn forth a heavy iron box, secured to the bulkhead by chain and padlock. On this he was now gazing, not with the triumph that instantly inflamed my own bosom, but with a somewhat foolish appearance of surprise. "By George, we have it now!" I cried, and would have shaken hands with my companion; but he did not see, or would not accept, the salutation. "Let's see what's in it first," he remarked dryly. And he adjusted the box upon its side, and with some blows of an axe burst the lock open. I threw myself beside him, as he replaced the box on its bottom and removed the lid. I cannot tell what I expected; a million's worth of diamonds might perhaps have pleased me; my cheeks burned, my heart throbbed to bursting; and lo! there was disclosed but a trayful of papers, neatly taped, and a cheque-book of the customary pattern. I made a snatch at the tray to see what was beneath, but the captain's hand fell on mine, heavy and hard. "Now, boss!" he cried, not unkindly, "is this to be run shipshape? or is it a Dutch grab-racket?" And he proceeded to untie and run over the contents of the papers, with a serious face and what seemed an ostentation of delay. Me and my impatience it would appear he had forgotten; for when he was quite done, he sat a while thinking, whistled a bar or two, refolded the papers, tied them up again; and then, and not before, deliberately raised the tray. I saw a cigar-box, tied with a piece of fishing-line, and four fat canvas bags. Nares whipped out his knife, cut the line, and opened the box. It was about half-full of sovereigns. "And the bags?" I whispered. The captain ripped them open one by one, and a flood of mixed silver coin burst forth and rattled in the rusty bottom of the box. Without a word, he set to work to count the gold. "What is this?" I asked. "It's the ship's money," he returned, doggedly continuing his work. "The ship's money?" I repeated. "That's the money Trent tramped and traded with? And there's his cheque-book to draw upon his owners? And he has left it?" "I guess he has," said Nares austerely, jotting down a note of the gold; and I was abashed into silence till his task should be completed. It came, I think, to three hundred and seventy-eight pounds sterling; some nineteen pounds of it in silver: all of which we turned again into the chest. "And what do you think of that?" I asked. "Mr. Dodd," he replied, "you see something of the rumness of this job, but not the whole. The specie bothers you, but what gets me is the papers. Are you aware that the master of a ship has charge of all the cash in hand, pays the men advances, receives freight and passage-money, and runs up bills in every port? All this he does as the owner's confidential agent, and his integrity is proved by his receipted bills. I tell you, the captain of a ship is more likely to forget his pants than these bills which guarantee his character. I've known men drown to save them--bad men, too; but this is the shipmaster's honour. And here this Captain Trent--not hurried, not threatened with anything but a free passage in a British man-of-war--has left them all behind. I don't want to express myself too strongly, because the facts appear against me, but the thing is impossible." Dinner came to us not long after, and we ate it on deck, in a grim silence, each privately racking his brain for some solution of the mysteries. I was, indeed, so swallowed up in these considerations that the wreck, the lagoon, the islets, and the strident sea-fowl, the strong sun then beating on my head, and even the gloomy countenance of the captain at my elbow, all vanished from the field of consciousness. My mind was a blackboard on which I scrawled and blotted out hypotheses, comparing each with the pictorial records in my memory--ciphering with pictures. In the course of this tense mental exercise I recalled and studied the faces of one memorial masterpiece, the scene of the saloon; and here I found myself, on a sudden, looking in the eyes of the Kanaka. "There's one thing I can put beyond doubt, at all events," I cried, relinquishing my dinner and getting briskly afoot. "There was that Kanaka I saw in the bar with Captain Trent, the fellow the newspapers and ship's articles made out to be a Chinaman. I mean to rout his quarters out and settle that." "All right," said Nares. "I'll lazy off a bit longer, Mr. Dodd; I feel pretty rocky and mean." We had thoroughly cleared out the three after-compartments of the ship; all the stuff from the main cabin and the mate's and captain's quarters lay piled about the wheel; but in the forward state-room with the two bunks, where Nares had said the mate and cook most likely berthed, we had as yet done nothing. Thither I went. It was very bare; a few photographs were tacked on the bulkhead, one of them indecent; a single chest stood open, and, like all we had yet found, it had been partly rifled. An armful of two-shilling novels proved to me beyond a doubt it was a European's; no Chinaman would have possessed any, and the most literate Kanaka conceivable in a ship's galley was not likely to have gone beyond one. It was plain, then, that the cook had not berthed aft, and I must look elsewhere. The men had stamped down the nests and driven the birds from the galley, so that I could now enter without contest. One door had been already blocked with rice; the place was in part darkness, full of a foul stale smell, and a cloud of nasty flies; it had been left, besides, in some disorder, or else the birds, during their time of tenancy, had knocked the things about; and the floor, like the deck before we washed it, was spread with pasty filth. Against the wall, in the far corner, I found a handsome chest of camphor-wood bound with brass, such as Chinamen and sailors love, and indeed all of mankind that plies in the Pacific. From its outside view I could thus make no deduction; and, strange to say, the interior was concealed. All the other chests, as I have said already, we had found gaping open, and their contents scattered abroad; the same remark we found to apply afterwards in the quarters of the seamen; only this camphor-wood chest, a singular exception, was both closed and locked. I took an axe to it, readily forced the paltry Chinese fastening, and, like a Custom House officer, plunged my hands among the contents. For some while I groped among linen and cotton. Then my teeth were set on edge with silk, of which I drew forth several strips covered with mysterious characters. And these settled the business, for I recognised them as a kind of bed-hanging, popular with the commoner class of the Chinese. Nor were further evidences wanting, such as night-clothes of an extraordinary design, a three-stringed Chinese fiddle, a silk handkerchief full of roots and herbs, and a neat apparatus for smoking opium, with a liberal provision of the drug. Plainly, then, the cook had been a Chinaman; and, if so, who was Jos. Amalu? Or had Jos. stolen the chest before he proceeded to ship under a false name and domicile? It was possible, as anything was possible in such a welter; but, regarded as a solution, it only led and left me deeper in the bog. For why should this chest have been deserted and neglected, when the others were rummaged or removed? and where had Jos. come by that second chest, with which (according to the clerk at the What Cheer) he had started for Honolulu? "And how have _you_ fared?" inquired the captain, whom I found luxuriously reclining in our mound of litter. And the accent on the pronoun, the heightened colour of the speaker's face, and the contained excitement in his tones, advertised me at once that I had not been alone to make discoveries. "I have found a Chinaman's chest in the galley," said I, "and John (if there was any John) was not so much as at the pains to take his opium." Nares seemed to take it mighty quietly. "That so?" said he. "Now, cast your eyes on that and own you're beaten!" and with a formidable clap of his open hand, he flattened out before me, on the deck, a pair of newspapers. I gazed upon them dully, being in no mood for fresh discoveries. "Look at them, Mr. Dodd," cried the captain sharply. "Can't you look at them?" And he ran a dirty thumb along the title. "'_Sydney Morning Herald_, November 26th,' can't you make that out?" he cried, with rising energy. "And don't you know, sir, that not thirteen days after this paper appeared in New South Wales, this ship we're standing in heaved her blessed anchors out of China? How did the _Sydney Morning Herald_ get to Hong Kong in thirteen days? Trent made no land, he spoke no ship, till he got here. Then he either got it here or in Hong Kong. I give you your choice, my son!" he cried and fell back among the clothes like a man weary of life. "Where did you find them?" I asked. "In that black bag?" "Guess so," he said. "You needn't fool with it. There's nothing else but a lead-pencil and a kind of worked-out knife." I looked in the bag, however, and was well rewarded. "Every man to his trade, captain," said I. "You're a sailor, and you've given me plenty of points; but I am an artist, and allow me to inform you this is quite as strange as all the rest. The knife is a palette-knife; the pencil a Winsor and Newton, and a B B B at that. A palette-knife and a B B B on a tramp brig! It's against the laws of Nature." "It would sicken a dog, wouldn't it?" said Nares. "Yes," I continued; "it's been used by an artist, too: see how it's sharpened--not for writing--no man could write with that. An artist, and straight from Sydney? How can he come in?" "O, that's natural enough," sneered Nares. "They cabled him to come up and illustrate this dime novel." We fell a while silent. "Captain," I said at last, "there is something deuced underhand about this brig. You tell me you've been to sea a good part of your life. You must have seen shady things done on ships, and heard of more. Well, what is this? is it insurance? is it piracy? what is it _about_? what can it be _for_?" "Mr. Dodd," returned Nares, "you're right about me having been to sea the bigger part of my life. And you're right again when you think I know a good many ways in which a dishonest captain mayn't be on the square, nor do exactly the right thing by his owners, and altogether be just a little too smart by ninety-nine and three-quarters. There's a good many ways, but not so many as you'd think; and not one that has any mortal thing to do with Trent. Trent and his whole racket has got to do with nothing--that's the bed-rock fact; there's no sense to it, and no use in it, and no story to it--it's a beastly dream. And don't you run away with that notion that landsmen take about ships. A society actress don't go around more publicly than what a ship does, nor is more interviewed, nor more humbugged, nor more run after by all sorts of little fussinesses in brass buttons. And more than an actress, a ship has a deal to lose; she's capital, and the actress only character--if she's that. The ports of the world are thick with people ready to kick a captain into the penitentiary if he's not as bright as a dollar and as honest as the morning star; and what with Lloyd keeping watch and watch in every corner of the three oceans, and the insurance leeches, and the consuls, and the Customs bugs, and the medicos, you can only get the idea by thinking of a landsman watched by a hundred and fifty detectives, or a stranger in a village Down East." "Well, but at sea?" I said. "You make me tired," retorted the captain. "What's the use--at sea? Everything's got to come to bearings at some port, hasn't it? You can't stop at sea for ever, can you?--No; the _Flying Scud_ is rubbish; if it meant anything, it would have to mean something so almighty intricate that James G. Blaine hasn't got the brains to engineer it; and I vote for more axeing, pioneering, and opening up the resources of this phenomenal brig, and less general fuss," he added, arising. "The dime-museum symptoms will drop in of themselves, I guess, to keep us cheery." But it appeared we were at the end of discoveries for the day; and we left the brig about sundown, without being further puzzled or further enlightened. The best of the cabin spoils--books, instruments, papers, silks, and curiosities--we carried along with us in a blanket, however, to divert the evening hours; and when supper was over, and the table cleared, and Johnson set down to a dreary game of cribbage between his right hand and his left, the captain and I turned out our blanket on the floor, and sat side by side to examine and appraise the spoils. The books were the first to engage our notice. These were rather numerous (as Nares contemptuously put it) "for a lime-juicer." Scorn of the British mercantile marine glows in the breast of every Yankee merchant captain; as the scorn is not reciprocated, I can only suppose it justified in fact; and certainly the Old Country mariner appears of a less studious disposition. The more credit to the officers of the _Flying Scud_, who had quite a library, both literary and professional. There were Findlay's five directories of the world--all broken-backed, as is usual with Findlay, and all marked and scribbled over with corrections and additions--several books of navigations, a signal-code, and an Admiralty book of a sort of orange hue, called "Islands of the Eastern Pacific Ocean," vol. iii., which appeared from its imprint to be the latest authority, and showed marks of frequent consultation in the passages about the French Frigate Shoals, the Harman, Cure, Pearl, and Hermes Reefs, Lisiansky Island, Ocean Island, and the place where we then lay--Brooks or Midway. A volume of Macaulay's "Essays" and a shilling Shakespeare led the van of the _belles lettres_; the rest were novels. Several Miss Braddon's--of course, "Aurora Floyd," which has penetrated to every island of the Pacific, a good many cheap detective books, "Rob Roy," Auerbach's "Auf der Höhe," in the German, and a prize temperance story, pillaged (to judge by the stamp) from an Anglo-Indian circulating library. "The Admiralty man gives a fine picture of our island," remarked Nares, who had turned up Midway Island. "He draws the dreariness rather mild, but you can make out he knows the place." "Captain," I cried, "you've struck another point in this mad business. See here," I went on eagerly, drawing from my pocket a crumpled fragment of the _Daily Occidental_ which I had inherited from Jim: "Misled by Hoyt's 'Pacific Directory'? Where's Hoyt?" "Let's look into that," said Nares. "I got that book on purpose for this cruise." Therewith he fetched it from the shelf in his berth, turned to Midway Island, and read the account aloud. It stated with precision that the Pacific Mail Company were about to form a depot there, in preference to Honolulu, and that they had already a station on the island. "I wonder who gives these directory men their information," Nares reflected. "Nobody can blame Trent after that. I never got in company with squarer lying; it reminds a man of a presidential campaign." "All very well," said I; "that's your Hoyt, and a fine, tall copy. But what I want to know is, where is Trent's Hoyt?" "Took it with him," chuckled Nares; "he had left everything else, bills and money and all the rest: he was bound to take something, or it would have aroused attention on the _Tempest_. 'Happy thought,' says he, 'let's take Hoyt.'" "And has it not occurred to you," I went on, "that all the Hoyts in creation couldn't have misled Trent, since he had in his hand that red Admiralty book, an official publication, later in date, and particularly full on Midway Island?" "That's a fact!" cried Nares; "and I bet the first Hoyt he ever saw was out of the mercantile library of San Francisco. Looks as if he had brought her here on purpose, don't it? But then that's inconsistent with the steam-crusher of the sale. That's the trouble with this brig racket; any one can make half a dozen theories for sixty or seventy per cent. of it; but when they're made, there's always a fathom or two of slack hanging out of the other end." I believe our attention fell next on the papers, of which we had altogether a considerable bulk. I had hoped to find among these matter for a full-length character of Captain Trent; but here I was doomed, on the whole, to disappointment. We could make out he was an orderly man, for all his bills were docketed and preserved. That he was convivial, and inclined to be frugal even in conviviality, several documents proclaimed. Such letters as we found were, with one exception, arid notes from tradesmen. The exception, signed Hannah Trent, was a somewhat fervid appeal for a loan. "You know what misfortunes I have had to bear," wrote Hannah, "and how much I am disappointed in George. The landlady appeared a true friend when I first came here, and I thought her a perfect lady. But she has come out since then in her _true colours_; and if you will not be softened by this last appeal, I can't think what is to become of your affectionate----" and then the signature. This document was without place or date, and a voice told me that it had gone likewise without answer. On the whole, there were few letters anywhere in the ship; but we found one before we were finished, in a seaman's chest, of which I must transcribe some sentences. It was dated from some place on the Clyde. "My dearist son," it ran, "this is to tell you your dearist father passed away, Jan twelft, in the peace of the Lord. He had your photo and dear David's lade upon his bed, made me sit by him. Let's be a' thegither, he said, and gave you all his blessing. O my dear laddie, why were nae you and Davie here? He would have had a happier passage. He spok of both of ye all night most beautiful, and how ye used to stravaig on the Saturday afternoons, and of _auld Kelvinside_. Sooth the tune to me, he said, though it was the Sabbath, and I had to sooth him 'Kelvin Grove,' and he looked at his fiddle, the dear man. I cannae bear the sight of it, he'll never play it mair. O my lamb, come home to me, I'm all by my lane now." The rest was in a religious vein, and quite conventional. I have never seen any one more put out than Nares, when I handed him this letter. He had read but a few words, before he cast it down; it was perhaps a minute ere he picked it up again, and the performance was repeated the third time before he reached the end. "It's touching, isn't it?" said I. For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath; and it was some half an hour later that he vouchsafed an explanation. "I'll tell you what broke me up about that letter," said he. "My old man played the fiddle, played it all out of tune: one of the things he played was 'Martyrdom,' I remember--it was all martyrdom to me. He was a pig of a father, and I was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear that fiddle squeak again. Natural," he added; "I guess we're all beasts." "All sons are, I guess," said I. "I have the same trouble on my conscience: we can shake hands on that," Which (oddly enough, perhaps) we did. Amongst the papers we found a considerable sprinkling of photographs; for the most part either of very debonair-looking young ladies or old women of the lodging-house persuasion. But one among them was the means of our crowning discovery. "They're not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd?" said Nares, as he passed it over. "Who?" I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate) in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been laborious, and I was wearying for bed. "Trent and Company," said he. "That's a historic picture of the gang." I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop. At the foot of the card was written, "Brig _Flying Scud_, Rangoon," and a date; and above or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted. As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep and fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the Channel; and I beheld with startled clearness the photographic presentment of a crowd of strangers. "J. Trent, Master" at the top of the card directed me to a smallish, wizened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard, dressed in a frock-coat and white trousers; a flower stuck in his button-hole, his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with habitual determination. There was not much of the sailor in his looks, but plenty of the martinet; a dry, precise man, who might pass for a preacher in some rigid sect; and, whatever he was, not the Captain Trent of San Francisco. The men, too, were all new to me: the cook, an unmistakable Chinaman, in his characteristic dress, standing apart on the poop steps. But perhaps I turned on the whole with the greatest curiosity to the figure labelled "E. Goddedaal, 1st off." He whom I had never seen, he might be the identical; he might be the clue and spring of all this mystery; and I scanned his features with the eye of a detective. He was of great stature, seemingly blonde as a Viking, his hair clustering round his head in frowsy curls, and two enormous whiskers, like the tusks of some strange animal, jutting from his cheeks. With these virile appendages and the defiant attitude in which he stood, the expression of his face only imperfectly harmonised. It was wild, heroic, and womanish-looking; and I felt I was prepared to hear he was a sentimentalist, and to see him weep. For some while I digested my discovery in private, reflecting how best, and how with most of drama, I might share it with the captain. Then my sketch-book came in my head, and I fished it out from where it lay, with other miscellaneous possessions, at the foot of my bunk, and turned to my sketch of Captain Trent and the survivors of the British brig _Flying Scud_ in the San Francisco bar-room. "Nares," said I, "I've told you how I first saw Captain Trent in that saloon in 'Frisco? how he came with his men, one of them a Kanaka with a canary-bird in a cage? and how I saw him afterwards at the auction, frightened to death, and as much surprised at how the figures skipped up as anybody there. Well," said I, "there's the man I saw"--and I laid the sketch before him--"there's Trent of 'Frisco and there are his three hands. Find one of them in the photograph, and I'll be obliged." Nares compared the two in silence. "Well," he said at last, "I call this rather a relief: seems to clear the horizon. We might have guessed at something of the kind from the double ration of chests that figured." "Does it explain anything?" I asked. "It would explain everything," Nares replied, "but for the steam-crusher. It'll all tally as neat as a patent puzzle, if you leave out the way these people bid the wreck up. And there we come to a stone wall. But whatever it is, Mr. Dodd, it's on the crook." "And looks like piracy," I added. "Looks like blind hookey!" cried the captain. "No, don't you deceive yourself; neither your head nor mine is big enough to put a name on this business." CHAPTER XV THE CARGO OF THE _FLYING SCUD_ In my early days I was a man, the most wedded to his idols of my generation. I was a dweller under roofs; the gull of that which we call civilisation; a superstitious votary of the plastic arts; a cit, and a prop of restaurants. I had a comrade in those days, somewhat of an outsider, though he moved in the company of artists, and a man famous in our small world for gallantry, knee-breeches, and dry and pregnant sayings. He, looking on the long meals and waxing bellies of the French, whom I confess I somewhat imitated, branded me as "a cultivator of restaurant fat." And I believe he had his finger on the dangerous spot; I believe, if things had gone smooth with me, I should be now swollen like a prize-ox in body, and fallen in mind to a thing perhaps as low as many types of _bourgeois_--the implicit or exclusive artist. That was a home word of Pinkerton's, deserving to be writ in letters of gold on the portico of every school of art: "What I can't see is why you should want to do nothing else." The dull man is made, not by the nature, but by the degree of his immersion in a single business. And all the more if that be sedentary, uneventful, and ingloriously safe. More than one half of him will then remain unexercised and undeveloped; the rest will be distended and deformed by over-nutrition, over-cerebration, and the heat of rooms. And I have often marvelled at the impudence of gentlemen who describe and pass judgment on the life of man, in almost perfect ignorance of all its necessary elements and natural careers. Those who dwell in clubs and studios may paint excellent pictures or write enchanting novels. There is one thing that they should not do: they should pass no judgment on man's destiny, for it is a thing with which they are unacquainted. Their own life is an excrescence of the moment, doomed, in the vicissitude of history, to pass and disappear. The eternal life of man, spent under sun and rain and in rude physical effort, lies upon one side, scarce changed since the beginning. I would I could have carried along with me to Midway Island all the writers and the prating artists of my time. Day after day of hope deferred, of heat, of unremitting toil; night after night of aching limbs, bruised hands, and a mind obscured with the grateful vacancy of physical fatigue. The scene, the nature of my employment, the rugged speech and faces of my fellow-toilers, the glare of the day on deck, the stinking twilight in the bilge, the shrill myriads of the ocean-fowl; above all, the sense of our immitigable isolation from the world and from the current epoch--keeping another time, some eras old; the new day heralded by no daily paper, only by the rising sun; and the State, the churches, the peopled empires, war, and the rumours of war, and the voices of the arts, all gone silent as in the days ere they were yet invented. Such were the conditions of my new experience in life, of which (if I had been able) I would have had all my confrères and contemporaries to partake, forgetting, for that while, the orthodoxies of the moment, and devoted to a single and material purpose under the eye of heaven. Of the nature of our task I must continue to give some summary idea. The forecastle was lumbered with ship's chandlery, the hold nigh full of rice, the lazarette crowded with the teas and silks. These must all be dug out; and that made but a fraction of our task. The hold was ceiled throughout; a part, where perhaps some delicate cargo was once stored, had been lined, in addition, with inch boards; and between every beam there was a movable panel into the bilge. Any of these, the bulkheads of the cabins, the very timbers of the hull itself, might be the place of hiding. It was therefore necessary to demolish, as we proceeded, a great part of the ship's inner skin and fittings, and to auscultate what remained, like a doctor sounding for a lung disease. Upon the return, from any beam or bulkhead, of a doubtful sound, we must up axe and hew into the timber: a violent and--from the amount of dry rot in the wreck--a mortifying exercise. Every night saw a deeper inroad into the bones of the _Flying Scud_--more beams tapped and hewn in splinters, more planking peeled away and tossed aside--and every night saw us as far as ever from the end and object of our arduous devastation. In this perpetual disappointment, my courage did not fail me, but my spirits dwindled; and Nares himself grew silent and morose. At night, when supper was done, we passed an hour in the cabin, mostly without speech: I, sometimes dozing over a book; Nares, sullenly but busily drilling sea-shells with the instrument called a Yankee fiddle. A stranger might have supposed we were estranged; as a matter of fact, in this silent comradeship of labour, our intimacy grew. I had been struck, at the first beginning of our enterprise upon the wreck, to find the men so ready at the captain's lightest word. I dare not say they liked, but I can never deny that they admired him thoroughly. A mild word from his mouth was more valued than flattery, and half a dollar from myself; if he relaxed at all from his habitual attitude of censure, smiling alacrity surrounded him; and I was led to believe his theory of captainship, even if pushed to excess, reposed upon some ground of reason. But even terror and admiration of the captain failed us before the end. The men wearied of the hopeless, unremunerative quest and the long strain of labour. They began to shirk and grumble. Retribution fell on them at once, and retribution multiplied the grumblings. With every day it took harder driving to keep them to the daily drudge; and we, in our narrow boundaries, were kept conscious every moment of the ill-will of our assistants. In spite of the best care, the object of our search was perfectly well known to all on board; and there had leaked out, besides, some knowledge of those inconsistencies that had so greatly amazed the captain and myself. I could overhear the men debate the character of Captain Trent, and set forth competing theories of where the opium was stowed; and, as they seemed to have been eavesdropping on ourselves, I thought little shame to prick up my ears when I had the return chance of spying upon them. In this way I could diagnose their temper and judge how far they were informed upon the mystery of the _Flying Scud_. It was after having thus overheard some almost mutinous speeches that a fortunate idea crossed my mind. At night I matured it in my bed, and the first thing the next morning broached it to the captain. "Suppose I spirit up the hands a bit," I asked, "by the offer of a reward?" "If you think you're getting your month's wages out of them the way it is, I don't," was his reply. "However, they are all the men you've got, and you're the supercargo." This, from a person of the captain's character, might be regarded as complete adhesion; and the crew were accordingly called aft. Never had the captain worn a front more menacing. It was supposed by all that some misdeed had been discovered, and some surprising punishment was to be announced. "See here, you!" he threw at them over his shoulder as he walked the deck. "Mr. Dodd here is going to offer a reward to the first man who strikes the opium in that wreck. There's two ways of making a donkey go--both good, I guess: the one's kicks and the other's carrots. Mr. Dodd's going to try the carrots. Well, my sons"--and here he faced the men for the first time with his hands behind him--"if that opium's not found in five days you can come to me for the kicks." He nodded to the present narrator, who took up the tale. "Here is what I propose, men," said I: "I put up one hundred and fifty dollars. If any man can lay hands on the stuff right away, and off his own club, he shall have the hundred and fifty down. If any one can put us on the scent of where to look, he shall have a hundred and twenty-five, and the balance shall be for the lucky one who actually picks it up. We'll call it the Pinkerton Stakes, captain," I added, with a smile. "Call it the Grand Combination Sweep, then," cries he. "For I go you better.--Look here, men, I make up this jack-pot to two hundred and fifty dollars, American gold coin." "Thank you, Captain Nares," said I; "that was handsomely done." "It was kindly meant," he returned. The offer was not made in vain; the hands had scarce yet realised the magnitude of the reward, they had scarce begun to buzz aloud in the extremity of hope and wonder, ere the Chinese cook stepped forward with gracious gestures and explanatory smiles. "Captain," he began, "I serv-um two year Melican navy; serv-um six year mail-boat steward. Savvy plenty." "Oho!" cried Nares, "you savvy plenty, do you? (Beggar's seen this trick in the mail-boat, I guess.) Well, why you no savvy a little sooner, sonny?" "I think bimeby make-um reward," replied the cook, with smiling dignity. "Well, you can't say fairer than that," the captain admitted; "and now the reward's offered you'll talk? Speak up then. Suppose you speak true you get reward. See?" "I think long time," replied the Chinaman. "See plenty litty mat lice; too muchy plenty litty mat lice; sixty ton litty mat lice. I think all-e-time perhaps plenty opium plenty litty mat lice." "Well, Mr. Dodd, how does that strike you?" asked the captain. "He may be right, he may be wrong. He's likely to be right, for if he isn't where can the stuff be? On the other hand, if he's wrong we destroy a hundred and fifty tons of good rice for nothing. It's a point to be considered." "I don't hesitate," said I. "Let's get to the bottom of the thing. The rice is nothing; the rice will neither make nor break us." "That's how I expected you to see it," returned Nares. And we called the boat away and set forth on our new quest. The hold was now almost entirely emptied; the mats (of which there went forty to the short ton) had been stacked on deck, and now crowded the ship's waist and forecastle. It was our task to disembowel and explore six thousand individual mats, and incidentally to destroy a hundred and fifty tons of valuable food. Nor were the circumstances of the day's business less strange than its essential nature. Each man of us, armed with a great knife, attacked the pile from his own quarter, slashed into the nearest mat, burrowed in it with his hands, and shed forth the rice upon the deck, where it heaped up, overflowed, and was trodden down, poured at last into the scuppers, and occasionally spouted from the vents. About the wreck thus transformed into an overflowing granary, the sea-fowl swarmed in myriads and with surprising insolence. The sight of so much food confounded them; they deafened us with their shrill tongues, swooped in our midst, dashed in our faces, and snatched the grain from between our fingers. The men--their hands bleeding from these assaults--turned savagely on the offensive, drove their knives into the birds, drew them out crimsoned, and turned again to dig among the rice, unmindful of the gawking creatures that struggled and died among their feet. We made a singular picture--the hovering and diving birds; the bodies of the dead discolouring the rice with blood; the scuppers vomiting breadstuff; the men, frenzied by the gold hunt, toiling, slaying, and shouting aloud; over all the lofty intricacy of rigging and the radiant heaven of the Pacific. Every man there toiled in the immediate hope of fifty dollars, and I of fifty thousand. Small wonder if we waded callously in blood and food. It was perhaps about ten in the forenoon when the scene was interrupted. Nares, who had just ripped open a fresh mat, drew forth and slung at his feet, among the rice, a papered tin box. "How's that?" he shouted. A cry broke from all hands. The next moment, forgetting their own disappointment in that contagious sentiment of success, they gave three cheers that scared the sea-birds; and the next they had crowded round the captain, and were jostling together and groping with emulous hands in the new-opened mat. Box after box rewarded them, six in all; wrapped, as I have said, in a paper envelope, and the paper printed on in Chinese characters. Nares turned to me and shook my hand. "I began to think we should never see this day," said he. "I congratulate you, Mr. Dodd, on having pulled it through." The captain's tones affected me profoundly; and when Johnson and the men pressed round me in turn with congratulations, the tears came in my eyes. "These are five-tael boxes, more than two pounds," said Nares, weighing one in his hand. "Say two hundred and fifty dollars to the mat. Lay into it, boys! We'll make Mr. Dodd a millionaire before dark." It was strange to see with what a fury we fell to. The men had now nothing to expect; the mere idea of great sums inspired them with disinterested ardour. Mats were slashed and disembowelled, the rice flowed to our knees in the ship's waist, the sweat ran in our eyes and blinded us, our arms ached to agony; and yet our fire abated not. Dinner came; we were too weary to eat, too hoarse for conversation; and yet dinner was scarce done, before we were afoot again and delving in the rice. Before nightfall not a mat was unexplored, and we were face to face with the astonishing result. For of all the inexplicable things in the story of the _Flying Scud_, here was the most inexplicable. Out of the six thousand mats, only twenty were found to have been sugared; in each we found the same amount, about twelve pounds of drug; making a grand total of two hundred and forty pounds. By the last San Francisco quotation, opium was selling for a fraction over twenty dollars a pound; but it had been known not long before to bring as much as forty in Honolulu, where it was contraband. Taking, then, this high Honolulu figure, the value of the opium on board the _Flying Scud_ fell considerably short of ten thousand dollars, while at the San Francisco rate it lacked a trifle of five thousand. And fifty thousand was the price that Jim and I had paid for it. And Bellairs had been eager to go higher! There is no language to express the stupor with which I contemplated this result. It may be argued we were not yet sure: there might be yet another _cache_; and you may be certain in that hour of my distress the argument was not forgotten. There was never a ship more ardently perquested; no stone was left unturned, and no expedient untried; day after day of growing despair, we punched and dug in the brig's vitals, exciting the men with promises and presents; evening after evening Nares and I sat face to face in the narrow cabin, racking our minds for some neglected possibility of search. I could stake my salvation on the certainty of the result: in all that ship there was nothing left of value but the timber and the copper nails. So that our case was lamentably plain; we had paid fifty thousand dollars, borne the charges of the schooner, and paid fancy interest on money; and if things went well with us, we might realise fifteen per cent, of the first outlay. We were not merely bankrupt, we were comic bankrupts--a fair butt for jeering in the streets. I hope I bore the blow with a good countenance; indeed, my mind had long been quite made up, and since the day we found the opium I had known the result. But the thought of Jim and Mamie ached in me like a physical pain, and I shrank from speech and companionship. I was in this frame of mind when the captain proposed that we should land upon the island. I saw he had something to say, and only feared it might be consolation, for I could just bear my grief, not bungling sympathy; and yet I had no choice but to accede to his proposal. We walked a while along the beach in silence. The sun overhead reverberated rays of heat; the staring sand, the glaring lagoon, tortured our eyes; and the birds and the boom of the far-away breakers made a savage symphony. "I don't require to tell you the game's up?" Nares asked. "No," said I. "I was thinking of getting to sea to-morrow," he pursued. "The best thing you can do," said I. "Shall we say Honolulu?" he inquired. "O, yes; let's stick to the programme," I cried. "Honolulu be it!" There was another silence, and then Nares cleared his throat. "We've been pretty good friends, you and me, Mr. Dodd," he resumed. "We've been going through the kind of thing that tries a man. We've had the hardest kind of work, we've been badly backed, and now we're badly beaten. And we've fetched through without a word of disagreement. I don't say this to praise myself: it's my trade; it's what I'm paid for, and trained for, and brought up to. But it was another thing for you; it was all new to you; and it did me good to see you stand right up to it and swing right into it--day in, day out. And then see how you've taken this disappointment, when everybody knows you must have been tautened up to shying-point! I wish you'd let me tell you, Mr. Dodd, that you've stood out mighty manly and handsomely in all this business, and made every one like you and admire you. And I wish you'd let me tell you, besides, that I've taken this wreck business as much to heart as you have; something kind of rises in my throat when I think we're beaten; and if I thought waiting would do it, I would stick on this reef until we starved." I tried in vain to thank him for these generous words, but he was beforehand with me in a moment. "I didn't bring you ashore to sound my praises," he interrupted. "We understand one another now, that's all; and I guess you can trust me. What I wished to speak about is more important, and it's got to be faced. What are we to do about the _Flying Scud_ and the dime novel?" "I really have thought nothing about that," I replied; "but I expect I mean to get at the bottom of it, and if the bogus Captain Trent is to be found on the earth's surface, I guess I mean to find him." "All you've got to do is talk," said Nares; "you can make the biggest kind of boom; it isn't often the reporters have a chance at such a yarn as this; and I can tell you how it will go. It will go by telegraph, Mr. Dodd; it'll be telegraphed by the column, and headlined, and frothed up, and denied by authority, and it'll hit bogus Captain Trent in a Mexican bar-room, and knock over bogus Goddedaal in a slum somewhere up the Baltic, and bowl down Hardy and Brown in sailors' music-halls round Greenock. O, there's no doubt you can have a regular domestic Judgment Day. The only point is whether you deliberately want to." "Well," said I, "I deliberately don't want one thing: I deliberately don't want to make a public exhibition of myself and Pinkerton: so moral--smuggling opium; such damned fools--paying fifty thousand for a 'dead horse'!" "No doubt it might damage you in a business sense," the captain agreed; "and I'm pleased you take that view, for I've turned kind of soft upon the job. There's been some crookedness about, no doubt of it; but, law bless you! if we dropped upon the troupe, all the premier artists would slip right out with the boodle in their grip-sacks, and you'd only collar a lot of old mutton-headed shell-backs that didn't know the back of the business from the front. I don't take much stock in mercantile Jack, you know that, but, poor devil, he's got to go where he's told; and if you make trouble, ten to one it'll make you sick to see the innocents who have to stand the racket. It would be different if we understood the operation; but we don't, you see: there's a lot of queer corners in life, and my vote is to let the blame' thing lie." "You speak as if we had that in our power," I objected. "And so we have," said he. "What about the men?" I asked. "They know too much by half, and you can't keep them from talking." "Can't I?" returned Nares. "I bet a boarding-master can! They can be all half-seas-over when they get ashore, blind drunk by dark, and cruising out of the Golden Gate in different deep-sea ships by the next morning. Can't keep them from talking, can't I? Well, I can make 'em talk separate, leastways. If a whole crew came talking, parties would listen; but if it's only one lone old shell-back, it's the usual yarn. And at least, they needn't talk before six months, or--if we have luck, and there's a whaler handy--three years. And by that time, Mr. Dodd, it's ancient history." "That's what they call Shanghaiing, isn't it?" I asked. "I thought it belonged to the dime novel." "O, dime novels are right enough," returned the captain. "Nothing wrong with the dime novel, only that things happen thicker than they do in life, and the practical seamanship is off colour." "So we can keep the business to ourselves," I mused. "There's one other person that might blab," said the captain. "Though I don't believe she has anything left to tell." "And who is _she_?" I asked. "The old girl there," he answered, pointing to the wreck; "I know there's nothing in her; but somehow I'm afraid of some one else--it's the last thing you'd expect, so it's just the first that'll happen--some one dropping into this God-forgotten island where nobody drops in, waltzing into that wreck that we've grown old with searching, stooping straight down, and picking right up the very thing that tells the story. What's that to me? you may ask, and why am I gone Soft Tommy on this Museum of Crooks? They've smashed up you and Mr. Pinkerton; they've turned my hair grey with conundrums they've been up to larks, no doubt; and that's all I know of them--you say. Well, and that's just where it is. I don't know enough; I don't know what's uppermost it's just such a lot of miscellaneous eventualities as I don't care to go stirring up; and I ask you to let me deal with the old girl after a patent of my own." "Certainly--what you please," said I, scarce with attention, for a new thought now occupied my brain. "Captain," I broke out, "you are wrong: we cannot hush this up. There is one thing you have forgotten." "What is that?" he asked. "A bogus Captain Trent, a bogus Goddedaal, a whole bogus crew, have all started home," said I. "If we are right, not one of them will reach his journey's end. And do you mean to say that such a circumstance as that can pass without remark?" "Sailors," said the captain, "only sailors! If they were all bound for one place in a body, I don't say so; but they're all going separate--to Hull, to Sweden, to the Clyde, to the Thames. Well, at each place, what is it? Nothing new. Only one sailor-man missing: got drunk, or got drowned, or got left--the proper sailor's end." Something bitter in the thought and in the speaker's tones struck me hard. "Here is one that has got left!" I cried, getting sharply to my feet, for we had been some time seated. "I wish it were the other. I don't--don't relish going home to Jim with this!" "See here," said Nares, with ready tact, "I must be getting aboard. Johnson's in the brig annexing chandlery and canvas, and there's some things in the _Norah_ that want fixing against we go to sea. Would you like to be left here in the chicken-ranch? I'll send for you to supper." I embraced the proposal with delight. Solitude, in my frame of mind, was not too dearly purchased at the risk of sunstroke or sand-blindness; and soon I was alone on the ill-omened islet. I should find it hard to tell of what I thought--of Jim, of Mamie, of our lost fortune, of my lost hopes, of the doom before me: to turn to some mechanical occupation in some subaltern rank, and to toil there, unremarked and unamused, until the hour of the last deliverance. I was, at least, so sunk in sadness that I scarce remarked where I was going; and chance (or some finer sense that lives in us, and only guides us when the mind is in abeyance) conducted my steps into a quarter of the island where the birds were few. By some devious route, which I was unable to retrace for my return, I was thus able to mount, without interruption, to the highest point of land. And here I was recalled to consciousness by a last discovery. The spot on which I stood was level, and commanded a wide view of the lagoon, the bounding reef, the round horizon. Nearer hand I saw the sister islet, the wreck, the _Norah Creina_, and the _Norah's_ boat already moving shoreward. For the sun was now low, flaming on the sea's verge; and the galley chimney smoked on board the schooner. It thus befell that though my discovery was both affecting and suggestive, I had no leisure to examine further. What I saw was the blackened embers of fire of wreck. By all the signs, it must have blazed to a good height and burned for days; from the scantling of a spar that lay upon the margin only half consumed, it must have been the work of more than one; and I received at once the image of a forlorn troop of castaways, houseless in that lost corner of the earth, and feeding there their fire of signal. The next moment a hail reached me from the boat; and bursting through the bushes and the rising sea-fowl, I said farewell (I trust for ever) to that desert isle. CHAPTER XVI IN WHICH I TURN SMUGGLER, AND THE CAPTAIN CASUIST The last night at Midway I had little sleep; the next morning, after the sun was risen, and the clatter of departure had begun to reign on deck, I lay a long while dozing; and when at last I stepped from the companion, the schooner was already leaping through the pass into the open sea. Close on her board, the huge scroll of a breaker unfurled itself along the reef with a prodigious clamour; and behind I saw the wreck vomiting into the morning air a coil of smoke. The wreaths already blew out far to leeward, flames already glittered in the cabin skylight, and the sea-fowl were scattered in surprise as wide as the lagoon. As we drew farther off, the conflagration of the _Flying Scud_ flamed higher; and long after we had dropped all signs of Midway Island, the smoke still hung in the horizon like that of a distant steamer. With the fading out of that last vestige, the _Norah Creina_ passed again into the empty world of cloud and water by which she had approached; and the next features that appeared, eleven days later, to break the line of sky, were the arid mountains of Oahu. It has often since been a comfortable thought to me that we had thus destroyed the tell-tale remnants of the _Flying Scud_; and often a strange one that my last sight and reminiscence of that fatal ship should be a pillar of smoke on the horizon. To so many others besides myself the same appearance had played a part in the various stages of that business; luring some to what they little imagined, filling some with unimaginable terrors. But ours was the last smoke raised in the story; and with its dying away the secret of the _Flying Scud_ became a private property. It was by the first light of dawn that we saw, close on board, the metropolitan island of Hawaii. We held along the coast, as near as we could venture, with a fresh breeze and under an unclouded heaven; beholding, as we went, the arid mountain sides and scrubby cocoa-palms of that somewhat melancholy archipelago. About four of the afternoon we turned Waimanolo Point, the westerly headland of the great bight of Honolulu; showed ourselves for twenty minutes in full view, and then fell again to leeward, and put in the rest of daylight, plying under shortened sail under the lee of Waimanolo. A little after dark we beat once more about the point, and crept cautiously toward the mouth of the Pearl Lochs, where Jim and I had arranged I was to meet the smugglers. The night was happily obscure, the water smooth. We showed, according to instructions, no light on deck; only a red lantern dropped from either cathead to within a couple of feet of the water. A look-out was stationed on the bowsprit end, another in the cross-trees; and the whole ship's company crowded forward, scouting for enemies or friends. It was now the crucial moment of our enterprise; we were now risking liberty and credit, and that for a sum so small to a man in my bankrupt situation, that I could have laughed aloud in bitterness. But the piece had been arranged, and we must play it to the finish. For some while we saw nothing but the dark mountain outline of the island, the torches of native fishermen glittering here and there along the foreshore, and right in the midst, that cluster of brave lights with which the town of Honolulu advertises itself to the seaward. Presently a ruddy star appeared inshore of us, and seemed to draw near unsteadily. This was the anticipated signal; and we made haste to show the countersign, lowering a white light from the quarter, extinguishing the two others, and laying the schooner incontinently to. The star approached slowly; the sounds of oars and of men's speech came to us across the water; and then a voice hailed us-- "Is that Mr. Dodd?" "Yes," I returned. "Is Jim Pinkerton there?" "No, sir," replied the voice. "But there's one of his crowd here, name of Speedy." "I'm here, Mr. Dodd," added Speedy himself. "I have letters for you." "All right," I replied. "Come aboard, gentlemen, and let me see my mail." A whaleboat accordingly ranged alongside, and three men boarded us: my old San Francisco friend, the stock-gambler Speedy, a little wizened person of the name of Sharpe, and a big, flourishing, dissipated-looking man called Fowler. The two last (I learned afterward) were frequent partners; Sharpe supplied the capital, and Fowler, who was quite a character in the islands, and occupied a considerable station, brought activity, daring, and a private influence, highly necessary in the case. Both seemed to approach the business with a keen sense of romance; and I believe this was the chief attraction, at least with Fowler--for whom I early conceived a sentiment of liking. But in that first moment I had something else to think of than to judge my new acquaintances and before Speedy had fished out the letters, the full extent of our misfortune was revealed. "We've rather bad news for you, Mr. Dodd," said Fowler. "Your firm's gone up." "Already?" I exclaimed. "Well, it was thought rather a wonder Pinkerton held on as long as he did," was the reply. "The wreck deal was too big for your credit; you were doing a big business, no doubt, but you were doing it on precious little capital, and when the strain came, you were bound to go. Pinkerton's through all right: seven cents dividend, some remarks made, but nothing to hurt; the press let you down easy--I guess Jim had relations there. The only trouble is, that all this _Flying Scud_ affair got in the papers with the rest; everybody's wide awake in Honolulu, and the sooner we get the stuff in and the dollars out, the better for all concerned." "Gentlemen," said I, "you must excuse me. My friend, the captain here, will drink a glass of champagne with you to give you patience; but as for myself, I am unfit even for ordinary conversation till I have read these letters." They demurred a little, and indeed the danger of delay seemed obvious; but the sight of my distress, which I was unable entirely to control, appealed strongly to their good-nature, and I was suffered at last to get by myself on deck, where, by the light of a lantern smuggled under shelter of the low rail, I read the following wretched correspondence:-- "MY DEAR LOUDON," ran the first, "this will be handed you by your friend Speedy of the _Catamount_. His sterling character and loyal devotion to yourself pointed him out as the best man for our purposes in Honolulu--the parties on the spot being difficult to manipulate. A man called Billy Fowler (you must have heard of Billy) is the boss; he is in politics some, and squares the officers. I have hard times before me in the city, but I feel as bright as a dollar and as strong as John L. Sullivan. What with Mamie here, and my partner speeding over the seas, and the bonanza in the wreck, I feel like I could juggle with the Pyramids of Egypt, same as conjurers do with aluminium balls. My earnest prayers follow you, Loudon, that you may feel the way I do--just inspired! My feet don't touch the ground; I kind of swim. Mamie is like Moses and Aaron that held up the other individual's arms. She carries me along like a horse and buggy. I am beating the record. "Your true partner, "J. PINKERTON." Number two was in a different style:-- "MY DEAREST LOUDON,--How am I to prepare you for this dire intelligence? O, dear me, it will strike you to the earth. The flat has gone forth; our firm went bust at a quarter before twelve. It was a bill of Bradley's (for two hundred dollars) that brought these vast operations to a close, and evolved liabilities of upwards of two hundred and fifty thousand. O, the shame and pity of it, and you but three weeks gone! Loudon, don't blame your partner; if human hands and brains could have sufficed I would have held the thing together. But it just slowly crumbled; Bradley was the last kick, but the blamed business just _melted_. I give the liabilities--it's supposed they're all in--for the cowards were waiting, and the claims were filed like taking tickets to hear Patti. I don't quite have the hang of the assets yet, our interests were so extended; but I am at it day and night, and I guess will make a creditable dividend. If the wreck pans out only half the way it ought we'll turn the laugh still. I am as full of grit and work as ever, and just tower above our troubles. Mamie is a host in herself. Somehow I feel like it was only me that had gone bust, and you and she soared clear of it. Hurry up. That's all you have to do. "Yours ever, "J. PINKERTON." The third was yet more altered:-- "MY POOR LOUDON," it began, "I labour far into the night getting our affairs in order; you could not believe their vastness and complexity. Douglas B. Longhurst said humorously that the receiver's work would be cut out for him. I cannot deny that some of them have a speculative look. God forbid a sensitive, refined spirit like yours should ever come face to face with a Commissioner in Bankruptcy; these men get all the sweetness knocked right out of them. But I could bear up better if it weren't for press comments. Often and often, Loudon, I recall to mind your most legitimate critiques of the press system. They published an interview with me, not the least like what I said, and with _jeering_ comments; it would make your blood boil, it was literally _inhumane_; wouldn't have written it about a yellow dog that was in trouble like what I am. Mamie just winced, the first time she has turned a hair right through the whole catastrophe. How wonderfully true was what you said long ago in Paris about touching on people's personal appearance! The fellow said ----" [And then these words had been scored through and my distressed friend turned to another subject.] "I cannot bear to dwell upon our assets. They simply don't show up. Even _Thirteen Star_, as sound a line as can be produced upon this coast, goes begging. The wreck has thrown a blight on all we ever touched. And where's the use? God never made a wreck big enough to fill our deficit I am haunted by the thought that you may blame me; I know how I despised your remonstrances. O, Loudon, don't be hard on your miserable partner. The funny dog business is what kills. I fear your stern rectitude of mind like the eye of God. I cannot think but what some of my books seem mixed up; otherwise, I don't seem to see my way as plain as I could wish to. Or else my brain is gone soft. Loudon, if there should be any unpleasantness you can trust me to do the right thing and keep you clear. I've been telling them already how you had no business grip and never saw the books. O, I trust I have done right in this I I knew it was a liberty; I know you may justly complain, but it was some things that were said. And mind you, all legitimate business! Not even your shrinking sensitiveness could find fault with the first look of one of them if they had panned out right. And you know the _Flying Scud_ was the biggest gamble of the crowd, and that was your own idea. Mamie says she never could bear to look you in the face if that idea had been mine, she is so conscientious! "Your broken-hearted "JIM." The last began without formality:-- "This is the end of me commercially. I give up; my nerve has gone. I suppose I ought to be glad, for we're through the court. I don't know as ever I knew how, and I'm sure I don't remember. If it pans out--the wreck, I mean--we'll go to Europe and live on the interest of our money. No more work for me. I shake when people speak to me. I have gone on, hoping and hoping and working and working, and the lead has pinched right out. I want to lie on my back in a garden and read Shakespeare and E.P. Roe. Don't suppose it's cowardice, Loudon. I'm a sick man. Rest is what I must have. I've worked hard all my life; I never spared myself, every dollar I ever made I've coined my brains for it. I've never done a mean thing; I've lived respectable, and given to the poor. Who has a better right to a holiday than I have? And I mean to have a year of it straight out, and if I don't I shall lie right down here in my tracks, and die of worry and brain trouble. Don't mistake, that's so. If there are any pickings at all, _trust Speedy_; don't let the creditors get wind of what there is. I helped you when you were down, help me now. Don't deceive yourself; you've got to help me right now or never. I am clerking, and _not fit to cipher_. Mamie's typewriting at the Phoenix Guano Exchange, down town. The light is right out of my life. I know you'll not like to do what I propose. Think only of this, that it's life or death for "JIM PINKERTON." "_P.S._--Our figure was seven per cent. O, what a fall was there! Well, well, it's past mending; I don't want to whine. But, Loudon, I don't want to live. No more ambition; all I ask is life. I have so much to make it sweet to me. I am clerking, and _useless at that_. I know I would have fired such a clerk inside of forty minutes in _my_ time. But _my_ time's over. I can only cling on to you. Don't fail "JIM PINKERTON." There was yet one more postscript, yet one more outburst of self-pity and pathetic adjuration; and a doctor's opinion, unpromising enough, was besides enclosed. I pass them both in silence. I think shame to have shown at so great length the half-baked virtues of my friend dissolving in the crucible of sickness and distress; and the effect upon my spirits can be judged already. I got to my feet when I had done, drew a deep breath, and stared hard at Honolulu. One moment the world seemed at an end, the next I was conscious of a rush of independent energy. On Jim I could rely no longer; I must now take hold myself. I must decide and act on my own better thoughts. The word was easy to say; the thing, at the first blush, was undiscoverable. I was overwhelmed with miserable, womanish pity for my broken friend; his outcries grieved my spirit; I saw him then and now--then, so invincible; now, brought so low--and knew neither how to refuse nor how to consent to his proposal. The remembrance of my father, who had fallen in the same field unstained, the image of his monument incongruously raising a fear of the law, a chill air that seemed to blow upon my fancy from the doors of prisons, and the imaginary clank of fetters, recalled me to a different resolve. And then, again, the wails of my sick partner intervened. So I stood hesitating, and yet with a strong sense of capacity behind, sure, if I could but choose my path, that I should walk in it with resolution. Then I remembered that I had a friend on board, and stepped to the companion. "Gentlemen," said I, "only a few moments more: but these, I regret to say, I must make more tedious still by removing your companion. It is indispensable that I should have a word or two with Captain Nares." Both the smugglers were afoot at once, protesting. The business, they declared, must be despatched at once; they had run risk enough, with a conscience, and they must either finish now, or go. "The choice is yours, gentlemen," said I, "and, I believe, the eagerness. I am not yet sure that I have anything in your way; even if I have, there are a hundred things to be considered; and I assure yow it is not at all my habit to do business with a pistol to my head." "That is all very proper, Mr. Dodd; there is no wish to coerce you, believe me," said Fowler; "only, please consider our position. It is really dangerous; we were not the only people to see your schooner off Waimanolo." "Mr. Fowler," I replied, "I was not born yesterday. Will you allow me to express an opinion, in which I may be quite wrong, but to which I am entirely wedded? If the Custom House officers had been coming, they would have been here now. In other words, somebody is working the oracle, and (for a good guess) his name is Fowler." Both men laughed loud and long; and being supplied with another bottle of Longhurst's champagne, suffered the captain and myself to leave them without further word. I gave Nares the correspondence, and he skimmed it through. "Now, captain," said I, "I want a fresh mind on this. What does it mean?" "It's large enough text," replied the captain. "It means you're to stake your pile on Speedy, hand him over all you can, and hold your tongue. I almost wish you hadn't shown it me," he added wearily. "What with the specie from the wreck and the opium-money, it comes to a biggish deal." "That's supposing that I do it?" said I. "Exactly," said he, "supposing you do it." "And there are pros and cons to that," I observed. "There's San Quentin, to start in with," said the captain; "and suppose you clear the penitentiary, there's the nasty taste in the mouth. The figure's big enough to make bad trouble, but it's not big enough to be picturesque and I should guess a man always feels kind of small who has sold himself under six ciphers. That would be my way at least; there's an excitement about a million that might carry me on; but the other way, I should feel kind of lonely when I woke in bed. Then there's Speedy. Do you know him well?" "No, I do not," said I. "Well, of course he can vamoose with the entire speculation, if he chooses," pursued the captain, "and if he don't I can't see but what you've got to support and bed and board with him to the end of time. I guess it would weary me. Then there's Mr. Pinkerton, of course. He's been a good friend to you, hasn't he? Stood by you, and all that? and pulled you through for all he was worth?" "That he has," I cried; "I could never begin telling you my debt to him!" "Well, and that's a consideration," said the captain. "As a matter of principle, I wouldn't look at this business at the money. 'Not good enough,' would be my word. But even principle goes under when it comes to friends--the right sort, I mean. This Pinkerton is frightened, and he seems sick; the medico don't seem to care a cent about his state of health; and you've got to figure how you would like it if he came to die. Remember, the risk of this little swindle is all yours; it's no sort of risk to Mr. Pinkerton. Well, you've got to put it that way plainly, and see how you like the sound of it: my friend Pinkerton is in danger of the New Jerusalem, I am in danger of San Quentin; which risk do I propose to run?" "That's an ugly way to put it," I objected, "and perhaps hardly fair. There's right and wrong to be considered." "Don't know the parties," replied Nares; "and I'm coming to them, anyway. For it strikes me, when it came to smuggling opium, you walked right up?" "So I did," I said. "Sick I am to have to say it." "All the same," continued Nares, "you went into the opium-smuggling with your head down; and a good deal of fussing I've listened to, that you hadn't more of it to smuggle. Now, maybe your partner's not quite fixed the same as you are; maybe he sees precious little difference between the one thing and the other." "You could not say truer: he sees none, I do believe," cried I; "and though I see one, I could never tell you how." "We never can," said the oracular Nares; "taste is all a matter of opinion. But the point is, how will your friend take it? You refuse a favour, and you take the high horse at the same time; you disappoint him, and you rap him over the knuckles. It won't do, Mr. Dodd; no friendship can stand that. You must be as good as your friend, or as bad as your friend, or start on a fresh deal without him." "I don't see it!" said I. "You don't know Jim." "Well, you _will_ see," said Nares. "And now, here's another point. This bit of money looks mighty big to Mr. Pinkerton; it may spell life or health to him; but among all your creditors, I don't see that it amounts to a hill of beans--I don't believe it'll pay their car-fares all round. And don't you think you'll ever get thanked. You were known to pay a long price for the chance of rummaging that wreck; you do the rummaging, you come home, and you hand over ten thousand--or twenty, if you like--a part of which you'll have to own up you made by smuggling; and, mind I you'll never get Billy Fowler to stick his name to a receipt. Now just glance at the transaction from the outside, and see what a clear case it makes. Your ten thousand is a sop; and people will only wonder you were so damned impudent as to offer such a small one! Whichever way you take it, Mr. Dodd, the bottom's out of your character; so there's one thing less to be considered." "I dare say you'll scarce believe me," said I, "but I feel that a positive relief." "You must be made some way different from me, then," returned Nares. "And, talking about me, I might just mention how I stand. You'll have no trouble from me--you've trouble enough of your own; and I'm friend enough, when a friend's in need, to shut my eyes and go right where he tells me. All the same, I'm rather queerly fixed. My owners'll have to rank with the rest on their charter-party. Here am I, their representative! and I have to look over the ship's side while the bankrupt walks his assets ashore in Mr. Speedy's hat-box. It's a thing I wouldn't do for James G. Elaine; but I'll do it for you, Mr. Dodd, and only sorry I can't do more." "Thank you, captain; my mind is made up," said I. "I'll go straight, _ruat coelum_! I never understood that old tag before to-night." "I hope it isn't my business that decides you?" asked the captain. "I'll never deny it was an element," said I. "I hope, I hope I'm not cowardly; I hope I could steal for Jim myself; but when it comes to dragging in you and Speedy, and this one and the other, why, Jim has got to die, and there's an end. I'll try and work for him when I get to 'Frisco, I suppose; and I suppose I'll fail, and look on at his death, and kick myself: it can't be helped--I'll fight it on this line." "I don't say as you're wrong," replied Nares, "and I'll be hanged if I know if you're right. It suits me, anyway. And look here--hadn't you better just show our friends over the side?" he added; "no good of being at the risk and worry of smuggling for the benefit of creditors." "I don't think of the creditors," said I. "But I've kept this pair so long I haven't got the brass to fire them now." Indeed, I believe that was my only reason for entering upon a transaction which was now outside my interest, but which (as it chanced) repaid me fifty-fold in entertainment. Fowler and Sharpe were both preternaturally sharp; they did me the honour in the beginning to attribute to myself their proper vices, and before we were done had grown to regard me with an esteem akin to worship. This proud position I attained by no more recondite arts than telling the mere truth and unaffectedly displaying my indifference to the result. I have doubtless stated the essentials of all good diplomacy, which may be rather regarded, therefore, as a grace of state than the effect of management. For to tell the truth is not in itself diplomatic, and to have no care for the result a thing involuntary. When I mentioned, for instance, that I had but two hundred and forty pounds of drug, my smugglers exchanged meaning glances, as who should say, "Here is a foeman worthy of our steel!" But when I carelessly proposed thirty-five dollars a pound, as an amendment to their offered twenty, and wound up with the remark: "The whole thing is a matter of moonshine to me, gentlemen. Take it or want it, and fill your glasses"--I had the indescribable gratification to see Sharpe nudge Fowler warningly, and Fowler choke down the jovial acceptance that stood ready on his lips, and lamely substitute a "No--no more wine, please, Mr. Dodd!" Nor was this all: for when the affair was settled at thirty dollars a pound--a shrewd stroke of business for my creditors--and our friends had got on board their whaleboat and shoved off, it appeared they were imperfectly acquainted with the conveyance of sound upon still water, and I had the joy to overhear the following testimonial: "Deep man that Dodd," said Sharpe. And the bass-toned Fowler echoed, "Damned if I understand his game." Thus we were left once more alone upon the _Norah Creina_; and the news of the night, and the lamentations of Pinkerton, and the thought of my own harsh decision, returned and besieged me in the dark. According to all the rubbish I had read, I should have been sustained by the warm consciousness of virtue. Alas, I had but the one feeling: that I had sacrificed my sick friend to the fear of prison-cells and stupid starers. And no moralist has yet advanced so far as to number cowardice amongst the things that are their own reward. CHAPTER XVII LIGHT FROM THE MAN OF WAR In the early sunlight of the next day we tossed close off the buoy, and saw the city sparkle in its groves about the foot of the Punch Bowl and the masts clustering thick in the small harbour. A good breeze, which had risen with the sea, carried us triumphantly through the intricacies of the passage; and we had soon brought up not far from the landing-stairs. I remember to have remarked an ugly-horned reptile of a modern warship in the usual moorings across the port, but my mind was so profoundly plunged in melancholy that I paid no heed. Indeed, I had little time at my disposal. Messieurs Sharpe and Fowler had left the night before in the persuasion that I was a liar of the first magnitude; the genial belief brought them aboard again with the earliest opportunity, proffering help to one who had proved how little he required it, and hospitality to so respectable a character. I had business to mind, I had some need both of assistance and diversion; I liked Fowler--I don't know why; and in short, I let them do with me as they desired. No creditor intervening, I spent the first half of the day inquiring into the conditions of the tea and silk market under the auspices of Sharpe; lunched with him in a private apartment at the Hawaiian Hotel--for Sharpe was a teetotaler in public; and about four in the afternoon was delivered into the hands of Fowler. This gentleman owned a bungalow on the Waikiki beach; and there, in company with certain young bloods of Honolulu, I was entertained to a sea-bathe, indiscriminate cocktails, a dinner, a _hula-hula_, and (to round off the night) poker and assorted liquors. To lose money in the small hours to pale intoxicated youth has always appeared to me a pleasure overrated. In my then frame of mind, I confess I found it even delightful; put up my money (or rather my creditors') and put down Fowler's champagne with equal avidity and success; and awoke the next morning to a mild headache and the rather agreeable lees of the last night's excitement. The young bloods, many of whom were still far from sober, had taken the kitchen into their own hands, _vice_ the Chinaman deposed; and since each was engaged upon a dish of his own, and none had the least scruple in demolishing his neighbour's handiwork, I became early convinced that many eggs would be broken and few omelets made. The discovery of a jug of milk and a crust of bread enabled me to stay my appetite; and since it was Sunday, when no business could be done, and the festivities were to be renewed that night in the abode of Fowler, it occurred to me to slip silently away and enjoy some air and solitude. I turned seaward under the dead crater known as Diamond Head. My way was for some time under the shade of certain thickets of green thorny trees, dotted with houses. Here I enjoyed some pictures of the native life: wide-eyed, naked children, mingled with pigs; a youth asleep under a tree; an old gentleman spelling through glasses his Hawaiian Bible; the somewhat embarrassing spectacle of a lady at her bath in a spring; and the glimpse of gaudy-coloured gowns in the deep shade of the houses. Thence I found a road along the beach itself, wading in sand, opposed and buffeted by the whole weight of the Trade: on one hand, the glittering and sounding surf, and the bay lively with many sails; on the other, precipitous, arid gullies and sheer cliffs, mounting towards the crater and the blue sky. For all the companionship of skimming vessels, the place struck me with a sense of solitude. There came in my head what I had been told the day before at dinner, of a cavern above in the bowels of the volcano, a place only to be visited with the light of torches, a treasure-house of the bones of priests and warriors, and clamorous with the voice of an unseen river pouring seaward through the crannies of the mountain. At the thought, it was revealed to me suddenly how the bungalows, and the Fowlers, and the bright, busy town and crowding ships, were all children of yesterday; and for centuries before, the obscure life of the natives, with its glories and ambitions, its joys and crimes and agonies, had rolled unseen, like the mountain river, in that sea-girt place. Not Chaldea appeared more ancient, nor the Pyramids of Egypt more abstruse; and I heard time measured by "the drums and tramplings" of immemorial conquests, and saw myself the creature of an hour. Over the bankruptcy of Pinkerton and Dodd, of Montana Block, S.F., and the conscientious troubles of the junior partner, the spirit of eternity was seen to smile. To this mood of philosophic sadness my excesses of the night before no doubt contributed, for more things than virtue are at times their own reward, but I was greatly healed at least of my distresses. And while I was yet enjoying my abstracted humour, a turn of the beach brought me in view of the signal-station, with its watch-house and flag-staff, perched on the immediate margin of a cliff. The house was new and clean and bald, and stood naked to the Trades. The wind beat about it in loud squalls; the seaward windows rattled without mercy; the breach of the surf below contributed its increment of noise; and the fall of my foot in the narrow verandah passed unheard by those within. There were two on whom I thus entered unexpectedly: the look-out man, with grizzled beard, keen seaman's eyes, and that brand on his countenance that comes of solitary living; and a visitor, an oldish, oratorical fellow, in the smart tropical array of the British man-o'-war's man, perched on a table, and smoking a cigar. I was made pleasantly welcome, and was soon listening with amusement to the sea-lawyer. "No, if I hadn't have been born an Englishman," was one of his sentiments, "damn me! I'd rather 'a' been born a Frenchy! I'd like to see another nation fit to black their boots." Presently after, he developed his views on home politics with similar trenchancy. "I'd rather be a brute beast than what I'd be a Liberal," he said; "carrying banners and that! a pig's got more sense. Why, look at our chief engineer--they do say he carried a banner with his own 'ands: 'Hooroar for Gladstone!' I suppose, or 'Down with the Aristocracy!' What 'arm does the aristocracy do? Show me a country any good without one! Not the States; why, it's the 'ome of corruption! I knew a man--he was a good man, 'ome-born--who was signal-quartermaster in the _Wyandotte_. He told me he could never have got there if he hadn't have 'run with the boys'--told it me as I'm telling you. Now, we're all British subjects here----" he was going on. "I am afraid I am an American," I said apologetically. He seemed the least bit taken aback, but recovered himself; and, with the ready tact of his betters, paid me the usual British compliment on the riposte. "You don't say so!" he exclaimed; "well, I give you my word of honour I'd never have guessed it. Nobody could tell it on you," said he, as though it were some form of liquor. I thanked him, as I always do, at this particular stage, with his compatriots; not so much, perhaps, for the compliment to myself and my poor country, as for the revelation (which is ever fresh to me) of Britannic self-sufficiency and taste. And he was so far softened by my gratitude as to add a word of praise on the American method of lacing sails. "You're ahead of us in lacing sails," he said; "you can say that with a clear conscience." "Thank you," I replied; "I shall certainly do so." At this rate we got along swimmingly; and when I rose to retrace my steps to the Fowlery, he at once started to his feet and offered me the welcome solace of his company for the return. I believe I discovered much alacrity at the idea, for the creature (who seemed to be unique, or to represent a type like that of the dodo) entertained me hugely. But when he had produced his hat, I found I was in the way of more than entertainment, for on the ribbon I could read the legend, "H.M.S. Tempest." "I say," I began, when our adieus were paid, and we were scrambling down the path from the look-out, "it was your ship that picked up the men on board the _Flying Scud_, wasn't it?" "You may say so," said he. "And a blessed good job for the Flying-Scuds. It's a God-forsaken spot that Midway Island." "I've just come from there," said I; "it was I who bought the wreck." "Beg your pardon, sir," cried the sailor: "gen'lem'n in the white schooner?" "The same," said I. My friend saluted, as though we were now for the first time formally introduced. "Of course," I continued, "I am rather taken up with the whole story; and I wish you would tell me what you can of how the men were saved." "It was like this," said he. "We had orders to call at Midway after castaways, and had our distance pretty nigh run down the day before. We steamed half-speed all night, looking to make it about noon, for old Tootles--beg your pardon, sir, the captain--was precious scared of the place at night. Well, there's nasty filthy currents round that Midway; _you_ know, as has been there; and one on 'em must have set us down. Leastways, about six bells, when we had ought to been miles away, some one sees a sail, and lo and be'old, there was the spars of a full-rigged brig! We raised her pretty fast, and the island after her; and made out she was hard aground, canted on her bilge, and had her ens'n flying, union down. It was breaking 'igh on the reef, and we laid well out, and sent a couple of boats. I didn't go in neither; only stood and looked on: but it seems they was all badly scared and muddled, and didn't know which end was uppermost. One on 'em kep' snivelling and wringing of his 'ands; he come on board, all of a sop like a monthly nurse. That Trent, he come first, with his 'and in a bloody rag. I was near 'em as I am to you; and I could make out he was all to bits--'eard his breath rattle in his blooming lungs as he come down the ladder. Yes, they was a scared lot, small blame to 'em, _I_ say! The next after Trent come him as was mate." "Goddedaal!" I exclaimed. "And a good name for him too," chuckled the man-o'-war's man, who probably confounded the word with a familiar oath. "A good name too; only it weren't his. He was a gen'lem'n born, sir, as had gone maskewerading. One of our officers knowed him at 'ome, reckonises him, steps up, 'olds out his 'and right off, and says he, ''Ullo, Norrie, old chappie!' he says. The other was coming up, as bold as look at it; didn't seem put out--that's where blood tells, sir! Well, no sooner does he 'ear his born name given him than he turns as white as the Day of Judgment, stares at Mr. Sebright like he was looking at a ghost, and then (I give you my word of honour) turned to, and doubled up in a dead faint. 'Take him down to my berth,' says Mr. Sebright. ''Tis poor old Norrie Carthew,' he says." "And what--what sort of a gentleman was this Mr. Carthew?" I gasped. "The ward-room steward told me he was come of the best blood in England," was my friend's reply: "Eton and 'Arrow bred; and might have been a bar'net!" "No, but to look at?" I corrected him. "The same as you or me," was the uncompromising answer: "not much to look at. _I_ didn't know he was a gen'lem'n; but then, I never see him cleaned up." "How was that?" I cried. "O yes, I remember: he was sick all the way to 'Frisco, was he not?" "Sick, or sorry, or something," returned my informant. "My belief, he didn't hanker after showing up. He kep' close; the ward-room steward, what took his meals in, told me he ate nex' to nothing; and he was fetched ashore at 'Frisco on the quiet. Here was how it was. It seems his brother had took and died, him as had the estate. This one had gone in for his beer, by what I could make out; the old folks at 'ome had turned rusty; no one knew where he had gone to. Here he was, slaving in a merchant brig, shipwrecked on Midway, and packing up his duds for a long voyage in a open boat. He comes on board our ship, and by God, here he is a landed proprietor, and may be in Parliament to-morrow! It's no less than natural he should keep dark: so would you and me in the same box." "I daresay," said I. "But you saw more of the others?" "To be sure," says he: "no 'arm in them from what I see. There was one 'Ardy there: colonial born he was, and had been through a power of money. There was no nonsense about 'Ardy; he had been up, and he had come down, and took it so. His 'eart was in the right place; and he was well-informed, and knew French; and Latin, I believe, like a native! I liked that 'Ardy: he was a good-looking boy too." "Did they say much about the wreck?" I asked. "There wasn't much to say, I reckon," replied the man-o'-war's man. "It was all in the papers. 'Ardy used to yarn most about the coins he had gone through; he had lived with bookmakers, and jockeys, and pugs, and actors, and all that--a precious low lot," added this judicious person. "But it's about here my 'orse is moored, and by your leave I'll be getting ahead." "One moment," said I. "Is Mr. Sebright on board?" "No, sir, he's ashore to-day," said the sailor. "I took up a bag for him to the 'otel." With that we parted. Presently after my friend overtook and passed me on a hired steed which seemed to scorn its cavalier; and I was left in the dust of his passage, a prey to whirling thoughts. For I now stood, or seemed to stand, on the immediate threshold of these mysteries. I knew the name of the man Dickson--his name was Carthew; I knew where the money came from that opposed us at the sale--it was part of Carthew's inheritance; and in my gallery of illustrations to the history of the wreck, one more picture hung, perhaps the most dramatic of the series. It showed me the deck of a warship in that distant part of the great ocean, the officers and seamen looking curiously on: and a man of birth and education, who had been sailing under an alias on a trading brig, and was now rescued from desperate peril, felled like an ox by the bare sound of his own name. I could not fail to be reminded of my own experience at the Occidental telephone. The hero of three styles, Dickson, Goddedaal, or Carthew, must be the owner of a lively--or a loaded--conscience, and the reflection recalled to me the photograph found on board the _Flying Scud_; just such a man, I reasoned, would be capable of just such starts and crises, and I inclined to think that Goddedaal (of Carthew) was the mainspring of the mystery. One thing was plain: as long as the _Tempest_ was in reach, I must make the acquaintance of both Sebright and the doctor. To this end, I excused myself with Mr. Fowler, returned to Honolulu, and passed the remainder of the day hanging vainly round the cool verandahs of the hotel. It was near nine o'clock at night before I was rewarded. "That is the gentleman you were asking for," said the clerk. I beheld a man in tweeds, of an incomparable languor of demeanour, and carrying a cane with genteel effort. From the name, I had looked to find a sort of Viking and young ruler of the battle and the tempest; and I was the more disappointed, and not a little alarmed, to come face to face with this impracticable type. "I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Lieutenant Sebright," said I, stepping forward. "Aw, yes," replied the hero; "but, aw! I dawn't knaw you, do I!" (He spoke for all the world like Lord Foppington in the old play--a proof of the perennial nature of man's affectations. But his limping dialect I scorn to continue to reproduce.) "It was with the intention of making myself known that I have taken this step," said I, entirely unabashed (for impudence begets in me its like--perhaps my only martial attribute). "We have a common subject of interest, to me very lively; and I believe I may be in a position to be of some service to a friend of yours--to give him, at least, some very welcome information." The last clause was a sop to my conscience; I could not pretend, even to myself, either the power or the will to serve Mr. Carthew; but I felt sure he would like to hear the _Flying Scud_ was burned. "I don't know--I--I don't understand you," stammered my victim. "I don't have any friends in Honolulu, don't you know?" "The friend to whom I refer is English," I replied. "It is Mr. Carthew, whom you picked up at Midway. My firm has bought the wreck; I am just returned from breaking her up; and--to make my business quite clear to you--I have a communication it is necessary I should make; and have to trouble you for Mr. Carthew's address." It will be seen how rapidly I had dropped all hope of interesting the frigid British bear. He, on his side, was plainly on thorns at my insistence; I judged he was suffering torments of alarm lest I should prove an undesirable acquaintance; diagnosed him for a shy, dull, vain, unamiable animal, without adequate defence--a sort of dishoused snail; and concluded, rightly enough, that he would consent to anything to bring our interview to a conclusion. A moment later he had fled, leaving me with a sheet of paper thus inscribed:-- _Norris Carthew, Stallbridge-le-Carthew, Dorset._ I might have cried victory, the field of battle and some of the enemy's baggage remaining in my occupation. As a matter of fact, my moral sufferings during the engagement had rivalled those of Mr. Sebright. I was left incapable of fresh hostilities; I owned that the navy of old England was (for me) invincible as of yore; and giving up all thought of the doctor, inclined to salute her veteran flag, in the future, from a prudent distance. Such was my inclination when I retired to rest; and my first experience the next morning strengthened it to certainty. For I had the pleasure of encountering my fair antagonist on his way on board; and he honoured me with a recognition so disgustingly dry, that my impatience overflowed, and (recalling the tactics of Nelson) I neglected to perceive or to return it. Judge of my astonishment, some half-hour later, to receive a note of invitation from the _Tempest_. "Dear Sir," it began, "we are all naturally very much interested in the wreck of the _Flying Scud_, and as soon as I mentioned that I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, a very general wish was expressed that you would come and dine on board. It will give us all the greatest pleasure to see you to-night, or in case you should be otherwise engaged, to luncheon either to-morrow or to-day." A note of the hours followed, and the document wound up with the name of "J. Lascelles Sebright," under an undeniable statement that he was sincerely mine. "No, Mr. Lascelles Sebright," I reflected, "you are not, but I begin to suspect that (like the lady in the song) you are another's. You have mentioned your adventure, my friend; you have been blown up; you have got your orders; this note has been dictated; and I am asked on board (in spite of your melancholy protests) not to meet the men, and not to talk about the _Flying Scud_, but to undergo the scrutiny of some one interested in Carthew--the doctor, for a wager. And for a second wager, all this springs from your facility in giving the address." I lost no time in answering the billet, electing for the earliest occasion; and at the appointed hour a somewhat blackguard-looking boat's crew from the _Norah Creina_ conveyed me under the guns of the _Tempest_. The ward-room appeared pleased to see me; Sebright's brother officers, in contrast to himself, took a boyish interest in my cruise; and much was talked of the _Flying Scud_; of how she had been lost, of how I had found her, and of the weather, the anchorage, and the currents about Midway Island. Carthew was referred to more than once without embarrassment; the parallel case of a late Earl of Aberdeen, who died mate on board a Yankee schooner, was adduced. If they told me little of the man, it was because they had not much to tell, and only felt an interest in his recognition and pity for his prolonged ill-health. I could never think the subject was avoided; and it was clear that the officers, far from practising concealment, had nothing to conceal. So far, then, all seemed natural, and yet the doctor troubled me. This was a tall, rugged, plain man, on the wrong side of fifty, already grey, and with a restless mouth and bushy eyebrows: he spoke seldom, but then with gaiety; and his great, quaking, silent laughter was infectious. I could make out that he was at once the quiz of the ward-room and perfectly respected; and I made sure that he observed me covertly. It is certain I returned the compliment. If Carthew had feigned sickness--and all seemed to point in that direction--here was the man who knew all--or certainly knew much. His strong, sterling face progressively and silently persuaded of his full knowledge. That was not the mouth, these were not the eyes, of one who would act in ignorance, or could be led at random. Nor again was it the face of a man squeamish in the case of malefactors; there was even a touch of Brutus there, and something of the hanging judge. In short, he seemed the last character for the part assigned him in my theories; and wonder and curiosity contended in my mind. Luncheon was over, and an adjournment to the smoking-room proposed, when (upon a sudden impulse) I burned my ships, and, pleading indisposition, requested to consult the doctor. "There is nothing the matter with my body, Dr. Urquart," said I, as soon as we were alone. He hummed, his mouth worked, he regarded me steadily with his grey eyes, but resolutely held his peace. "I want to talk to you about the _Flying Scud_ and Mr. Carthew," I resumed. "Come, you must have expected this. I am sure you know all; you are shrewd, and must have a guess that I know much. How are we to stand to one another? and how am I to stand to Mr. Carthew?" "I do not fully understand you," he replied, after a pause; and then, after another: "It is the spirit I refer to, Mr. Dodd." "The spirit of my inquiries?" I asked. He nodded. "I think we are at cross-purposes," said I. "The spirit is precisely what I came in quest of. I bought the _Flying Scud_ at a ruinous figure, run up by Mr. Carthew through an agent; and I am, in consequence, a bankrupt. But if I have found no fortune in the wreck, I have found unmistakable evidences of foul play. Conceive my position: I am ruined through this man, whom I never saw; I might very well desire revenge or compensation; and I think you will admit I have the means to extort either." He made no sign in answer to this challenge. "Can you not understand, then," I resumed, "the spirit in which I come to one who is surely in the secret, and ask him, honestly and plainly, how do I stand to Mr. Carthew?" "I must ask you to be more explicit," said he. "You do not help me much," I retorted. "But see if you can understand: my conscience is not very fine-spun; still, I have one. Now, there are degrees of foul play, to some of which I have no particular objection. I am sure with Mr. Carthew, I am not at all the person to forego an advantage, and I have much curiosity. But, on the other hand, I have no taste for persecution; and I ask you to believe that I am not the man to make bad worse, or heap trouble on the unfortunate." "Yes; I think I understand," said he. "Suppose I pass you my word that, whatever may have occurred, there were excuses--great excuses--I may say, very great?" "It would have weight with me, doctor," I replied. "I may go further," he pursued. "Suppose I had been there, or you had been there. After a certain event had taken place, it's a grave question what we might have done--it's even a question what we could have done--ourselves. Or take me. I will be plain with you, and own that I am in possession of the facts. You have a shrewd guess how I have acted in that knowledge. May I ask you to judge from the character of my action something of the nature of that knowledge, which I have no call, nor yet no title, to share with you?" I cannot convey a sense of the rugged conviction and judicial emphasis of Dr. Urquart's speech. To those who did not hear him, it may appear as if he fed me on enigmas; to myself, who heard, I seemed to have received a lesson and a compliment. "I thank you," I said; "I feel you have said as much as possible, and more than I had any right to ask. I take that as a mark of confidence, which I will try to deserve. I hope, sir, you will let me regard you as a friend." He evaded my proffered friendship with a blunt proposal to rejoin the mess; and yet a moment later contrived to alleviate the snub. For, as we entered the smoking-room, he laid his hand on my shoulder with a kind familiarity-- "I have just prescribed for Mr. Dodd," says he, "a glass of our Madeira." I have never again met Dr. Urquart; but he wrote himself so clear upon my memory that I think I see him still. And indeed I had cause to remember the man for the sake of his communication. It was hard enough to make a theory fit the circumstances of the _Flying Scud_; but one in which the chief actor should stand the least excused, and might retain the esteem or at least the pity of a man like Dr. Urquart, failed me utterly. Here at least was the end of my discoveries. I learned no more, till I learned all; and my reader has the evidence complete. Is he more astute than I was? or, like me, does he give it up? CHAPTER XVIII CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS I have said hard words of San Francisco; they must scarce be literally understood (one cannot suppose the Israelites did justice to the land of Pharaoh); and the city took a fine revenge of me on my return. She had never worn a more becoming guise; the sun shone, the air was lively, the people had flowers in their button-holes and smiles upon their faces; and as I made my way towards Jim's place of employment, with some very black anxieties at heart, I seemed to myself a blot on the surrounding gaiety. My destination was in a by-street in a mean, rickety building. "The Franklin H. Dodge Steam Printing Company" appeared upon its front, and, in characters of greater freshness, so as to suggest recent conversion, the watch-cry, "White Labour Only." In the office in a dusty pen Jim sat alone before a table. A wretched change had overtaken him in clothes, body, and bearing; he looked sick and shabby. He who had once rejoiced in his day's employment, like a horse among pastures, now sat staring on a column of accounts, idly chewing a pen, at times heavily sighing, the picture of inefficiency and inattention. He was sunk deep in a painful reverie; he neither saw nor heard me, and I stood and watched him unobserved. I had a sudden vain relenting. Repentance bludgeoned me. As I had predicted to Nares, I stood and kicked myself. Here was I come home again, my honour saved; there was my friend in want of rest, nursing, and a generous diet; and I asked myself, with Falstaff, "What is in that word honour? what is that honour?" and, like Falstaff, I told myself that it was air. "Jim!" said I. "Loudon!" he gasped, and jumped from his chair and stood shaking. The next moment I was over the barrier, and we were hand in hand. "My poor old man!" I cried. "Thank God, you're home at last!" he gulped, and kept patting my shoulder with his hand. "I've no good news for you, Jim," said I. "You've come--that's the good news that I want," he replied. "O how I have longed for you, Loudon!" "I couldn't do what you wrote me," I said, lowering my voice. "The creditors have it all. I couldn't do it." "S-s-h!" returned Jim. "I was crazy when I wrote. I could never have looked Mamie in the face if we had done it. O, Loudon, what a gift that woman is! You think you know something of life; you just don't know anything. It's the _goodness_ of the woman, it's a revelation!" "That's all right," said I. "That's how I hoped to hear you, Jim." "And so the _Flying Scud_ was a fraud," he resumed. "I didn't quite understand your letter, but I made out that." "Fraud is a mild term for it," said I. "The creditors will never believe what fools we were.--And that reminds me," I continued, rejoicing in the transition, "how about the bankruptcy?" "You were lucky to be out of that," answered Jim, shaking his head; "you were lucky not to see the papers. The _Occidental_ called me a fifth-rate kerb-stone broker with water on the brain; another said I was a tree-frog that had got into the same meadow with Longhurst, and had blown myself out till I went pop. It was rough on a man in his honeymoon; so was what they said about my looks, and what I had on, and the way I perspired. But I braced myself up with the _Flying Scud_.--How did it exactly figure out, anyway? I don't seem to catch on to that story, Loudon." "The devil you don't!" thinks I to myself; and then aloud, "You see, we had neither one of us good luck. I didn't do much more than cover current expenses, and you got floored immediately. How did we come to go so soon?" "Well, we'll have to have a talk over all this," said Jim, with a sudden start. "I should be getting to my books, and I guess you had better go up right away to Mamie. She's at Speedy's. She expects you with impatience. She regards you in the light of a favourite brother, Loudon." Any scheme was welcome which allowed me to postpone the hour of explanation, and avoid (were it only for a breathing space) the topic of the _Flying Scud_. I hastened accordingly to Bush Street. Mrs. Speedy, already rejoicing in the return of a spouse, hailed me with acclamation. "And it's beautiful you're looking, Mr. Dodd, my dear," she was kind enough to say. "And a muracle they naygur waheenies let ye lave the oilands. I have my suspicions of Shpeedy," she added roguishly. "Did ye see him after the naygresses now?" I gave Speedy an unblemished character. "The one of ye will never bethray the other," said the playful dame, and ushered me into a bare room, where Mamie sat working a type-writer. I was touched by the cordiality of her greeting. With the prettiest gesture in the world she gave me both her hands, wheeled forth a chair, and produced from a cupboard a tin of my favourite tobacco, and a book of my exclusive cigarette-papers. "There!" she cried; "you see, Mr. Loudon, we were all prepared for you: the things were bought the very day you sailed." I imagined she had always intended me a pleasant welcome; but the certain fervour of sincerity, which I could not help remarking, flowed from an unexpected source. Captain Nares, with a kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful, had stolen a moment from his occupations, driven to call on Mamie, and drawn her a generous picture of my prowess at the wreck. She was careful not to breathe a word of this interview, till she had led me on to tell my adventures for myself. "Ah! Captain Nares was better," she cried, when I had done. "From your account, I have only learned one new thing, that you are modest as well as brave." I cannot tell with what sort of disclamation I sought to reply. "It is of no use," said Mamie. "I know a hero. And when I heard of you working all day like a common labourer, with your hands bleeding and your nails broken--and how you told the captain to 'crack on' (I think he said) in the storm, when he was terrified himself--and the danger of that horrid mutiny"--(Nares had been obligingly dipping his brush in earthquake and eclipse)--"and how it was all done, in part at least, for Jim and me--I felt we could never say how we admired and thanked you." "Mamie," I cried, "don't talk of thanks; it is not a word to be used between friends. Jim and I have been prosperous together; now we shall be poor together. We've done our best, and that's all that need be said. The next thing is for me to find a situation, and send you and Jim up country for a long holiday in the redwoods--for a holiday Jim has got to have." "Jim can't take your money, Mr. Loudon," said Mamie. "Jim?" cried I. "He's got to. Didn't I take his?" Presently after, Jim himself arrived, and before he had yet done mopping his brow, he was at me with the accursed subject. "Now, Loudon," said he, "here we are, all together, the day's work done and the evening before us; just start in with the whole story." "One word on business first," said I, speaking from the lips outward, and meanwhile (in the private apartments of my brain) trying for the thousandth time to find some plausible arrangement of my story. "I want to have a notion how we stand about the bankruptcy." "O, that's ancient history," cried Jim. "We paid seven cents, and a wonder we did as well. The receiver----" (methought a spasm seized him at the name of this official, and he broke off). "But it's all past and done with, anyway; and what I want to get at is the facts about the wreck. I don't seem to understand it; appears to me like as there was something underneath." "There was nothing _in_ it, anyway," I said, with a forced laugh. "That's what I want to judge of," returned Jim. "How the mischief is it I can never keep you to that bankruptcy? It looks as if you avoided it," said I--for a man in my situation, with unpardonable folly. "Don't it look a little as if you were trying to avoid the wreck?" asked Jim. It was my own doing; there was no retreat. "My dear fellow, if you make a point of it, here goes!" said I, and launched with spurious gaiety into the current of my tale. I told it with point and spirit; described the island and the wreck, mimicked Anderson and the Chinese, maintained the suspense.... My pen has stumbled on the fatal word. I maintained the suspense so well that it was never relieved; and when I stopped--I dare not say concluded, where there was no conclusion--I found Jim and Mamie regarding me with surprise. "Well?" said Jim. "Well, that's all," said I. "But how do you explain it?" he asked. "I can't explain it," said I. Mamie wagged her head ominously. "But, Great Cæsar's ghost, the money was offered!" cried Jim. "It won't do, Loudon; it's nonsense on the face of it! I don't say but what you and Nares did your best; I'm sure, of course, you did; but I do say you got fooled. I say the stuff is in that ship to-day, and I say I mean to get it." "There is nothing in the ship, I tell you, but old wood and iron!" said I. "You'll see," said Jim. "Next time I go myself. I'll take Mamie for the trip: Longhurst won't refuse me the expense of a schooner. You wait till I get the searching of her." "But you can't search her!" cried I. "She's burned!" "Burned!" cried Mamie, starting a little from the attitude of quiescent capacity in which she had hitherto sat to hear me, her hands folded in her lap. There was an appreciable pause. "I beg your pardon, Loudon," began Jim at last, "but why in snakes did you burn her?" "It was an idea of Nares's," said I. "This is certainly the strangest circumstance of all," observed Mamie. "I must say, Loudon, it does seem kind of unexpected," added Jim. "It seems kind of crazy even. What did you--what did Nares expect to gain by burning her?" "I don't know; it didn't seem to matter; we had got all there was to get," said I. "That's the very point," cried Jim. "It was quite plain you hadn't." "What made you so sure?" asked Mamie. "How can I tell you?" I cried. "We had been all through her. We _were_ sure; that's all that I can say." "I begin to think you were," she returned, with a significant emphasis. Jim hurriedly intervened. "What I don't quite make out, Loudon, is, that you don't seem to appreciate the peculiarities of the thing," said he. "It doesn't seem to have struck you same as it does me." "Pshaw! why go on with this?" cried Mamie, suddenly rising. "Mr. Dodd is not telling us either what he thinks or what he knows." "Mamie!" cried Jim. "You need not be concerned for his feelings, James; he is not concerned for yours," returned the lady. "He dare not deny it, besides. And this is not the first time he has practised reticence. Have you forgotten that he knew the address, and did not tell it you until that man had escaped?" Jim turned to me pleadingly--we were all on our feet. "Loudon," he said, "you see Mamie has some fancy, and I must say there's just a sort of a shadow of an excuse; for it _is_ bewildering--even to me, Loudon, with my trained business intelligence. For God's sake clear it up." "This serves me right," said I. "I should not have tried to keep you in the dark; I should have told you at first that I was pledged to secrecy; I should have asked you to trust me in the beginning. It is all I can do now. There is more of the story, but it concerns none of us. My tongue is tied. I have given my word of honour. You must trust me, and try to forgive me." "I daresay I am very stupid, Mr. Dodd," began Mamie, with an alarming sweetness, "but I thought you went upon this trip as my husband's representative and with my husband's money? You tell us now that you are pledged, but I should have thought you were pledged first of all to James. You say it does not concern us; we are poor people, and my husband is sick, and it concerns us a great deal to understand how we come to have lost our money, and why our representative comes back to us with nothing. You ask that we should trust you; you do not seem to understand--the question we are asking ourselves is whether we have not trusted you too much." "I do not ask you to trust me," I replied. "I ask Jim. He knows me." "You think you can do what you please with James; you trust to his affection, do you not? And me, I suppose, you do not consider," said Mamie. "But it was perhaps an unfortunate day for you when we were married, for I at least am not blind. The crew run away, the ship is sold for a great deal of money, you know that man's address and you conceal it; you do not find what you were sent to look for, and yet you burn the ship; and now, when we ask explanations, you are pledged to secrecy! But I am pledged to no such thing; I will not stand by in silence and see my sick and ruined husband betrayed by his condescending friend. I will give you the truth for once. Mr. Dodd, you have been bought and sold." "Mamie," cried Jim, "no more of this! It's me you're striking; it's only me you hurt. You don't know, you cannot understand these things. Why, to-day, if it hadn't been for Loudon, I couldn't have looked you in the face. He saved my honesty." "I have heard plenty of this talk before," she replied. "You are a sweet-hearted fool, and I love you for it. But I am a clear-headed woman; my eyes are open, and I understand this man's hypocrisy. Did he not come here to-day and pretend he would take a situation--pretend he would share his hard-earned wages with us until you were well? Pretend! It makes me furious! His wages! a share of his wages! That would have been your pittance, that would have been your share of the _Flying Scud_--you who worked and toiled for him when he was a beggar in the streets of Paris. But we do not want your charity; thank God, I can work for my own husband! See what it is to have obliged a gentleman! He would let you pick him up when he was begging; he would stand and look on and let you black his shoes, and sneer at you. For you were always sneering at my James; you always looked down upon him in your heart, you know it!" She turned back to Jim. "And now when he is rich," she began, and then swooped again on me. "For you are rich, I dare you to deny it; I defy you to look me in the face and try to deny that you are rich--rich with our money--my husband's money----" Heaven knows to what a height she might have risen, being, by this time, bodily whirled away in her own hurricane of words. Heart-sickness, a black depression, a treacherous sympathy with my assailant, pity unutterable for poor Jim, already filled, divided, and abashed my spirit. Flight seemed the only remedy; and making a private sign to Jim, as if to ask permission, I slunk from the unequal field. I was but a little way down the street, when I was arrested by the sound of some one running, and Jim's voice calling me by name. He had followed me with a letter which had been long awaiting my return. I took it in a dream. "This has been a devil of a business," said I. "Don't think hard of Mamie," he pleaded. "It's the way she's made; it's her high-toned loyalty. And of course I know it's all right. I know your sterling character; but you didn't, somehow, make out to give us the thing straight, Loudon. Anybody might have--I mean it--I mean----" "Never mind what you mean, my poor Jim," said I. "She's a gallant little woman and a loyal wife: and I thought her splendid. My story was as fishy as the devil. I'll never think the less of either her or you." "It'll blow over; it must blow over," said he. "It never can," I returned, sighing: "and don't you try to make it! Don't name me, unless it's with an oath. And get home to her right away. Good-bye, my best of friends. Good-bye, and God bless you. We shall never meet again." "O, Loudon, that we should live to say such words!" he cried. I had no views on life, beyond an occasional impulse to commit suicide, or to get drunk, and drifted down the street, semi-conscious, walking apparently on air in the light-headedness of grief. I had money in my pocket, whether mine or my creditors' I had no means of guessing; and, the "Poodle Dog" lying in my path, I went mechanically in and took a table. A waiter attended me, and I suppose I gave my orders; for presently I found myself, with a sudden return of consciousness, beginning dinner. On the white cloth at my elbow lay the letter, addressed in a clerk's hand, and bearing an English stamp and the Edinburgh postmark. A bowl of bouillon and a glass of wine awakened in one corner of my brain (where all the rest was in mourning, the blinds down as for a funeral) a faint stir of curiosity; and while I waited the next course, wondering the while what I had ordered, I opened and began to read the epoch-making document: "DEAR SIR,--I am charged with the melancholy duty of announcing to you the death of your excellent grandfather, Mr. Alexander Loudon, on the 17th ult. On Sunday, the 13th, he went to church as usual in the forenoon, and stopped on his way home, at the corner of Princes Street, in one of our seasonable east winds, to talk with an old friend. The same evening acute bronchitis declared itself; from the first, Dr. M'Combie anticipated a fatal result, and the old gentleman appeared to have no illusion as to his own state. He repeatedly assured me it was 'by' with him now; 'and high time too,' he once added with characteristic asperity. He was not in the least changed on the approach of death: only (what I am sure must be very grateful to your feelings) he seemed to think and speak even more kindly than usual of yourself, referring to you as 'Jeannie's yin,' with strong expressions of regard. 'He was the only one I ever liket of the hale jing-bang,' was one of his expressions; and you will be glad to know that he dwelt particularly on the dutiful respect you had always displayed in your relations. The small codicil, by which he bequeaths you his Molesworth, and other professional works, was added (you will observe) on the day before his death; so that you were in his thoughts until the end. I should say that, though rather a trying patient, he was most tenderly nursed by your uncle, and your cousin, Miss Euphemia. I enclose a copy of the testament, by which you will see that you share equally with Mr. Adam, and that I hold at your disposal a sum nearly approaching seventeen thousand pounds. I beg to congratulate you on this considerable acquisition, and expect your orders, to which I shall hasten to give my best attention. Thinking that you might desire to return at once to this country, and not knowing how you may be placed, I enclose a credit for six hundred pounds. Please sign the accompanying slip, and let me have it at your earliest convenience. "I am, dear sir, yours truly, "W. RUTHERFORD GREGG." "God bless the old gentleman!" I thought; "and for that matter God bless Uncle Adam! and my cousin Euphemia! and Mr. Gregg!" I had a vision of that grey old life now brought to an end--"and high time too"--a vision of those Sabbath streets alternately vacant and filled with silent people; of the babel of the bells, the long-drawn psalmody, the shrewd sting of the east wind, the hollow, echoing, dreary house to which "Ecky" had returned with the hand of death already on his shoulder; a vision, too, of the long, rough country lad, perhaps a serious courtier of the lasses in the hawthorn den, perhaps a rustic dancer on the green, who had first earned and answered to that harsh diminutive. And I asked myself if, on the whole, poor Ecky had succeeded in life; if the last state of that man were not on the whole worse than the first; and the house in Randolph Crescent a less admirable dwelling than the hamlet where he saw the day and grew to manhood. Here was a consolatory thought for one who was himself a failure. Yes, I declare the word came in my mind; and all the while, in another partition of the brain, I was glowing and singing for my new-found opulence. The pile of gold--four thousand two hundred and fifty double eagles, seventeen thousand ugly sovereigns, twenty-one thousand two hundred and fifty Napoleons--danced, and rang and ran molten, and lit up life with their effulgence, in the eye of fancy. Here were all things made plain to me: Paradise--Paris, I mean--regained, Carthew protected, Jim restored, the creditors ... "The creditors!" I repeated, and sank back benumbed. It was all theirs to the last farthing: my grandfather had died too soon to save me. I must have somewhere a rare vein of decision. In that revolutionary moment I found myself prepared for all extremes except the one: ready to do anything, or to go anywhere, so long as I might save my money. At the worst, there was flight, flight to some of those blest countries where the serpent extradition has not yet entered in. On no condition is extradition Allowed in Callao! --the old lawless words haunted me; and I saw myself hugging my gold in the company of such men as had once made and sung them, in the rude and bloody wharf-side drinking-shops of Chili and Peru. The run of my ill-luck, the breach of my old friendship, this bubble fortune flaunted for a moment in my eyes and snatched again, had made me desperate and (in the expressive vulgarism) ugly. To drink vile spirits among vile companions by the flare of a pine-torch; to go burthened with my furtive treasure in a belt; to fight for it knife in hand, rolling on a clay floor; to flee perpetually in fresh ships and to be chased through the sea from isle to isle, seemed, in my then frame of mind, a welcome series of events. That was for the worst; but it began to dawn slowly on my mind that there was yet a possible better. Once escaped, once safe in Callao, I might approach my creditors with a good grace; and, properly handled by a cunning agent, it was just possible they might accept some easy composition. The hope recalled me to the bankruptcy. It was strange, I reflected; often as I had questioned Jim, he had never obliged me with an answer. In his haste for news about the wreck, my own no less legitimate curiosity had gone disappointed. Hateful as the thought was to me, I must return at once and find out where I stood. I left my dinner still unfinished, paying for the whole, of course, and tossing the waiter a gold piece. I was reckless; I knew not what was mine, and cared not: I must take what I could get and give as I was able; to rob and to squander seemed the complementary parts of my new destiny. I walked up Bush Street, whistling, brazening myself to confront Mamie in the first place, and the world at large and a certain visionary judge upon a bench in the second. Just outside, I stopped and lighted a cigar to give me greater countenance; and puffing this and wearing what (I am sure) was a wretched assumption of braggadocio, I reappeared on the scene of my disgrace. My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal--rags of old mutton, the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling pot of coffee. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton," said I. "Sorry to inflict my presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of business necessary to be discussed." "Pray do not consider me," said Mamie, rising, and she sailed into the adjoining bedroom. Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably old and ill. "What is it now?" he asked. "Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions," said I. "Your questions?" faltered Jim. "Even so, Jim; my questions," I repeated. "I put questions as well as yourself; and however little I may have satisfied Mamie with my answers, I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all." "You mean about the bankruptcy?" asked Jim. I nodded. He writhed in his chair. "The straight truth is, I was ashamed," he said. "I was trying to dodge you. I've been playing fast and loose with you, Loudon; I've deceived you from the first, I blush to own it. And here you came home and put the very question I was fearing. Why did we bust so soon? Your keen business eye had not deceived you. That's the point, that's my shame; that's what killed me this afternoon when Mamie was treating you so, and my conscience was telling me all the time, 'Thou art the man.'" "What was it, Jim?" I asked. "What I had been at all the time, Loudon," he wailed; "and I don't know how I'm to look you in the face and say it, after my duplicity. It was stocks," he added in a whisper. "And you were afraid to tell me that!" I cried. "You poor, old, cheerless dreamer! what would it matter what you did or didn't? Can't you see we're doomed? And anyway, that's not my point. It's how I stand that I want to know. There is a particular reason. Am I clear? Have I a certificate, or what have I to do to get one? And when will it be dated? You can't think what hangs by it!" "That's the worst of all," said Jim, like a man in a dream; "I can't see how to tell him!" "What do you mean?" I cried, a small pang of terror at my heart. "I'm afraid I sacrificed you, Loudon," he said, looking at me pitifully. "Sacrificed me?" I repeated. "How? What do you mean by sacrifice?" "I know it'll shock your delicate self-respect," he said; "but what was I to do? Things looked so bad. The receiver--" (as usual, the name stuck in his throat, and he began afresh). "There was a lot of talk, the reporters were after me already; there was the trouble, and all about the Mexican business; and I got scared right out, and I guess I lost my head. You weren't there, you see, and that was my temptation." I did not know how long he might thus beat about the bush with dreadful hintings, and I was already beside myself with terror. What had he done? I saw he had been tempted; I knew from his letters that he was in no condition to resist. How had he sacrificed the absent? "Jim," I said, "you must speak right out. I've got all that I can carry." "Well," he said--"I know it was a liberty--I made it out you were no business man, only a stone-broke painter; that half the time you didn't know anything, anyway, particularly money and accounts. I said you never could be got to understand whose was whose. I had to say that because of some entries in the books----" "For God's sake," I cried, "put me out of this agony! What did you accuse me of?" "Accuse you of?" repeated Jim. "Of what I'm telling you. And there being no deed of partnership, I made out you were only a kind of clerk that I called a partner just to give you taffy; and so I got you ranked a creditor on the estate for your wages and the money you had lent. And----" I believe I reeled. "A creditor!" I roared; "a creditor! I'm not in the bankruptcy at all?" "No," said Jim. "I know it was a liberty----" "O, damn your liberty! read that," I cried, dashing the letter before him on the table, "and call in your wife, and be done with eating this truck"--as I spoke I slung the cold mutton in the empty grate--"and let's all go and have a champagne supper. I've dined--I'm sure I don't remember what I had; I'd dine again ten scores of times upon a night like this. Read it, you blazing ass! I'm not insane.--Here, Mamie," I continued, opening the bedroom door, "come out and make it up with me, and go and kiss your husband; and I'll tell you what, after the supper, let's go to some place where there's a band, and I'll waltz with you till sunrise." "What does it all mean?" cried Jim. "It means we have a champagne supper to-night, and all go to Vapor Valley or to Monterey to-morrow," said I.--"Mamie, go and get your things on; and you, Jim, sit down right where you are, take a sheet of paper, and tell Franklin Dodge to go to Texas.--Mamie, you were right, my dear; I was rich all the time, and didn't know it." CHAPTER XIX TRAVELS WITH A SHYSTER The absorbing and disastrous adventure of the _Flying Scud_ was now quite ended; we had dashed into these deep waters and we had escaped again to starve; we had been ruined and were saved, had quarrelled and made up; there remained nothing but to sing _Te Deum_, draw a line, and begin on a fresh page of my unwritten diary. I do not pretend that I recovered all I had lost with Mamie, it would have been more than I had merited; and I had certainly been more uncommunicative than became either the partner or the friend. But she accepted the position handsomely; and during the week that I now passed with them, both she and Jim had the grace to spare me questions. It was to Calistoga that we went; there was some rumour of a Napa land-boom at the moment, the possibility of stir attracted Jim, and he informed me he would find a certain joy in looking on, much as Napoleon on St. Helena took a pleasure to read military works. The field of his ambition was quite closed; he was done with action, and looked forward to a ranch in a mountain dingle, a patch of corn, a pair of kine, a leisurely and contemplative age in the green shade of forests. "Just let me get down on my back in a hayfield," said he, "and you'll find there's no more snap to me than that much putty." And for two days the perfervid being actually rested. The third, he was observed in consultation with the local editor, and owned he was in two minds about purchasing the press and paper. "It's a kind of a hold for an idle man," he said pleadingly; "and if the section was to open up the way it ought to, there might be dollars in the thing." On the fourth day he was gone till dinner-time alone; on the fifth we made a long picnic drive to the fresh field of enterprise; and the sixth was passed entirely in the preparation of prospectuses. The pioneer of M'Bride City was already upright and self-reliant, as of yore; the fire rekindled in his eye, the ring restored to his voice; a charger sniffing battle and saying "ha-ha" among the spears. On the seventh morning we signed a deed of partnership, for Jim would not accept a dollar of my money otherwise; and having once more engaged myself--or that mortal part of me, my purse--among the wheels of his machinery, I returned alone to San Francisco and took quarters in the Palace Hotel. The same night I had Nares to dinner. His sunburnt face, his queer and personal strain of talk, recalled days that were scarce over and that seemed already distant. Through the music of the band outside, and the chink and clatter of the dining-room, it seemed to me as if I heard the foaming of the surf and the voices of the seabirds about Midway Island. The bruises on our hands were not yet healed; and there we sat, waited on by elaborate darkies, eating pompino and drinking iced champagne. "Think of our dinners on the _Norah_, captain, and then oblige me by looking round the room for contrast." He took the scene in slowly. "Yes, it is like a dream," he said: "like as if the darkies were really about as big as dimes; and a great big scuttle might open up there, and Johnson stick in a great big head and shoulders, and cry, 'Eight bells!'--and the whole thing vanish." "Well, it's the other thing that has done that," I replied. "It's all bygone now, all dead and buried. Amen! say I." "I don't know that, Mr. Dodd; and to tell you the fact, I don't believe it," said Nares. "There's more _Flying Scud_ in the oven; and the baker's name, I take it, is Bellairs. He tackled me the day we came in: sort of a razee of poor old humanity--jury clothes--full new suit of pimples: knew him at once from your description. I let him pump me till I saw his game. He knows a good deal that we don't know, a good deal that we do, and suspects the balance. There's trouble brewing for somebody." I was surprised I had not thought of this before. Bellairs had been behind the scenes; he had known Dickson; he knew the flight of the crew; it was hardly possible but what he should suspect; it was certain if he suspected that he would seek to trade on the suspicion. And sure enough, I was not yet dressed the next morning ere the lawyer was knocking at my door. I let him in, for I was curious; and he, after some ambiguous prolegomena, roundly proposed I should go shares with him. "Shares in what?" I inquired. "If you will allow me to clothe my idea in a somewhat vulgar form," said he, "I might ask you, did you go to Midway for your health?" "I don't know that I did," I replied. "Similarly, Mr. Dodd, you may be sure I would never have taken the present step without influential grounds," pursued the lawyer. "Intrusion is foreign to my character. But you and I, sir, are engaged on the same ends. If we can continue to work the thing in company, I place at your disposal my knowledge of the law and a considerable practice in delicate negotiations similar to this. Should you refuse to consent, you might find in me a formidable and"--he hesitated--"and to my own regret, perhaps a dangerous competitor." "Did you get this by heart?" I asked genially. "I advise _you_ to!" he said, with a sudden sparkle of temper and menace, instantly gone, instantly succeeded by fresh cringing. "I assure you, sir, I arrive in the character of a friend, and I believe you underestimate my information. If I may instance an example, I am acquainted to the last dime with what you made (or rather lost), and I know you have since cashed a considerable draft on London." "What do you infer?" I asked. "I know where that draft came from," he cried, wincing back like one who has greatly dared, and instantly regrets the venture. "So?" said I. "You forget I was Mr. Dickson's confidential agent," he explained. "You had his address, Mr. Dodd. We were the only two that he communicated with in San Francisco. You see my deductions are quite obvious; you see how open and frank I deal with you, as I should wish to do with any gentleman with whom I was conjoined in business. You see how much I know; and it can scarcely escape your strong common-sense how much better it would be if I knew all. You cannot hope to get rid of me at this time of day; I have my place in the affair, I cannot be shaken off; I am, if you will excuse a rather technical pleasantry, an encumbrance on the estate. The actual harm I can do I leave you to valuate for yourself. But without going so far, Mr. Dodd, and without in any way inconveniencing myself, I could make things very uncomfortable. For instance, Mr. Pinkerton's liquidation. You and I know, sir--and you better than I--on what a large fund you draw. Is Mr. Pinkerton in the thing at all? It was you only who knew the address, and you were concealing it. Suppose I should communicate with Mr. Pinkerton----" "Look here!" I interrupted, "communicate with him (if you will permit me to clothe my idea in a vulgar shape) till you are blue in the face. There is only one person with whom I refuse to allow you to communicate further, and that is myself. Good-morning." He could not conceal his rage, disappointment, and surprise; and in the passage (I have no doubt) was shaken by St. Vitus. I was disgusted by this interview; it struck me hard to be suspected on all hands, and to hear again from this trafficker what I had heard already from Jim's wife; and yet my strongest impression was different, and might rather be described as an impersonal fear. There was something against nature in the man's craven impudence; it was as though a lamb had butted me; such daring at the hands of such a dastard implied unchangeable resolve, a great pressure of necessity, and powerful means. I thought of the unknown Carthew, and it sickened me to see this ferret on his trail. Upon inquiry I found the lawyer was but just disbarred for some malpractice, and the discovery added excessively to my disquiet. Here was a rascal without money or the means of making it, thrust out of the doors of his own trade, publicly shamed, and doubtless in a deuce of a bad temper with the universe. Here, on the other hand, was a man with a secret--rich, terrified, practically in hiding--who had been willing to pay ten thousand pounds for the bones of the _Flying Scud_. I slipped insensibly into a mental alliance with the victim. The business weighed on me all day long; I was wondering how much the lawyer knew, how much he guessed, and when he would open his attack. Some of these problems are unsolved to this day; others were soon made clear. Where he got Carthew's name is still a mystery; perhaps some sailor on the _Tempest_, perhaps my own sea-lawyer served him for a tool; but I was actually at his elbow when he learned the address. It fell so. One evening when I had an engagement, and was killing time until the hour, I chanced to walk in the court of the hotel while the band played. The place was bright as day with the electric light, and I recognised, at some distance among the loiterers, the person of Bellairs in talk with a gentleman whose face appeared familiar. It was certainly some one I had seen, and seen recently; but who or where I knew not. A porter standing hard by gave me the necessary hint. The stranger was an English navy man invalided home from Honolulu, where he had left his ship; indeed, it was only from the change of clothes and the effects of sickness that I had not immediately recognised my friend and correspondent, Lieutenant Sebright. The conjunction of these planets seeming ominous, I drew near; but it seemed Bellairs had done his business; he vanished in the crowd, and I found my officer alone. "Do you know whom you have been talking to, Mr. Sebright?" I began. "No," said he; "I don't know him from Adam. Anything wrong?" "He is a disreputable lawyer, recently disbarred," said I. "I wish I had seen you in time. I trust you told him nothing about Carthew?" He flushed to his ears. "I'm awfully sorry," he said. "He seemed civil, and I wanted to get rid of him. It was only the address he asked." "And you gave it?" I cried. "I'm really awfully sorry," said Sebright. "I'm afraid I did." "God forgive you!" was my only comment, and I turned my back upon the blunderer. The fat was in the fire now: Bellairs had the address, and I was the more deceived or Carthew would have news of him. So strong was this impression, and so painful, that the next morning I had the curiosity to pay the lawyer's den a visit. An old woman was scrubbing the stair, and the board was down. "Lawyer Bellairs?" said the old woman; "gone East this morning. There's Lawyer Dean next block up." I did not trouble Lawyer Dean, but walked slowly back to my hotel, ruminating as I went. The image of the old woman washing that desecrated stair had struck my fancy; it seemed that all the water-supply of the city and all the soap in the State would scarce suffice to cleanse it, it had been so long a clearing-house of dingy secrets and a factory of sordid fraud. And now the corner was untenanted; some judge, like a careful housewife, had knocked down the web; and the bloated spider was scuttling elsewhere after new victims. I had of late (as I have said) insensibly taken sides with Carthew; now when his enemy was at his heels, my interest grew more warm; and I began to wonder if I could not help. The drama of the _Flying Scud_ was entering on a new phase. It had been singular from the first: it promised an extraordinary conclusion; and I, who had paid so much to learn the beginning, might pay a little more and see the end. I lingered in San Francisco, indemnifying myself after the hardships of the cruise, spending money, regretting it, continually promising departure for the morrow. Why not go indeed, and keep a watch upon Bellairs? If I missed him, there was no harm done, I was the nearer Paris. If I found and kept his trail, it was hard if I could not put some stick in his machinery, and at the worst I could promise myself interesting scenes and revelations. In such a mixed humour, I made up what it pleases me to call my mind, and once more involved myself in the story of Carthew and the _Flying Scud_. The same night I wrote a letter of farewell to Jim, and one of anxious warning to Dr. Urquart, begging him to set Carthew on his guard; the morrow saw me in the ferry-boat; and ten days later, I was walking the hurricane-deck on the _City of Denver_. By that time my mind was pretty much made down again, its natural condition: I told myself that I was bound for Paris or Fontainebleau to resume the study of the arts; and I thought no more of Carthew or Bellairs, or only to smile at my own fondness. The one I could not serve, even if I wanted; the other I had no means of finding, even if I could have at all influenced him after he was found. And for all that, I was close on the heels of an absurd adventure. My neighbour at table that evening was a 'Frisco man whom I knew slightly. I found he had crossed the plains two days in front of me, and this was the first steamer that had left New York for Europe since his arrival. Two days before me meant a day before Bellairs; and dinner was scarce done before I was closeted with the purser. "Bellairs?" he repeated. "Not in the saloon, I am sure. He may be in the second class. The lists are not made out, but--Hullo! 'Harry D. Bellairs?' That's the name? He's there right enough." And the next morning I saw him on the forward deck, sitting in a chair, a book in his hand, a shabby puma skin rug about his knees: the picture of respectable decay. Off and on, I kept him in my eye. He read a good deal, he stood and looked upon the sea, he talked occasionally with his neighbours, and once when a child fell he picked it up and soothed it. I damned him in my heart; the book, which I was sure he did not read--the sea, to which I was ready to take oath he was indifferent--the child, whom I was certain he would as leave have tossed overboard--all seemed to me elements in a theatrical performance; and I made no doubt he was already nosing after the secrets of his fellow-passengers. I took no pains to conceal myself, my scorn for the creature being as strong as my disgust. But he never looked my way, and it was night before I learned he had observed me. I was smoking by the engine-room door, for the air was a little sharp, when a voice rose close beside me in the darkness. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd," it said. "That you, Bellairs?" I replied. "A single word, sir. Your presence on this ship has no connection with our interview?" he asked. "You have no idea, Mr. Dodd, of returning upon your determination?" "None," said I; and then, seeing he still lingered, I was polite enough to add "Good-evening"; at which he sighed and went away. The next day he was there again with the chair and the puma skin; read his book and looked at the sea with the same constancy; and though there was no child to be picked up, I observed him to attend repeatedly on a sick woman. Nothing fosters suspicion like the act of watching; a man spied upon can hardly blow his nose but we accuse him of designs; and I took an early opportunity to go forward and see the woman for myself. She was poor, elderly, and painfully plain; I stood abashed at the sight, felt I owed Bellairs amends for the injustice of my thoughts, and, seeing him standing by the rail in his usual attitude of contemplation, walked up and addressed him by name. "You seem very fond of the sea," said I. "I may really call it a passion, Mr. Dodd," he replied. "'_And the tall cataract haunted me like a passion_,'" he quoted. "I never weary of the sea, sir. This is my first ocean voyage. I find it a glorious experience." And once more my disbarred lawyer dropped into poetry: "_Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!_'" Though I had learned the piece in my reading-book at school, I came into the world a little too late on the one hand--and I daresay a little too early on the other--to think much of Byron; and the sonorous verse, prodigiously well delivered, struck me with surprise. "You are fond of poetry too?" I asked. "I am a great reader," he replied. "At one time I had begun to amass quite a small but well-selected library; and when that was scattered, I still managed to preserve a few volumes--chiefly of pieces designed for recitation--which have been my travelling companions." "Is that one of them?" I asked, pointing to the volume in his hand. "No, sir," he replied, showing me a translation of the "Sorrows of Werther"; "that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has afforded me great pleasure, though immoral." "O, immoral!" cried I, indignant as usual at any complication of art and ethics. "Surely you cannot deny that, sir, if you know the book," he said. "The passion is illicit, although certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos. It is not a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady; which is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not know how it may strike you; but it seems to me--as a depiction, if I make myself clear--to rise high above its compeers--even famous compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens, Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment of love appears to me to be frequently done less justice to." "You are expressing a very general opinion," said I. "Is that so, indeed, sir?" he exclaimed, with unmistakable excitement. "Is the book well known? and who was _Go-eath_? I am interested in that, because upon the title-page the usual initials are omitted, and it runs simply 'by _Go-eath_.' Was he an author of distinction? Has he written other works?" Such was our first interview, the first of many; and in all he showed the same attractive qualities and defects. His taste for literature was native and unaffected; his sentimentality, although extreme and a thought ridiculous, was plainly genuine. I wondered at my own innocent wonder. I knew that Homer nodded, that Cæsar had compiled a jest-book, that Turner lived by preference the life of Puggy Booth, that Shelley made paper boats, and Wordsworth wore green spectacles! and with all this mass of evidence before me, I had expected Bellairs to be entirely of one piece, subdued to what he worked in, a spy all through. As I abominated the man's trade, so I had expected to detest the man himself; and behold, I liked him. Poor devil! he was essentially a man on wires, all sensibility and tremor, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without parts, quite without courage. His boldness was despair; the gulf behind him thrust him on; he was one of those who might commit a murder rather than confess the theft of a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming interview with Carthew rode his imagination like a nightmare; when the thought crossed his mind, I used to think I knew of it, and that the qualm appeared in his face visibly. Yet he would never flinch--necessity stalking at his back, famine (his old pursuer) talking in his ear; and I used to wonder whether I more admired or more despised this quivering heroism for evil. The image that occurred to me after his visit was just; I had been butted by a lamb, and the phase of life that I was now studying might be called the Revolt of a Sheep. It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow what he taught in song--or wrong; and his life was that of one of his victims. He was born in the back parts of the State of New York; his father a farmer, who became subsequently bankrupt and went West. The lawyer and money-lender who had ruined this poor family seems to have conceived in the end a feeling of remorse; he turned the father out indeed, but he offered, in compensation, to charge himself with one of the sons: and Harry, the fifth child, and already sickly, was chosen to be left behind. He made himself useful in the office: picked up the scattered rudiments of an education; read right and left; attended and debated at the Young Men's Christian Association and in all his early years was the model for a good story-book. His landlady's daughter was his bane. He showed me her photograph; she was a big, handsome, dashing, dressy, vulgar hussy, without character, without tenderness, without mind, and (as the result proved) without virtue. The sickly and timid boy was in the house; he was handy; when she was otherwise unoccupied, she used and played with him--Romeo and Cressida; till in that dreary life of a poor boy in a country town, she grew to be the light of his days and the subject of his dreams. He worked hard, like Jacob, for a wife; he surpassed his patron in sharp practice; he was made head clerk; and the same night, encouraged by a hundred freedoms, depressed by the sense of his youth and his infirmities, he offered marriage and was received with laughter. Not a year had passed, before his master, conscious of growing infirmities, took him for a partner. He proposed again; he was accepted; led two years of troubled married life; and awoke one morning to find his wife had run away with a dashing drummer, and had left him heavily in debt. The debt, and not the drummer, was supposed to be the cause of this hegira; she had concealed her liabilities, they were on the point of bursting forth, she was weary of Bellairs; and she took the drummer as she might have taken a cab. The blow disabled her husband, his partner was dead; he was now alone in the business, for which he was no longer fit; the debts hampered him; bankruptcy followed; and he fled from city to city, falling daily into lower practice. It is to be considered that he had been taught, and had learned as a delightful duty, a kind of business whose highest merit is to escape the commentaries of the bench: that of the usurious lawyer in a county town. With this training, he was now shot, a penniless stranger, into the deeper gulfs of cities; and the result is scarce a thing to be surprised at. "Have you heard of your wife again?" I asked. He displayed a pitiful agitation. "I am afraid you will think ill of me," he said. "Have you taken her back?" I asked. "No, sir. I trust I have too much self-respect," he answered, "and, at least, I was never tempted. She won't come, she dislikes, she seems to have conceived a positive distaste for me, and yet I was considered an indulgent husband." "You are still in relations, then?" I asked. "I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dodd," he replied. "The world is very hard; I have found it bitter hard myself--bitter hard to live. How much worse for a woman, and one who has placed herself (by her own misconduct, I am far from denying that) in so unfortunate a position!" "In short, you support her?" I suggested. "I cannot deny it. I practically do," he admitted. "It has been a millstone round my neck. But I think she is grateful. You can see for yourself." He handed me a letter in a sprawling, ignorant hand, but written with violet ink on fine, pink paper, with a monogram. It was very foolishly expressed, and I thought (except for a few obvious cajoleries) very heartless and greedy in meaning. The writer said she had been sick, which I disbelieved; declared the last remittance was all gone in doctor's bills, for which I took the liberty of substituting dress, drink, and monograms; and prayed for an increase, which I could only hope had been denied her. "I think she is really grateful?" he asked, with some eagerness, as I returned it. "I daresay," said I. "Has she any claim on you?" "O no, sir. I divorced her," he replied. "I have a very strong sense of self-respect in such matters, and I divorced her immediately." "What sort of life is she leading now?" I asked. "I will not deceive you, Mr. Dodd. I do not know, I make a point of not knowing; it appears more dignified. I have been very harshly criticised," he added, sighing. It will be seen that I had fallen into an ignominious intimacy with the man I had gone out to thwart. My pity for the creature, his admiration for myself, his pleasure in my society, which was clearly unassumed, were the bonds with which I was fettered; perhaps I should add, in honesty, my own ill-regulated interest in the phases of life and human character. The fact is (at least) that we spent hours together daily, and that I was nearly as much on the forward deck as in the saloon. Yet all the while I could never forget he was a shabby trickster, embarked that very moment in a dirty enterprise. I used to tell myself at first that our acquaintance was a stroke of art, and that I was somehow fortifying Carthew. I told myself, I say; but I was no such fool as to believe it, even then. In these circumstances I displayed the two chief qualities of my character on the largest scale--my helplessness and my instinctive love of procrastination--and fell upon a course of action so ridiculous that I blush when I recall it. We reached Liverpool one forenoon, the rain falling thickly and insidiously on the filthy town. I had no plans, beyond a sensible unwillingness to let my rascal escape; and I ended by going to the same inn with him, dining with him, walking with him in the wet streets, and hearing with him in a penny gaff that venerable piece, _The Ticket-of-Leave Man_. It was one of his first visits to a theatre, against which places of entertainment he had a strong prejudice; and his innocent, pompous talk, innocent old quotations, and innocent reverence for the character of Hawkshaw delighted me beyond relief. In charity to myself, I dwell upon and perhaps exaggerate my pleasures. I have need of all conceivable excuses, when I confess that I went to bed without one word upon the matter of Carthew, but not without having covenanted with my rascal for a visit to Chester the next day. At Chester we did the Cathedral, walked on the walls, discussed Shakespeare and the musical glasses--and made a fresh engagement for the morrow. I do not know, and I am glad to have forgotten, how long these travels were continued. We visited at least, by singular zig-zags, Stratford, Warwick, Coventry, Gloucester, Bristol, Bath, and Wells. At each stage we spoke dutifully of the scene and its associations; I sketched, the Shyster spouted poetry and copied epitaphs. Who could doubt we were the usual Americans, travelling with a design of self-improvement? Who was to guess that one was a black-mailer, trembling to approach the scene of action--the other a helpless, amateur detective, waiting on events? It is unnecessary to remark that none occurred, or none the least suitable with my design of protecting Carthew. Two trifles, indeed, completed though they scarcely changed my conception of the Shyster. The first was observed in Gloucester, where we spent Sunday, and I proposed we should hear service in the Cathedral. To my surprise, the creature had an _ism_ of his own, to which he was loyal; and he left me to go alone to the Cathedral--or perhaps not to go at all--and stole off down a deserted alley to some Bethel or Ebenezer of the proper shade. When we met again at lunch, I rallied him, and he grew restive. "You need employ no circumlocutions with me, Mr. Dodd," he said suddenly. "You regard my behaviour from an unfavourable point of view: you regard me, I much fear, as hypocritical." I was somewhat confused by the attack. "You know what I think of your trade," I replied lamely and coarsely. "Excuse me, if I seem to press the subject," he continued; "but if you think my life erroneous, would you have me neglect the means of grace? Because you consider me in the wrong on one point, would you have me place myself in the wrong in all? Surely, sir, the church is for the sinner." "Did you ask a blessing on your present enterprise?" I sneered. He had a bad attack of St. Vitus, his face was changed, and his eyes flashed. "I will tell you what I did," he cried. "I prayed for an unfortunate man and a wretched woman whom he tries to support." I cannot pretend that I found any repartee. The second incident was at Bristol, where I lost sight of my gentleman some hours. From this eclipse he returned to me with thick speech, wandering footsteps, and a back all whitened with plaster. I had half expected, yet I could have wept to see it. All disabilities were piled on that weak back--domestic misfortune, nervous disease, a displeasing exterior, empty pockets, and the slavery of vice. I will never deny that our prolonged conjunction was the result of double cowardice. Each was afraid to leave the other, each was afraid to speak, or knew not what to say. Save for my ill-judged allusion at Gloucester, the subject uppermost in both our minds was buried. Carthew, Stallbridge-le-Carthew, Stallbridge-Minster--which we had long since (and severally) identified to be the nearest station--even the name of Dorsetshire was studiously avoided. And yet we were making progress all the time, tacking across broad England like an unweatherly vessel on a wind; approaching our destination, not openly, but by a sort of flying sap. And at length, I can scarce tell how, we were set down by a dilatory butt-end of local train on the untenanted platform of Stallbridge-Minster. The town was ancient and compact--a domino of tiled houses and walled gardens, dwarfed by the disproportionate bigness of the church. From the midst of the thoroughfare which divided it in half, fields and trees were visible at either end; and through the sally-port of every street there flowed in from the country a silent invasion of green grass. Bees and birds appeared to make the majority of the inhabitants; every garden had its row of hives, the eaves of every house were plastered with the nests of swallows, and the pinnacles of the church were flickered about all day long by a multitude of wings. The town was of Roman foundation; and as I looked out that afternoon from the low windows of the inn, I should scarce have been surprised to see a centurion coming up the street with a fatigue draft of legionaries. In short, Stallbridge-Minster was one of those towns which appear to be maintained by England for the instruction and delight of the American rambler; to which he seems guided by an instinct not less surprising than the setter's; and which he visits and quits with equal enthusiasm. I was not at all in the humour of the tourist. I had wasted weeks of time and accomplished nothing; we were on the eve of the engagement, and I had neither plans nor allies. I had thrust myself into the trade of private providence, and amateur detective; I was spending money and I was reaping disgrace. All the time I kept telling myself that I must at least speak; that this ignominious silence should have been broken long ago, and must be broken now. I should have broken it when he first proposed to come to Stallbridge-Minster; I should have broken it in the train; I should break it there and then, on the inn doorstep, as the omnibus rolled off. I turned toward him at the thought; he seemed to wince, the words died on my lips, and I proposed instead that we should visit the Minster. While we were engaged upon this duty, it came on to rain in a manner worthy of the tropics. The vault reverberated; every gargoyle instantly poured its full discharge; we waded back to the inn, ankle-deep in _impromptu_ brooks; and the rest of the afternoon sat weatherbound, hearkening to the sonorous deluge. For two hours I talked of indifferent matters, laboriously feeding the conversation; for two hours my mind was quite made up to do my duty instantly--and at each particular instant I postponed it till the next. To screw up my faltering courage, I called at dinner for some sparkling wine. It proved, when it came, to be detestable; I could not put it to my lips; and Bellairs, who had as much palate as a weevil, was left to finish it himself. Doubtless the wine flushed him; doubtless he may have observed my embarrassment of the afternoon; doubtless he was conscious that we were approaching a crisis, and that that evening, if I did not join with him, I must declare myself an open enemy. At least he fled. Dinner was done; this was the time when I had bound myself to break my silence; no more delays were to be allowed, no more excuses received. I went upstairs after some tobacco, which I felt to be a mere necessity in the circumstances and when I returned, the man was gone. The waiter told me he had left the house. The rain still plumped, like a vast shower-bath, over the deserted town. The night was dark and windless: the street lit glimmeringly from end to end, lamps, house-windows, and the reflections in the rain-pools all contributing. From a public-house on the other side of the way, I heard a harp twang and a doleful voice upraised in the "Larboard Watch," "The Anchor's Weighed," and other naval ditties. Where had my shyster wandered? In all likelihood to that lyrical tavern; there was no choice of diversion; in comparison with Stallbridge-Minster on a rainy night a sheepfold would seem gay. Again I passed in review the points of my interview, on which I was always constantly resolved so long as my adversary was absent from the scene, and again they struck me as inadequate. From this dispiriting exercise I turned to the native amusements of the inn coffee-room, and studied for some time the mezzotints that frowned upon the wall. The railway guide, after showing me how soon I could leave Stallbridge and how quickly I could reach Paris, failed to hold my attention. An illustrated advertisement-book of hotels brought me very low indeed; and when it came to the local paper, I could have wept. At this point I found a passing solace in a copy of Whitaker's Almanack, and obtained in fifty minutes more information than I have yet been able to use. Then a fresh apprehension assailed me. Suppose Bellairs had given me the slip? Suppose he was now rolling on the road to Stallbridge-le-Carthew? or perhaps there already and laying before a very white-laced auditor his threats and propositions? A hasty person might have instantly pursued. Whatever I am, I am not hasty, and I was aware of three grave objections. In the first place, I could not be certain that Bellairs was gone. In the second, I had no taste whatever for a long drive at that hour of the night and in so merciless a rain. In the third, I had no idea how I was to get admitted if I went, and no idea what I should say if I got admitted. "In short," I concluded, "the whole situation is the merest farce. You have thrust yourself in where you had no business and have no power. You would be quite as useful in San Francisco; far happier in Paris; and being (by the wrath of God) at Stallbridge-Minster, the wisest thing is to go quietly to bed." On the way to my room I saw (in a flash) that which I ought to have done long ago, and which it was now too late to think of--written to Carthew, I mean, detailing the facts and describing Bellairs, letting him defend himself if he were able, and giving him time to flee if he were not. It was the last blow to my self-respect; and I flung myself into my bed with contumely. I have no guess what hour it was when I was wakened by the entrance of Bellairs carrying a candle. He had been drunk, for he was bedaubed with mire from head to foot; but he was now sober, and under the empire of some violent emotion which he controlled with difficulty. He trembled visibly; and more than once, during the interview which followed, tears suddenly and silently overflowed his cheeks. "I have to ask your pardon, sir, for this untimely visit," he said. "I make no defence, I have no excuse, I have disgraced myself, I am properly punished; I appear before you to appeal to you in mercy for the most trifling aid, or, God help me! I fear I may go mad." "What on earth is wrong?" I asked. "I have been robbed," he said. "I have no defence to offer; it was of my own fault, I am properly punished." "But, gracious goodness me!" I cried, "who is there to rob you in a place like this?" "I can form no opinion," he replied. "I have no idea. I was lying in a ditch inanimate. This is a degrading confession, sir; I can only say in self-defence that perhaps (in your good-nature) you have made yourself partly responsible for my shame. I am not used to these rich wines." "In what form was your money? Perhaps it may be traced," I suggested. "It was in English sovereigns. I changed it in New York; I got very good exchange," he said, and then, with a momentary outbreak, "God in heaven, how I toiled for it!" he cried. "That doesn't sound encouraging," said I. "It may be worth while to apply to the police, but it doesn't sound a hopeful case." "And I have no hope in that direction," said Bellairs. "My hopes, Mr. Dodd, are all fixed upon yourself. I could easily convince you that a small, a very small advance, would be in the nature of an excellent investment; but I prefer to rely on your humanity. Our acquaintance began on an unusual footing; but you have now known me for some time, we have been some time--I was going to say we had been almost intimate. Under the impulse of instinctive sympathy, I have bared my heart to you, Mr. Dodd, as I have done to few--and I believe--I trust--I may say that I feel sure--you heard me with a kindly sentiment. This is what brings me to your side at this most inexcusable hour. But put yourself in my place--how could I sleep--how could I dream of sleeping, in this blackness of remorse and despair? There was a friend at hand--so I ventured to think of you; it was instinctive: I fled to your side, as the drowning man clutches at a straw. These expressions are not exaggerated, they scarcely serve to express the agitation of my mind. And think, sir, how easily you can restore me to hope and, I may say, to reason. A small loan, which shall be faithfully repaid. Five hundred dollars would be ample." He watched me with burning eyes. "Four hundred would do. I believe, Mr. Dodd, that I could manage with economy on two." "And then you will repay me out of Carthew's pocket?" I said. "I am much obliged. But I will tell you what I will do: I will see you on board a steamer, pay your fare through to San Francisco, and place fifty dollars in the purser's hands, to be given you in New York." He drank in my words; his face represented an ecstasy of cunning thought. I could read there, plain as print, that he but thought to overreach me. "And what am I to do in 'Frisco?" he asked. "I am disbarred, I have no trade, I cannot dig, to beg----" he paused in the citation. "And you know that I am not alone," he added, "others depend upon me." "I will write to Pinkerton," I returned. "I feel sure he can help you to some employment, and in the meantime, and for three months after your arrival, he shall pay to yourself personally, on the first and the fifteenth, twenty-five dollars." "Mr. Dodd, I scarce believe you can be serious in this offer," he replied. "Have you forgotten the circumstances of the case? Do you know these people are the magnates of the section? They were spoken of to-night in the saloon; their wealth must amount to many millions of dollars in real estate alone; their house is one of the sights of the locality, and you offer me a bribe of a few hundred!" "I offer you no bribe, Mr. Bellairs; I give you alms," I returned. "I will do nothing to forward you in your hateful business; yet I would not willingly have you starve." "Give me a hundred dollars then, and be done with it," he cried. "I will do what I have said, and neither more nor less," said I. "Take care," he cried. "You are playing a fool's game; you are making an enemy for nothing; you will gain nothing by this, I warn you of it!" And then with one of his changes, "Seventy dollars--only seventy--in mercy, Mr. Dodd, in common charity. Don't dash the bowl from my lips! You have a kindly heart. Think of my position, remember my unhappy wife." "You should have thought of her before," said I. "I have made my offer, and I wish to sleep." "Is that your last word, sir? Pray consider; pray weigh both sides: my misery, your own danger. I warn you--I beseech you; measure it well before you answer," so he half pleaded, half threatened me, with clasped hands. "My first word, and my last," said I. The change upon the man was shocking. In the storm of anger that now shook him, the lees of his intoxication rose again to the surface; his face was deformed, his words insane with fury; his pantomime, excessive in itself, was distorted by an access of St. Vitus. "You will perhaps allow me to inform you of my cold opinion," he began, apparently self-possessed, truly bursting with rage: "when I am a glorified saint, I shall see you howling for a drop of water, and exult to see you. That your last word! Take it in your face, you spy, you false friend, you fat hypocrite! I defy, I defy and despise and spit upon you! I'm on the trail, his trail or yours; I smell blood, I'll follow it on my hands and knees, I'll starve to follow it! I'll hunt you down, hunt you, hunt you down! If I were strong, I'd tear your vitals out, here in this room--tear them out--I'd tear them out! Damn, damn, damn! You think me weak? I can bite, bite to the blood, bite you, hurt you, disgrace you ..." He was thus incoherently raging when the scene was interrupted by the arrival of the landlord and inn servants in various degrees of deshabille, and to them I gave my temporary lunatic in charge. "Take him to his room," I said, "he's only drunk." These were my words; but I knew better. After all my study of Mr. Bellairs, one discovery had been reserved for the last moment--that of his latent and essential madness. CHAPTER XX STALLBRIDGE-LE-CARTHEW Long before I was awake the shyster had disappeared, leaving his bill unpaid. I did not need to inquire where he was gone, I knew too well, I knew there was nothing left me but to follow; and about ten in the morning, set forth in a gig for Stallbridge-le-Carthew. The road, for the first quarter of the way, deserts the valley of the river, and crosses the summit of a chalkdown, grazed over by flocks of sheep and haunted by innumerable larks. It was a pleasant but a vacant scene, arousing but not holding the attention; and my mind returned to the violent passage of the night before. My thought of the man I was pursuing had been greatly changed. I conceived of him, somewhere in front of me, upon his dangerous errand, not to be turned aside, not to be stopped, by either fear or reason. I had called him a ferret; I conceived him now as a mad dog. Methought he would run, not walk; methought, as he ran, that he would bark and froth at the lips; methought, if the great wall of China were to rise across his path, he would attack it with his nails. Presently the road left the down, returned by a precipitous descent into the valley of the Stall, and ran thenceforward among enclosed fields and under the continuous shade of trees. I was told we had now entered on the Carthew property. By and by, a battlemented wall appeared on the left hand, and a little after I had my first glimpse of the mansion. It stood in a hollow of a bosky park, crowded, to a degree that surprised and even displeased me, with huge timber and dense shrubberies of laurel and rhododendron. Even from this low station and the thronging neighbourhood of the trees, the pile rose conspicuous like a cathedral. Behind, as we continued to skirt the park wall, I began to make out a straggling town of offices which became conjoined to the rear with those of the home farm. On the left was an ornamental water sailed in by many swans. On the right extended a flower garden, laid in the old manner, and at this season of the year as brilliant as stained glass. The front of the house presented a façade of more than sixty windows, surmounted by a formal pediment and raised upon a terrace. A wide avenue, part in gravel, part in turf, and bordered by triple alleys, ran to the great double gateways. It was impossible to look without surprise on a place that had been prepared through so many generations, had cost so many tons of minted gold, and was maintained in order by so great a company of emulous servants. And yet of these there was no sign but the perfection of their work. The whole domain was drawn to the line and weeded like the front plot of some suburban amateur; and I looked in vain for any belated gardener, and listened in vain for any sounds of labour. Some lowing of cattle and much calling of birds alone disturbed the stillness, and even the little hamlet, which clustered at the gates, appeared to hold its breath in awe of its great neighbour, like a troop of children who should have strayed into a king's anteroom. The "Carthew Arms," the small, but very comfortable inn, was a mere appendage and outpost of the family whose name it bore. Engraved portraits of bygone Carthews adorned the walls; Fielding Carthew, Recorder of the City of London; Major-General John Carthew in uniform, commanding some military operations; the Right Honourable Bailley Carthew, Member of Parliament for Stallbridge, standing by a table and brandishing a document; Singleton Carthew, Esquire, represented in the foreground of a herd of cattle--doubtless at the desire of his tenantry, who had made him a compliment of this work of art; and the Venerable Archdeacon Carthew, D.D., LL.D., A.M., laying his hand on the head of a little child in a manner highly frigid and ridiculous. So far as my memory serves me, there were no other pictures in this exclusive hostelry; and I was not surprised to learn that the landlord was an ex-butler, the landlady an ex-lady's-maid, from the great house; and that the bar-parlour was a sort of perquisite of former servants. To an American, the sense of the domination of this family over so considerable a tract of earth was even oppressive; and as I considered their simple annals, gathered from the legends of the engravings, surprise began to mingle with my disgust. "Mr. Recorder" doubtless occupies an honourable post; but I thought that, in the course of so many generations, one Carthew might have clambered higher. The soldier had stuck at Major-General; the churchman bloomed unremarked in an archdeaconry; and though the Right Honourable Bailley seemed to have sneaked into the Privy Council, I have still to learn what he did when he had got there. Such vast means, so long a start, and such a modest standard of achievement, struck in me a strong sense of the dulness of that race. I found that to come to the hamlet and not visit the Hall would be regarded as a slight. To feed the swans, to see the peacocks and the Raphaels--for these commonplace people actually possessed two Raphaels,--to risk life and limb among a famous breed of cattle called the Carthew Chillinghams, and to do homage to the sire (still living) of Donibristle, a renowned winner of the Oaks: these, it seemed, were the inevitable stations of the pilgrimage. I was not so foolish as to resist, for I might have need, before I was done, of general goodwill; and two pieces of news fell in which changed my resignation to alacrity. It appeared, in the first place, that Mr. Norris was from home "travelling"; in the second, that a visitor had been before me, and already made the tour of the Carthew curiosities. I thought I knew who this must be; I was anxious to learn what he had done and seen, and fortune so far favoured me that the under-gardener singled out to be my guide had already performed the same function for my predecessor. "Yes, sir," he said, "an American gentleman right enough. At least, I don't think he was quite a gentleman, but a very civil person." The person, it seems, had been civil enough to be delighted with the Carthew Chillinghams, to perform the whole pilgrimage with rising admiration, and to have almost prostrated himself before the shrine of Donibristle's sire. "He told me, sir," continued the gratified under-gardener, "that he had often read of the 'stately 'omes of England,' but ours was the first he had the chance to see. When he came to the 'ead of the long alley, he fetched his breath. 'This is indeed a lordly domain!' he cries. And it was natural he should be interested in the place, for it seems Mr. Carthew had been kind to him in the States. In fact, he seemed a grateful kind of person, and wonderful taken up with flowers." I heard this story with amazement. The phrases quoted told their own tale; they were plainly from the shyster's mint. A few hours back I had seen him a mere bedlamite and fit for a strait-waistcoat; he was penniless in a strange country; it was highly probable he had gone without breakfast; the absence of Norris must have been a crushing blow; the man (by all reason) should have been despairing. And now I heard of him, clothed and in his right mind, deliberate, insinuating, admiring vistas, smelling flowers, and talking like a book. The strength of character implied amazed and daunted me. "This is curious," I said to the under-gardener; "I have had the pleasure of some acquaintance with Mr. Carthew myself; and I believe none of our western friends ever were in England. Who can this person be? He couldn't--no, that's impossible, he could never have had the impudence. His name was not Bellairs?" "I didn't 'ear the name, sir. Do you know anything against him?" cried my guide. "Well," said I, "he is certainly not the person Carthew would like to have here in his absence." "Good gracious me!" exclaimed the gardener. "He was so pleasant-spoken too; I thought he was some form of a schoolmaster. Perhaps, sir, you wouldn't mind going right up to Mr. Denman? I recommended him to Mr. Denman, when he had done the grounds. Mr. Denman is our butler, sir," he added. The proposal was welcome, particularly as affording me a graceful retreat from the neighbourhood of the Carthew Chillinghams; and, giving up our projected circuit, we took a short cut through the shrubbery and across the bowling-green to the back quarters of the Hall. The bowling-green was surrounded by a great hedge of yew, and entered by an archway in the quick. As we were issuing from this passage, my conductor arrested me. "The Honourable Lady Ann Carthew," he said, in an august whisper. And looking over his shoulder I was aware of an old lady with a stick, hobbling somewhat briskly along the garden path. She must have been extremely handsome in her youth; and even the limp with which she walked could not deprive her of an unusual and almost menacing dignity of bearing. Melancholy was impressed besides on every feature, and her eyes, as she looked straight before her, seemed to contemplate misfortune. "She seems sad," said I, when she had hobbled past and we had resumed our walk. "She enjoy rather poor spirits, sir," responded the under-gardener. "Mr. Carthew--the old gentleman, I mean--died less than a year ago; Lord Tillibody, her ladyship's brother, two months after; and then there was the sad business about the young gentleman. Killed in the 'unting-fleld, sir; and her ladyship's favourite. The present Mr. Norris has never been so equally." "So I have understood," said I persistently, and (I think) gracefully pursuing my inquiries and fortifying my position as a family friend. "Dear, dear, how sad! And has this change--poor Carthew's return, and all--has this not mended matters?" "Well, no, sir, not a sign of it," was the reply. "Worse, we think, than ever." "Dear, dear!" said I again. "When Mr. Norris arrived she _did_ seem glad to see him," he pursued, "and we were all pleased, I'm sure; for no one knows the young gentleman but what likes him. Ah, sir, it didn't last long! That very night they had a talk, and fell out or something; her ladyship took on most painful: it was like old days, but worse. And the next morning Mr. Norris was off again upon his travels. 'Denman,' he said to Mr. Denman, 'Denman, I'll never come back,' he said, and shook him by the 'and. I wouldn't be saying all this to a stranger, sir," added my informant, overcome with a sudden fear lest he had gone too far. He had indeed told me much, and much that was unsuspected by himself. On that stormy night of his return, Carthew had told his story; the old lady had more upon her mind than mere bereavements; and among the mental pictures on which she looked, as she walked staring down the path, was one of Midway Island and the _Flying Scud_. Mr. Denman heard my inquiries with discomposure, but informed me the shyster was already gone. "Gone?" cried I. "Then what can he have come for? One thing I can tell you, it was not to see the house." "I don't see it could have been anything else," replied the butler. "You may depend upon it, it was," said I. "And whatever it was, he has got it.--By the way, where is Mr. Carthew at present? I was sorry to find he was from home." "He is engaged in travelling, sir," replied the butler drily. "Ah, bravo!" cried I. "I laid a trap for you there, Mr. Denman. Now I need not ask you; I am sure you did not tell this prying stranger." "To be sure not, sir," said the butler. I went through the form of "shaking him by the 'and"--like Mr. Norris--not, however, with genuine enthusiasm. For I had failed ingloriously to get the address for myself; and I felt a sure conviction that Bellairs had done better, or he had still been here and still cultivating Mr. Denman. I had escaped the grounds and the cattle; I could not escape the house. A lady with silver hair, a slender silver voice, and a stream of insignificant information not to be diverted, led me through the picture gallery, the music-room, the great dining-room, the long drawing-room, the Indian room, the theatre, and every corner (as I thought) of that interminable mansion. There was but one place reserved, the garden-room, whither Lady Ann had now retired. I paused a moment on the outside of the door, and smiled to myself. The situation was indeed strange, and these thin boards divided the secret of the _Flying Scud_. All the while, as I went to and fro, I was considering the visit and departure of Bellairs. That he had got the address, I was quite certain; that he had not got it by direct questioning, I was convinced; some ingenuity, some lucky accident, had served him. A similar chance, an equal ingenuity, was required; or I was left helpless; the ferret must run down his prey, the great oaks fall, the Raphaels be scattered, the house let to some stockbroker suddenly made rich, and the name which now filled the mouths of five or six parishes dwindle to a memory. Strange that such great matters, so old a mansion, a family so ancient and so dull, should come to depend for perpetuity upon the intelligence, the discretion, and the cunning of a Latin-Quarter student! What Bellairs had done, I must do likewise. Chance or ingenuity, ingenuity or chance--so I continued to ring the changes as I walked down the avenue, casting back occasional glances at the red brick façade and the twinkling windows of the house. How was I to command chance? where was I to find the ingenuity? These reflections brought me to the door of the inn. And here, pursuant to my policy of keeping well with all men, I immediately smoothed my brow, and accepted (being the only guest in the house) an invitation to dine with the family in the bar-parlour. I sat down accordingly with Mr. Higgs, the ex-butler, Mrs. Higgs, the ex-lady's-maid, and Miss Agnes Higgs, their frowsy-headed little girl, the least promising and (as the event showed) the most useful of the lot. The talk ran endlessly on the great house and the great family; the roast beef, the Yorkshire pudding, the jam-roll, and the cheddar cheese came and went, and still the stream flowed on; near four generations of Carthews were touched upon without eliciting one point of interest; and we had killed Mr. Henry in "the 'unting-field," with a vast elaboration of painful circumstance, and buried him in the midst of a whole sorrowing county, before I could so much as manage to bring upon the stage my intimate friend, Mr. Norris. At the name the ex-butler grew diplomatic, and the ex-lady's-maid tender. He was the only person of the whole featureless series who seemed to have accomplished anything worth mention; and his achievements, poor dog, seemed to have been confined to going to the devil and leaving some regrets. He had been the image of the Right Honourable Bailley, one of the lights of that dim house, and a career of distinction had been predicted of him in consequence, almost from the cradle. But before he was out of long clothes the cloven foot began to show; he proved to be no Carthew, developed a taste for low pleasures and bad company, went birdnesting with a stable-boy before he was eleven, and when he was near twenty, and might have been expected to display at least some rudiments of the family gravity, rambled the country over with a knapsack, making sketches and keeping company in wayside inns. He had no pride about him, I was told; he would sit down with any man; and it was somewhat woundingly implied that I was indebted to this peculiarity for my own acquaintance with the hero. Unhappily, Mr. Norris was not only eccentric, he was fast. His debts were still remembered at the University; still more, it appeared, the highly humorous circumstances attending his expulsion. "He was always fond of his jest," commented Mrs. Higgs. "That he were," observed her lord. But it was after he went into the diplomatic service that the real trouble began. "It seems, sir, that he went the pace extraordinary," said the ex-butler, with a solemn gusto. "His debts were somethink awful," said the lady's-maid. "And as nice a young gentleman all the time as you would wish to see!" "When word came to Mr. Carthew's ears the turn-up was 'orrible," continued Mr. Higgs. "I remember it as if it was yesterday. The bell was rung after her la'ship was gone, which I answered it myself, supposing it were the coffee. There was Mr. Carthew on his feet. ''Iggs,' he says, pointing with his stick, for he had a turn of the gout, 'order the dog-cart instantly for this son of mine which has disgraced hisself.' Mr. Norris say nothink: he sit there with his 'ead down, making belief to be looking at a walnut. You might have bowled me over with a straw," said Mr. Higgs. "Had he done anything very bad?" I asked. "Not he, Mr. Dodsley!" cried the lady--it was so she had conceived my name. "He never did anythink to call really wrong in his poor life. The 'ole affair was a disgrace. It was all rank favouritising." "Mrs. 'Iggs! Mrs. 'Iggs!" cried the butler warningly. "Well, what do I care?" retorted the lady, shaking her ringlets. "You know it was, yourself, Mr. 'Iggs, and so did every member of the staff." While I was getting these facts and opinions, I by no means neglected the child. She was not attractive; but fortunately she had reached the corrupt age of seven, when half-a-crown appears about as large as a saucer and is fully as rare as the dodo. For a shilling down, sixpence in her money-box, and an American gold dollar which I happened to find in my pocket, I bought the creature soul and body. She declared her intention to accompany me to the ends of the earth; and had to be chidden by her sire for drawing comparisons between myself and her Uncle William, highly damaging to the latter. Dinner was scarce done, the cloth was not yet removed, when Miss Agnes must needs climb into my lap with her stamp album, a relic of the generosity of Uncle William. There are few things I despise more than old stamps, unless perhaps it be crests; for cattle (from the Carthew Chillinghams down to the old gate-keeper's milk-cow in the lane) contempt is far from being my first sentiment. But it seemed I was doomed to pass that day in viewing curiosities, and, smothering a yawn, I devoted myself once more to tread the well-known round. I fancy Uncle William must have begun the collection himself and tired of it, for the book (to my surprise) was quite respectably filled. There were the varying shades of the English penny, Russians with the coloured heart, old undecipherable Thurn-und-Taxis, obsolete triangular Cape of Good Hopes, Swan Rivers with the Swan, and Guianas with the sailing ship. Upon all these I looked with the eyes of a fish and the spirit of a sheep; I think, indeed, I was at times asleep; and it was probably in one of these moments that I capsized the album, and there fell from the end of it, on the floor, a considerable number of what I believe to be called "exchanges." Here, against all probability, my chance had come to me; for as I gallantly picked them up, I was struck with the disproportionate amount of five-sous French stamps. Some one, I reasoned, must write very regularly from France to the neighbourhood of Stallbridge-le-Carthew. Could it be Norris? On one stamp I made out an initial C; upon a second I got as far as CH; beyond which point the postmark used was in every instance undecipherable. CH, when you consider that about a quarter of the towns in France begin with "château," was an insufficient clue; and I promptly annexed the plainest of the collection in order to consult the post-office. The wretched infant took me in the fact. "Naughty man, to 'teal my 'tamp!" she cried; and when I would have brazened it off with a denial, recovered and displayed the stolen article. My position was now highly false; and I believe it was in mere pity that Mrs. Higgs came to my rescue with a welcome proposition. If the gentleman was really interested in stamps, she said, probably supposing me a monomaniac on the point, he should see Mr. Denman's album. Mr. Denman had been collecting forty years, and his collection was said to be worth a mint of money. "Agnes," she went, on, "if you were a kind little girl, you would run over to the 'All, tell Mr. Denman there's a connaisseer in the 'ouse, and ask him if one of the young gentleman might bring the album down." "I should like to see his exchanges too," I cried, rising to the occasion. "I may have some of mine in my pocket-book, and we might trade." Half an hour later Mr. Denman arrived himself with a most unconscionable volume under his arm. "Ah, sir," he cried, "when I 'eard you was a collector I dropped all. It's a saying of mine, Mr. Dodsley, that collecting stamps makes all collectors kin. It's a bond, sir; it creates a bond." Upon the truth of this I cannot say; but there is no doubt that the attempt to pass yourself off for a collector falsely creates a precarious situation. "Ah, here's the second issue!" I would say, after consulting the legend at the side. "The pink--no, I mean the mauve--yes, that's the beauty of this lot. Though of course, as you say," I would hasten to add, "this yellow on the thin paper is more rare." Indeed I must certainly have been detected, had I not plied Mr. Denman in self-defence with his favourite liquor--a port so excellent that it could never have ripened in the cellar of the Carthew Arms, but must have been transported, under cloud of night, from the neighbouring vaults of the great house. At each threat of exposure, and in particular whenever I was directly challenged for an opinion, I made haste to fill the butler's glass, and by the time we had got to the exchanges, he was in a condition in which no stamp-collector need be seriously feared. God forbid I should hint that he was drunk; he seemed incapable of the necessary liveliness; but the man's eyes were set, and so long as he was suffered to talk without interruption, he seemed careless of my heeding him. In Mr. Denman's exchanges, as in those of little Agnes, the same peculiarity was to be remarked,--an undue preponderance of that despicably common stamp, the French twenty-five centimes. And here joining them in stealthy review, I found the C and the CH; then something of an A just following; and then a terminal Y. Here was almost the whole name spelt out to me; it seemed familiar too; and yet for some time I could not bridge the imperfection. Then I came upon another stamp, in which an L was legible before the Y, and in a moment the word leaped up complete. Chailly, that was the name: Chailly-en-Bière, the post town of Barbizon--ah, there was the very place for any man to hide himself--there was the very place for Mr. Norris, who had rambled over England making sketches--the very place for Goddedaal, who had left a palette-knife on board the _Flying Scud_. Singular, indeed, that while I was drifting over England with the shyster, the man we were in quest of awaited me at my own ultimate destination. Whether Mr. Denman had shown his album to Bellairs, whether, indeed, Bellairs could have caught (as I did) this hint from an obliterated postmark, I shall never know, and it mattered not. We were equal now; my task at Stallbridge-le-Carthew was accomplished; my interest in postage-stamps died shamelessly away; the astonished Denman was bowed out; and, ordering the horse to be put in, I plunged into the study of the time-table. CHAPTER XXI FACE TO FACE I fell from the skies on Barbizon about two o'clock of a September afternoon. It is the dead hour of the day; all the workers have gone painting, all the idlers strolling, in the forest or the plain; the winding causewayed street is solitary, and the inn deserted. I was the more pleased to find one of my old companions in the dining-room; his town clothes marked him for a man in the act of departure; and indeed his portmanteau lay beside him on the floor. "Why, Stennis," I cried, "you're the last man I expected to find here." "You won't find me here long," he replied. "'_King Pandion he is dead; all his friends are lapped in lead._' For men of our antiquity, the poor old shop is played out." "'_I have had playmates, I have had companions_,'" I quoted in return. We were both moved, I think, to meet again in this scene of our old pleasure parties so unexpectedly, after so long an interval, and both already so much altered. "That is the sentiment," he replied. "'_All, all are gone, the old familiar faces._' I have been here a week, and the only living creature who seemed to recollect me was the Pharaon. Bar the Sirons, of course, and the perennial Bodmer." "Is there no survivor?" I inquired. "Of our geological epoch? not one," he replied. "This is the city of Petra in Edom." "And what sort of Bedouins encamp among the ruins?" I asked. "Youth, Dodd, youth; blooming, conscious youth," he returned. "Such a gang, such reptiles! to think we were like that! I wonder Siron didn't sweep us from his premises." "Perhaps we weren't so bad," I suggested. "Don't let me depress you," said he. "We were both Anglo-Saxons, anyway, and the only redeeming feature to-day is another." The thought of my quest, a moment driven out by this rencounter, revived in my mind. "Who is he?" I cried. "Tell me about him." "What, the Redeeming Feature?" said he. "Well, he's a very pleasing creature, rather dim, and dull, and genteel, but really pleasing. He is very British, though, the artless Briton! Perhaps you'll find him too much so for the transatlantic nerves. Come to think of it, on the other hand, you ought to get on famously, he is an admirer of your great republic in one of its (excuse me) shoddiest features; he takes in and sedulously reads a lot of American papers. I warned you he was artless." "What papers are they?" cried I. "San Francisco papers," said he. "He gets a bale of them about twice a week, and studies them like the Bible. That's one of his weaknesses; another is to be incalculably rich. He has taken Masson's old studio--you remember?--at the corner of the road; he has furnished it regardless of expense, and lives there surrounded with _vins fins_ and works of art. When the youth of to-day goes up to the Caverne des Brigands to make punch--they do all that we did, like some nauseous form of ape (I never appreciated before what a creature of tradition mankind is)--this Madden follows with a basket of champagne. I told him he was wrong, and the punch tasted better; but he thought the boys liked the style of the thing, and I suppose they do. He is a very good-natured soul, and a very melancholy, and rather a helpless. O, and he has a third weakness which I came near forgetting. He paints. He has never been taught, and he's well on for thirty, and he paints." "How?" I asked. "Rather well, I think," was the reply. "That's the annoying part of it. See for yourself. That panel is his." I stepped toward the window. It was the old familiar room, with the tables set like a Greek [Pi], and the side-board, and the aphasic piano, and the panels on the wall. There were Romeo and Juliet, Antwerp from the river, Enfleld's ships among the ice, and the huge huntsman winding a huge horn; mingled with them a few new ones, the thin crop of a succeeding generation, not better and not worse. It was to one of these I was directed: a thing coarsely and wittily handled, mostly with the palette-knife; the colour in some parts excellent, the canvas in others loaded with mere clay. But it was the scene and not the art or want of it that riveted my notice. The foreground was of sand and scrub and wreckwood; in the middle distance the many-hued and smooth expanse of a lagoon, enclosed by a wall of breakers; beyond, a blue strip of ocean. The sky was cloudless, and I could hear the surf break. For the place was Midway Island; the point of view the very spot at which I had landed with the captain for the first time, and from which I had re-embarked the day before we sailed. I had already been gazing for some seconds before my attention was arrested by a blur on the sea-line, and, stooping to look, I recognised the smoke of a steamer. "Yes," said I, turning toward Stennis, "it has merit. What is it?" "A fancy piece," he returned. "That's what pleased me. So few of the fellows in our time had the imagination of a garden-snail." "Madden, you say his name is?" I pursued. "Madden," he repeated. "Has he travelled much?" I inquired. "I haven't an idea. He is one of the least autobiographical of men. He sits, and smokes, and giggles, and sometimes he makes small jests; but his contributions to the art of pleasing are generally confined to looking like a gentleman and being one. No," added Stennis, "he'll never suit you, Dodd; you like more head on your liquor. You'll find him as dull as ditchwater." "Has he big blonde side-whiskers like tusks?" I asked, mindful of the photograph of Goddedaal. "Certainly not; why should he?" was the reply. "Does he write many letters?" I continued. "God knows," said Stennis.--"What is wrong with you? I never saw you taken this way before." "The fact is, I think I know the man," said I. "I think I'm looking for him. I rather think he is my long-lost brother." "Not twins, anyway," returned Stennis. And about the same time, a carriage driving up to the inn, he took his departure. I walked till dinner-time in the plain, keeping to the fields; for I instinctively shunned observation, and was racked by many incongruous and impatient feelings. Here was a man whose voice I had once heard, whose doings had filled so many days of my life with interest and distress, whom I had lain awake to dream of like a lover, and now his hand was on the door; now we were to meet; now I was to learn at last the mystery of the substituted crew. The sun went down over the plain of the Angelus, and as the hour approached my courage lessened. I let the laggard peasants pass me on the homeward way. The lamps were lit, the soup was served, the company were all at table, and the room sounded already with multitudinous talk before I entered. I took my place and found I was opposite to Madden. Over six feet high and well set up, the hair dark and streaked with silver, the eyes dark and kindly, the mouth very good-natured, the teeth admirable; linen and hands exquisite; English clothes, an English voice, an English bearing--the man stood out conspicuous from the company. Yet he had made himself at home, and seemed to enjoy a certain quiet popularity among the noisy boys of the table d'hôte. He had an odd silver giggle of a laugh that sounded nervous even when he was really amused, and accorded ill with his big stature and manly, melancholy face. This laugh fell in continually all through dinner like the note of the triangle in a piece of modern French music; and he had at times a kind of pleasantry, rather of manner than of words, with which he started or maintained the merriment. He took his share in these diversions, not so much like a man in high spirits, but like one of an approved good-nature, habitually self-forgetful, accustomed to please and to follow others. I have remarked in old soldiers much the same smiling sadness and sociable self-effacement. I feared to look at him, lest my glances should betray my deep excitement, and chance served me so well that the soup was scarce removed before we were naturally introduced. My first sip of Château Siron, a vintage from which I had been long estranged, startled me into speech. "O, this'll never do!" I cried, in English. "Dreadful stuff, isn't it?" said Madden, in the same language. "Do let me ask you to share my bottle. They call it Chambertin, which it isn't; but it's fairly palatable, and there's nothing in this house that a man can drink at all." I accepted; anything would do that paved the way to better knowledge. "Your name is Madden, I think," said I. "My old friend Stennis told me about you when I came." "Yes, I am sorry he went; I feel such a Grandfather William, alone among all these lads," he replied. "My name is Dodd," I resumed. "Yes," said he, "so Madame Siron told me." "Dodd, of San Francisco," I continued. "Late of Pinkerton and Dodd." "Montana Block, I think?" said he. "The same," said I. Neither of us looked at each other; but I could see his hand deliberately making bread pills. "That's a nice thing of yours," I pursued, "that panel. The foreground is a little clayey, perhaps, but the lagoon is excellent." "You ought to know," said he. "Yes," returned I, "I'm rather a good judge of--that panel." There was a considerable pause. "You know a man by the name of Bellairs, don't you?" he resumed. "Ah!" cried I, "you have heard from Dr. Urquart?" "This very morning," he replied. "Well, there is no hurry about Bellairs," said I. "It's rather a long story, and rather a silly one. But I think we have a good deal to tell each other, and perhaps we had better wait till we are more alone." "I think so," said he. "Not that any of these fellows know English, but we'll be more comfortable over at my place.--Your health, Dodd." And we took wine together across the table. Thus had this singular introduction passed unperceived in the midst of more than thirty persons, art-students, ladies in dressing-gowns and covered with rice powder, six foot of Siron whisking dishes over our head, and his noisy sons clattering in and out with fresh relays. "One question more," said I: "did you recognise my voice?" "Your voice?" he repeated. "How should I? I had never heard it--we have never met." "And yet we have been in conversation before now," said I, "and I asked you a question which you never answered, and which I have since had many thousand better reasons for putting to myself." He turned suddenly white. "Good God!" he cried, "are you the man in the telephone?" I nodded. "Well, well!" said he. "It would take a good deal of magnanimity to forgive you that. What nights I have passed! That little whisper has whistled in my ear ever since, like the wind in a keyhole. Who could it be? What could it mean? I suppose I have had more real, solid misery out of that...." He paused, and looked troubled. "Though I had more to bother me, or ought to have," he added, and slowly emptied his glass. "It seems we were born to drive each other crazy with conundrums," said I. "I have often thought my head would split." Carthew burst into his foolish laugh. "And yet neither you nor I had the worst of the puzzle," he cried. "There were others deeper in." "And who were they?" I asked. "The underwriters," said he. "Why, to be sure!" cried I. "I never thought of that. What could they make of it?" "Nothing," replied Carthew. "It couldn't be explained. They were a crowd of small dealers at Lloyd's who took it up in syndicate; one of them has a carriage now; and people say he is a deuce of a deep fellow, and has the makings of a great financier. Another furnished a small villa on the profits. But they're all hopelessly muddled; and when they meet each other they don't know where to look, like the Augurs." Dinner was no sooner at an end than he carried me across the road to Masson's old studio. It was strangely changed. On the walls were tapestry, a few good etchings, and some amazing pictures--a Rousseau, a Corot, a really superb old Crome, a Whistler, and a piece which my host claimed (and I believe) to be a Titian. The room was furnished with comfortable English smoking-room chairs, some American rockers, and an elaborate business table; spirits and soda-water (with the mark of Schweppe, no less) stood ready on a butler's tray, and in one corner, behind a half-drawn curtain, I spied a camp-bed and a capacious tub. Such a room in Barbizon astonished the beholder, like the glories of the cave of Monte Cristo. "Now," said he, "we are quiet. Sit down, if you don't mind, and tell me your story all through." I did as he asked, beginning with the day when Jim showed me the passage in the _Daily Occidental_, and winding up with the stamp album and the Chailly post-mark. It was a long business; and Carthew made it longer, for he was insatiable of details; and it had struck midnight on the old eight-day clock in the corner before I had made an end. "And now," said he, "turn about: I must tell you my side, much as I hate it. Mine is a beastly story. You'll wonder how I can sleep. I've told it once before, Mr. Dodd." "To Lady Ann?" I asked. "As you suppose," he answered; "and, to say the truth, I had sworn never to tell it again. Only, you seem somehow entitled to the thing; you have paid dear enough, God knows; and God knows I hope you may like it, now you've got it!" With that he began his yarn. A new day had dawned, the cocks crew in the village and the early woodmen were afoot, when he concluded. CHAPTER XXII THE REMITTANCE MAN Singleton Carthew, the father of Norris, was heavily built and feebly vitalised, sensitive as a musician, dull as a sheep, and conscientious as a dog. He took his position with seriousness, even with pomp; the long rooms, the silent servants, seemed in his eyes like the observances of some religion of which he was the mortal god. He had the stupid man's intolerance of stupidity in others; the vain man's exquisite alarm lest it should be detected in himself. And on both sides Norris irritated and offended him. He thought his son a fool, and he suspected that his son returned the compliment with interest. The history of their relation was simple; they met seldom, they quarrelled often. To his mother, a fiery, pungent, practical woman, already disappointed in her husband and her elder son, Norris was only a fresh disappointment. Yet the lad's faults were no great matter; he was diffident, placable, passive, unambitious, unenterprising; life did not much attract him; he watched it like a curious and dull exhibition, not much amused, and not tempted in the least to take a part. He beheld his father ponderously grinding sand, his mother fierily breaking butterflies, his brother labouring at the pleasures of the Hawbuck with the ardour of a soldier in a doubtful battle; and the vital sceptic looked on wondering. They were careful and troubled about many things; for him there seemed not even one thing needful. He was born disenchanted, the world's promises awoke no echo in his bosom, the world's activities and the world's distinctions seemed to him equally without a base in fact. He liked the open air; he liked comradeship, it mattered not with whom, his comrades were only a remedy for solitude. And he had a taste for painted art. An array of fine pictures looked upon his childhood, and from these roods of jewelled canvas he received an indelible impression. The gallery at Stallbridge betokened generations of picture-lovers; Norris was perhaps the first of his race to hold the pencil. The taste was genuine, it grew and strengthened with his growth; and yet he suffered it to be suppressed with scarce a struggle. Time came for him to go to Oxford, and he resisted faintly. He was stupid, he said; it was no good to put him through the mill; he wished to be a painter. The words fell on his father like a thunderbolt, and Norris made haste to give way. "It didn't really matter, don't you know?" said he. "And it seemed an awful shame to vex the old boy." To Oxford he went obediently, hopelessly; and at Oxford became the hero of a certain circle. He was active and adroit; when he was in the humour, he excelled in many sports; and his singular melancholy detachment gave him a place apart. He set a fashion in his clique. Envious undergraduates sought to parody his unaffected lack of zeal and fear; it was a kind of new Byronism more composed and dignified. "Nothing really mattered"; among other things this formula embraced the dons; and though he always meant to be civil, the effect on the college authorities was one of startling rudeness. His indifference cut like insolence; and in some outbreak of his constitutional levity (the complement of his melancholy) he was "sent down" in the middle of the second year. The event was new in the annals of the Carthews, and Singleton was prepared to make the most of it. It had been long his practice to prophesy for his second son a career of ruin and disgrace. There is an advantage in this artless parental habit. Doubtless the father is interested in his son; but doubtless also the prophet grows to be interested in his prophecies. If the one goes wrong, the others come true. Old Carthew drew from this source esoteric consolations; he dwelt at length on his own foresight; he produced variations hitherto unheard from the old theme "I told you so," coupled his son's name with the gallows and the hulks, and spoke of his small handful of college debts as though he must raise money on a mortgage to discharge them. "I don't think that is fair, sir," said Norris; "I lived at college exactly as you told me. I am sorry I was sent down, and you have a perfect right to blame me for that; but you have no right to pitch into me about these debts." The effect upon a stupid man not unjustly incensed need scarcely be described. For a while Singleton raved. "I'll tell you what, father," said Norris at last, "I don't think this is going to do. I think you had better let me take to painting. It's the only thing I take a spark of interest in. I shall never be steady as long as I'm at anything else." "When you stand here, sir, to the neck in disgrace," said the father, "I should have hoped you would have had more good taste than to repeat this levity." The hint was taken; the levity was never more obtruded on the father's notice, and Norris was inexorably launched upon a backward voyage. He went abroad to study foreign languages, which he learned, at a very expensive rate; and a fresh crop of debts fell soon to be paid, with similar lamentations, which were in this case perfectly justified, and to which Norris paid no regard. He had been unfairly treated over the Oxford affair; and with a spice of malice very surprising in one so placable, and an obstinacy remarkable in one so weak, refused from that day forward to exercise the least captaincy on his expenses. He wasted what he would; he allowed his servants to despoil him at their pleasure; he sowed insolvency; and, when the crop was ripe, notified his father with exasperating calm. His own capital was put in his hands, he was planted in the diplomatic service, and told he must depend upon himself. He did so till he was twenty-five, by which time he had spent his money, laid in a handsome choice of debts and acquired (like so many other melancholic and uninterested persons) a habit of gambling. An Austrian colonel--the same who afterwards hanged himself at Monte Carlo--gave him a lesson which lasted two-and-twenty hours, and left him wrecked and helpless. Old Singleton once more repurchased the honour of his name, this time at a fancy figure; and Norris was set afloat again on stern conditions. An allowance of three hundred pounds in the year was to be paid to him quarterly by a lawyer in Sydney, New South Wales. He was not to write. Should he fail on any quarter-day to be in Sydney, he was to be held for dead, and the allowance tacitly withdrawn. Should he return to Europe, an advertisement publicly disowning him was to appear in every paper of repute. It was one of his most annoying features as a son that he was always polite, always just, and in whatever whirlwind of domestic anger always calm. He expected trouble; when trouble came he was unmoved; he might have said with Singleton, "_I told you so_": he was content with thinking, "_Just as I expected_." On the fall of these last thunderbolts he bore himself like a person only distantly interested in the event, pocketed the money and the reproaches, obeyed orders punctually; took ship and came to Sydney. Some men are still lads at twenty-five; and so it was with Norris. Eighteen days after he landed his quarter's allowance was all gone, and with the light-hearted hopefulness of strangers in what is called a new country he began to besiege offices and apply for all manner of incongruous situations. Everywhere, and last of all from his lodgings, he was bowed out; and found himself reduced, in a very elegant suit of summer tweeds, to herd and camp with the degraded outcasts of the city. In this strait he had recourse to the lawyer who paid him his allowance. "Try to remember that my time is valuable, Mr. Carthew," said the lawyer. "It is quite unnecessary you should enlarge on the peculiar position in which you stand. _Remittance men_, as we call them here, are not so rare in my experience; and in such cases I act upon a system. I make you a present of a sovereign--here it is. Every day you choose to call my clerk will advance you a shilling; on Saturday, since my office is closed on Sunday, he will advance you half-a-crown. My conditions are these. That you do not come to me, but to my clerk, that you do not come here the worse of liquor; and you go away the moment you are paid and have signed a receipt.--I wish you a good morning." "I have to thank you, I suppose," said Carthew. "My position is so wretched that I cannot even refuse this starvation allowance." "Starvation!" said the lawyer, smiling. "No man will starve here on a shilling a day. I had on my hands another young gentleman who remained continuously intoxicated for six years on the same allowance." And he once more busied himself with his papers. In the time that followed, the image of the smiling lawyer haunted Carthew's memory. "That three minutes' talk was all the education I ever had worth talking of," says he. "It was all life in a nutshell. Confound it," I thought, "have I got to the point of envying that ancient fossil?" Every morning for the next two or three weeks the stroke of ten found Norris, unkempt and haggard, at the lawyer's door. The long day and longer night he spent in the Domain, now on a bench, now on the grass under a Norfolk Island pine, the companion of perhaps the lowest class on earth, the Larrikins of Sydney. Morning after morning, the dawn behind the lighthouse recalled him from slumber; and he would stand and gaze upon the changing east, the fading lenses, the smokeless city, and the many-armed and many-masted harbour growing slowly clear under his eyes. His bed-fellows (so to call them) were less active; they lay sprawled upon the grass and benches, the dingy men, the frowsy women, prolonging their late repose; and Carthew wandered among the sleeping bodies alone, and cursed the incurable stupidity of his behaviour. Day brought a new society of nurserymaids and children, and fresh-dressed and (I am sorry to say) tight-laced maidens, and gay people in rich traps; upon the skirts of which Carthew and "the other black-guards"--his own bitter phrase--skulked, and chewed grass, and looked on. Day passed, the light died, the green and leafy precinct sparkled with lamps or lay in shadow, and the round of the night began again--the loitering women, the lurking men, the sudden outburst of screams, the sound of flying feet. "You mayn't believe it," says Carthew, "but I got to that pitch that I didn't care a hang. I have been wakened out of my sleep to hear a woman screaming, and I have only turned upon my other side. Yes, it's a queer place, where the dowagers and the kids walk all day, and at night you can hear people bawling for help as if it was the Forest of Bondy, with the lights of a great town all round, and parties spinning through in cabs from Government House and dinner with my lord!" It was Norris's diversion, having none other, to scrape acquaintance, where, how, and with whom he could. Many a long, dull talk he held upon the benches or the grass; many a strange waif he came to know; many strange things he heard, and saw some that were abominable. It was to one of these last that he owed his deliverance from the Domain. For some time the rain had been merciless; one night after another he had been obliged to squander fourpence on a bed and reduce his board to the remaining eightpence: and he sat one morning near the Macquarrie Street entrance, hungry, for he had gone without breakfast, and wet, as he had already been for several days, when the cries of an animal in distress attracted his attention. Some fifty yards away, in the extreme angle of the grass, a party of the chronically unemployed had got hold of a dog, whom they were torturing in a manner not to be described. The heart of Norris, which had grown indifferent to the cries of human anger or distress, woke at the appeal of the dumb creature. He ran amongst the Larrikins, scattered them, rescued the dog, and stood at bay. They were six in number, shambling gallows-birds; but for once the proverb was right, cruelty was coupled with cowardice, and the wretches cursed him and made off. It chanced that this act of prowess had not passed unwitnessed. On a bench near by there was seated a shopkeeper's assistant out of employ, a diminutive, cheerful, red-headed creature by the name of Hemstead. He was the last man to have interfered himself, for his discretion more than equalled his valour: but he made haste to congratulate Carthew, and to warn him that he might not always be so fortunate. "They're a dyngerous lot of people about this park. My word! it doesn't do to ply with them!" he observed, in that _rycy Austrylian_ English, which (as it has received the imprimatur of Mr. Froude) we should all make haste to imitate. "Why, I'm one of that lot myself," returned Carthew. Hemstead laughed, and remarked that he knew a gentleman when he saw one. "For all that, I am simply one of the unemployed," said Carthew, seating himself beside his new acquaintance, as he had sat (since this experience began) beside so many dozen others. "I'm out of a plyce myself," said Hemstead. "You beat me all the way and back," says Carthew. "My trouble is that I have never been in one." "I suppose you've no tryde?" asked Hemstead. "I know how to spend money," replied Carthew, "and I really do know something of horses and something of the sea. But the unions head me off; if it weren't for them, I might have had a dozen berths." "My word!" cried the sympathetic listener. "Ever try the mounted police?" he inquired. "I did, and was bowled out," was the reply; "couldn't pass the doctors." "Well, what do _you_ think of the ryleways, then?" asked Hemstead. "What do _you_ think of them, if you come to that?" asked Carthew. "O, _I_ don't think of them; I don't go in for manual labour," said the little man proudly. "But if a man don't mind that, he's pretty sure of a job there." "By George, you tell me where to go!" cried Carthew rising. The heavy rains continued, the country was already overrun with floods; the railway system daily required more hands, daily the superintendent advertised; but "the unemployed" preferred the resources of charity and rapine, and a navvy, even an amateur navvy, commanded money in the market. The same night, after a tedious journey, and a change of trains to pass a landslip, Norris found himself in a muddy cutting behind South Clifton, attacking his first shift of manual labour. For weeks the rain scarce relented. The whole front of the mountain slipped seaward from above, avalanches of clay, rock, and uprooted forest spewed over the cliffs and fell upon the beach or in the breakers. Houses were carried bodily away and smashed like nuts; others were menaced and deserted, the door locked, the chimney cold, the dwellers fled elsewhere for safety. Night and day the fire blazed in the encampment; night and day hot coffee was served to the overdriven toilers in the shift; night and day the engineer of the section made his rounds with words of encouragement, hearty and rough and well suited to his men. Night and day, too, the telegraph clicked with disastrous news and anxious inquiry. Along the terraced line of rail, rare trains came creeping and signalling; and paused at the threatened corner, like living things conscious of peril. The commandant of the post would hastily review his labours, make (with a dry throat) the signal to advance; and the whole squad line the way and look on in a choking silence, or burst into a brief cheer as the train cleared the point of danger and shot on, perhaps through the thin sunshine between squalls, perhaps with blinking lamps into the gathering rainy twilight. One such scene Carthew will remember till he dies. It blew great guns from the seaward; a huge surf bombarded, five hundred feet below him, the steep mountain's foot; close in was a vessel in distress, firing shots from a fowling-piece, if any help might come. So he saw and heard her the moment before the train appeared and paused, throwing up a Babylonian tower of smoke into the rain and oppressing men's hearts with the scream of her whistle. The engineer was there himself; he paled as he made the signal: the engine came at a foot's pace; but the whole bulk of mountain shook and seemed to nod seaward, and the watching navvies instinctively clutched at shrubs and trees: vain precautions, vain as the shots from the poor sailors. Once again fear was disappointed; the train passed unscathed; and Norris, drawing a long breath, remembered the labouring ship, and glanced below. She was gone. So the days and the nights passed: Homeric labour in Homeric circumstance. Carthew was sick with sleeplessness and coffee; his hands, softened by the wet, were cut to ribbons; yet he enjoyed a peace of mind and health of body hitherto unknown. Plenty of open air, plenty of physical exertion, a continual instancy of toil--here was what had been hitherto lacking in that misdirected life, and the true cure of vital scepticism. To get the train through, there was the recurrent problem: no time remained to ask if it were necessary. Carthew, the idler, the spendthrift, the drifting dilettante, was soon remarked, praised, and advanced. The engineer swore by him and pointed him out for an example. "I've a new chum, up here," Norris heard him saying, "a young swell. He's worth any two in the squad." The words fell on the ears of the discarded son like music; and from that moment he not only found an interest, he took a pride, in his plebeian tasks. The press of work was still at its highest when quarter-day approached. Norris was now raised to a position of some trust; at his discretion, trains were stopped or forwarded at the dangerous cornice near North Clifton; and he found in this responsibility both terror and delight. The thought of the seventy-five pounds that would soon await him at the lawyer's, and of his own obligation to be present every quarter-day in Sydney, filled him for a little with divided councils. Then he made up his mind, walked in a slack moment to the inn at Clifton, ordered a sheet of paper and a bottle of beer, and wrote, explaining that he held a good appointment which he would lose if he came to Sydney, and asking the lawyer to accept this letter as an evidence of his presence in the colony, and retain the money till next quarter-day. The answer came in course of post, and was not merely favourable but cordial. "Although what you propose is contrary to the terms of my instructions," it ran, "I willingly accept the responsibility of granting your request. I should say I am agreeably disappointed in your behaviour. My experience has not led me to found much expectations on gentlemen in your position." The rains abated, and the temporary labour was discharged; not Norris, to whom the engineer clung as to found money; not Norris, who found himself a ganger on the line in the regular staff of navvies. His camp was pitched in a grey wilderness of rock and forest, far from any house; as he sat with his mates about the evening fire, the trains passing on the track were their next, and indeed their only, neighbours, except the wild things of the wood. Lovely weather, light and monotonous employment, long hours of somnolent camp-fire talk, long sleepless nights, when he reviewed his foolish and fruitless career as he rose and walked in the moonlit forest, an occasional paper of which he would read all, the advertisements with as much relish as the text; such was the tenor of an existence which soon began to weary and harass him. He lacked and regretted the fatigue, the furious hurry, the suspense, the fires, the midnight coffee, the rude and mud-bespattered poetry of the first toilful weeks. In the quietness of his new surroundings a voice summoned him from this exorbital part of life, and about the middle of October he threw up his situation and bade farewell to the camp of tents and the shoulder of Bald Mountain. Clad in his rough clothes, with a bundle on his shoulder and his accumulated wages in his pocket, he entered Sydney for the second time, and walked with pleasure and some bewilderment in the cheerful streets, like a man landed from a voyage. The sight of the people led him on. He forgot his necessary errands, he forgot to eat. He wandered in moving multitudes like a stick upon a river. Last he came to the Domain and strolled there, and remembered his shame and sufferings, and looked with poignant curiosity at his successors. Hemstead, not much shabbier and no less cheerful than before, he recognised and addressed like an old family friend. "That was a good turn you did me," said he. "That railway was the making of me. I hope you've had luck yourself." "My word, no!" replied the little man. "I just sit here and read the _Dead Bird_. It's the depression in tryde, you see. There's no positions goin' that a man like me would care to look at." And he showed Norris his certificates and written characters, one from a grocer in Wooloomooloo, one from an ironmonger, and a third from a billiard saloon. "Yes," he said, "I tried bein' a billiard-marker. It's no account; these lyte hours are no use for a man's health. I won't be no man's slyve," he added firmly. On the principle that he who is too proud to be a slave is usually not too modest to become a pensioner, Carthew gave him half a sovereign and departed, being suddenly struck with hunger, in the direction of the Paris House. When he came to that quarter of the city, the barristers were trotting in the streets in wig and gown, and he stood to observe them with his bundle on his shoulder, and his mind full of curious recollections of the past. "By George!" cried a voice, "it's Mr. Carthew!" And turning about he found himself face to face with a handsome sunburnt youth, somewhat fatted, arrayed in the finest of fine raiment, and sporting about a sovereign's worth of flowers in his button-hole. Norris had met him during his first days in Sydney at a farewell supper; had even escorted him on board a schooner full of cockroaches and black-boy sailors, in which he was bound for six months among the islands; and had kept him ever since in entertained remembrance. Tom Hadden (known to the bulk of Sydney folk as _Tommy_) was heir to a considerable property, which a prophetic father had placed in the hands of rigorous trustees. The income supported Mr. Hadden in splendour for about three months out of twelve; the rest of the year he passed in retreat among the islands. He was now about a week returned from his eclipse, pervading Sydney in hansom cabs and airing the first bloom of six new suits of clothes; and yet the unaffected creature hailed Carthew in his working jeans and with the damning bundle on his shoulder, as he might have claimed acquaintance with a duke. "Come and have a drink?" was his cheerful cry. "I'm just going to have lunch at the Paris House," returned Carthew. "It's a long time since I have had a decent meal." "Splendid scheme!" said Hadden. "I've only had breakfast half an hour ago; but we'll have a private room, and I'll manage to pick something. It'll brace me up. I was on an awful tear last night, and I've met no end of fellows this morning." To meet a fellow, and to stand and share a drink, were with Tom synonymous terms. They were soon at table in the corner room upstairs, and paying due attention to the best fare in Sydney. The odd similarity of their positions drew them together, and they began soon to exchange confidences. Carthew related his privations in the Domain, and his toils as a navvy; Hadden gave his experience as an amateur copra merchant in the South Seas, and drew a humorous picture of life in a coral island. Of the two plans of retirement, Carthew gathered that his own had been vastly the more lucrative; but Hadden's trading outfit had consisted largely of bottled stout and brown sherry for his own consumption. "I had champagne, too," said Hadden, "but I kept that in case of sickness, until I didn't seem to be going to be sick, and then I opened a pint every Sunday. Used to sleep all morning, then breakfast with my pint of fizz, and lie in a hammock and read Hallam's 'Middle Ages.' Have you read that? I always take something solid to the islands. There's no doubt I did the thing in rather a fine style; but if it was gone about a little cheaper, or there were two of us to bear the expense, it ought to pay hand over fist. I've got the influence, you see. I'm a chief now, and sit in the speak-house under my own strip of roof. I'd like to see them taboo _me!_ They daren't try it; I've a strong party, I can tell you. Why I've had upwards of thirty cowtops sitting in my front verandah eating tins of salmon." "Cowtops?" asked Carthew, "what are they?" "That's what Hallam would call feudal retainers," explained Hadden, not without vainglory. "They're My Followers. They belong to My Family. I tell you, they come expensive, though; you can't fill up all these retainers on tinned salmon for nothing; but whenever I could get it, I would give 'em squid. Squid's good for natives, but I don't care for it, do you?--or shark either. It's like the working classes at home. With copra at the price it is, they ought to be willing to bear their share of the loss; and so I've told them again and again. I think it's a man's duty to open their minds, and I try to, but you can't get political economy into them; it doesn't seem to reach their intelligence." There was an expression still sticking in Carthew's memory, and he returned upon it with a smile. "Talking of political economy," said he, "you said if there were two of us to bear the expense, the profits would increase. How do you make out that?" "I'll show you! I'll figure it out for you!" cried Hadden, and with a pencil on the back of the bill of fare proceeded to perform miracles. He was a man, or let us rather say a lad, of unusual projective power. Give him the faintest hint of any speculation, and the figures flowed from him by the page. A lively imagination, and a ready, though inaccurate memory, supplied his data; he delivered himself with an inimitable heat that made him seem the picture of pugnacity; lavished contradiction had a form of words, with or without significance, for every form of criticism; and the looker-on alternately smiled at his simplicity and fervour, or was amazed by his unexpected shrewdness. He was a kind of Pinkerton in play. I have called Jim's the romance of business; this was its Arabian tale. "Have you any idea what this would cost?" he asked, pausing at an item. "Not I," said Carthew. "Ten pounds ought to be ample," concluded the projector. "O, nonsense!" cried Carthew. "Fifty at the very least." "You told me yourself this moment you knew nothing about it!" cried Tommy. "How can I make a calculation if you blow hot and cold? You don't seem able to be serious!" But he consented to raise his estimate to twenty; and a little after, the calculation coming out with a deficit, cut it down again to five pounds ten, with the remark, "I told you it was nonsense. This sort of thing has to be done strictly, or where's the use?" Some of these processes struck Carthew as unsound; and he was at times altogether thrown out by the capricious starlings of the prophet's mind. These plunges seemed to be gone into for exercise and by the way, like the curvets of a willing horse. Gradually the thing took shape; the glittering if baseless edifice arose; and the hare still ran on the mountains, but the soup was already served in silver plate. Carthew in a few days could command a hundred and fifty pounds; Hadden was ready with five hundred; why should they not recruit a fellow or two more, charter an old ship, and go cruising on their own account? Carthew was an experienced yachtsman; Hadden professed himself able to "work an approximate sight." Money was undoubtedly to be made, or why should so many vessels cruise about the islands? they who worked their own ship, were sure of a still higher profit. "And whatever else comes of it, you see," cried Hadden, "we get our keep for nothing.--Come, buy some togs, that's the first thing you have to do of course; and then we'll take a hansom and go to the 'Currency Lass.'" "I'm going to stick to the togs I have," said Norris. "Are you?" cried Hadden. "Well, I must say I admire you. You're a regular sage. It's what you call Pythagoreanism, isn't it? if I haven't forgotten my philosophy." "Well, I call it economy," returned Carthew. "If we are going to try this thing on, I shall want every sixpence." "You'll see if we're going to try it!" cried Tommy, rising radiant from table. "Only, mark you, Carthew, it must be all in your name. I have capital, you see; but you're all right. You can play _vacuus viator_ if the thing goes wrong." "I thought we had just proved it was quite safe," said Carthew. "There's nothing safe in business, my boy," replied the sage; "not even bookmaking." The public-house and tea-garden called the "Currency Lass" represented a moderate fortune gained by its proprietor, Captain Bostock, during a long, active, and occasionally historic career, among the islands. Anywhere from Tonga to the Admiralty Isles, he knew the ropes and could lie in the native dialect. He had seen the end of sandalwood, the end of oil, and the beginning of copra; and he was himself a commercial pioneer, the first that ever carried human teeth into the Gilberts. He was tried for his life in Fiji in Sir Arthur Gordon's time; and if ever he prayed at all, the name of Sir Arthur was certainly not forgotten. He was speared in seven places in New Ireland--the same time his mate was killed--the famous "outrage on the brig _Jolly Roger_"; but the treacherous savages made little by their wickedness, and Bostock, in spite of their teeth, got seventy-five head of volunteer labour on board, of whom not more than a dozen died of injuries. He had a hand, besides, in the amiable pleasantry which cost the life of Patteson; and when the sham bishop landed, prayed, and gave his benediction to the natives, Bostock, arrayed in a female chemise out of the trade-room, had stood at his right hand and boomed amens. This, when he was sure he was among good fellows, was his favourite yarn. "Two hundred head of labour for a hatful of amens," he used to name the tale; and its sequel, the death of the real bishop, struck him as a circumstance of extraordinary humour. Many of these details were communicated in the hansom, to the surprise of Carthew. "Why do we want to visit this old ruffian?" he asked. "You wait till you hear him," replied Tommy. "That man knows everything." On descending from the hansom at the "Currency Lass," Hadden was struck with the appearance of the cabman, a gross, salt-looking man, red-faced, blue-eyed, short-handed and short-winded, perhaps nearing forty. "Surely I know you?" said he. "Have you driven me before?" "Many's the time, Mr. Hadden," returned the driver. "The last time you was back from the islands it was me that drove you to the races, sir." "All right: jump down and have a drink then," said Tom, and he turned and led the way into the garden. Captain Bostock met the party: he was a slow, sour old man, with fishy eyes; greeted Tommy offhand, and (as was afterwards remembered) exchanged winks with the driver. "A bottle of beer for the cabman there at that table," said Tom. "Whatever you please from shandy-gaff to champagne at this one here; and you sit down with us. Let me make you acquainted with my friend Mr. Carthew. I've come on business, Billy; I want to consult you as a friend; I'm going into the island trade upon my own account." Doubtless the captain was a mine of counsel, but opportunity was denied him. He could not venture on a statement, he was scarce allowed to finish a phrase, before Hadden swept him from the field with a volley of protest and correction. That projector, his face blazing with inspiration, first laid before him at inordinate length a question, and as soon as he attempted to reply, leaped at his throat, called his facts into question, derided his policy, and at times thundered on him from the heights of moral indignation. "I beg your pardon," he said once. "I am a gentleman, Mr. Carthew here is a gentleman, and we don't mean to do that class of business. Can't you see who you are talking to? Can't you talk sense? Can't you give us 'a dead bird' for a good traderoom?" "No, I don't suppose I can," returned old Bostock; "not when I can't hear my own voice for two seconds together. It was gin and guns I did it with." "Take your gin and guns to Putney," cried Hadden. "It was the thing in your times, that's right enough; but you're old now, and the game's up. I'll tell you what's wanted nowadays, Bill Bostock," said he; and did, and took ten minutes to it. Carthew could not refrain from smiling. He began to think less seriously of the scheme, Hadden appearing too irresponsible a guide; but on the other hand, he enjoyed himself amazingly. It was far from being the same with Captain Bostock. "You know a sight, don't you?" remarked that gentleman bitterly, when Tommy paused. "I know a sight more than you, if that's what you mean," retorted Tom. "It stands to reason I do. You're not a man of any education; you've been all your life at sea, or in the islands; you don't suppose you can give points to a man like me." "Here's your health, Tommy," returned Bostock. "You'll make an A1 bake in the New Hebrides." "That's what I call talking," cried Tom, not perhaps grasping the spirit of this doubtful compliment. "Now you give me your attention. We have the money and the enterprise, and I have the experience; what we want is a cheap, smart boat, a good captain, and an introduction to some house that will give us credit for the trade." "Well, I'll tell you," said Captain Bostock. "I have seen men like you baked and eaten, and complained of afterwards. Some was tough, and some hadn't no flaviour," he added grimly. "What do you mean by that?" cried Tom. "I mean I don't care," cried Bostock. "It ain't any of my interests. I haven't underwrote your life. Only I'm blest if I'm not sorry for the cannibal as tries to eat your head. And what I recommend is a cheap, smart coffin and a good undertaker. See if you can find a house to give you credit for a coffin! Look at your friend there: _he's_ got some sense; he's laughing at you so as he can't stand." The exact degree of ill-feeling in Mr. Bostock's mind was difficult to gauge; perhaps there was not much, perhaps he regarded his remarks as a form of courtly badinage. But there is little doubt that Hadden resented them. He had even risen from his place, and the conference was on the point of breaking up when a new voice joined suddenly in the conversation. The cabman sat with his back turned upon the party, smoking a meerschaum pipe. Not a word of Tommy's eloquence had missed him, and he now faced suddenly about with these amazing words-- "Excuse me, gentlemen; if you'll buy me the ship I want, I'll get you the trade on credit." There was a pause. "Well, what do _you_ mean?" gasped Tommy. "Better tell 'em who I am, Billy," said the cabman. "Think it safe, Joe?" inquired Mr. Bostock. "I'll take my risk of it," returned the cabman. "Gentlemen," said Bostock, rising suddenly, "let me make you acquainted with Captain Wicks of the _Grace Darling_." "Yes, gentlemen, that is what I am," said the cabman. "You know I've been in trouble, and I don't deny but what I struck the blow, and where was I to get evidence of my provocation? So I turned to and took a cab, and I've driven one for three year now, and nobody the wiser." "I beg your pardon," said Carthew, joining almost for the first time, "I'm a new chum. What was the charge?" "Murder," said Captain Wicks, "and I don't deny but what I struck the blow. And there's no sense in my trying to deny I was afraid to go to trial, or why would I be here? But it's a fact it was flat mutiny. Ask Billy here. He knows how it was." Carthew breathed long; he had a strange, half-pleasurable sense of wading deeper in the tide of life. "Well," said he, "you were going on to say?" "I was going on to say this," said the captain sturdily. "I've overheard what Mr. Hadden has been saying, and I think he talks good sense. I like some of his ideas first chop. He's sound on traderooms; he's all there on the traderoom, and I see that he and I would pull together. Then you're both gentlemen, and I like that," observed Captain Wicks. "And then I'll tell you I'm tired of this cabbing cruise, and I want to get to work again. Now, here's my offer. I've a little money I can stake up--all of a hundred, anyway. Then my old firm will give me trade, and jump at the chance; they never lost by me; they know what I'm worth as supercargo. And, last of all, you want a good captain to sail your ship for you. Well, here I am. I've sailed schooners for ten years. Ask Billy if I can handle a schooner." "No man better," said Billy. "And as for my character as a shipmate," concluded Wicks, "go and ask my old firm." "But, look here!" cried Hadden, "how do you mean to manage? You can whisk round in a hansom and no questions asked; but if you try to come on a quarter-deck, my boy, you'll get nabbed." "I'll have to keep back till the last," replied Wicks, "and take another name." "But how about clearing? What other name?" asked Tommy, a little bewildered. "I don't know yet," returned the captain, with a grin. "I'll see what the name is on my new certificate, and that'll be good enough for me. If I can't get one to buy, though I never heard of such a thing, there's old Kirkup, he's turned some sort of farmer down Bondi way; he'll hire me his." "You seemed to speak as if you had a ship in view," said Carthew. "So I have too," said Captain Wicks, "and a beauty. Schooner yacht _Dream_--got lines you never saw the beat of, and a witch to go. She passed me once off Thursday Island, doing two knots to my one and lying a point and a half better, and the _Grace Darling_ was a ship that I was proud of. I took and tore my hair. The _Dream's_ been _my_ dream ever since. That was in the old days, when she carried a blue ens'n. Grant Sanderson was the party as owned her; he was rich and mad, and got a fever at last somewhere about the Fly River and took and died. The captain brought the body back to Sydney and paid off. Well, it turned out Grant Sanderson had left any quantity of wills and any quantity of widows, and no fellow could make out which was the genuine article. All the widows brought lawsuits against all the rest, and every will had a firm of lawyers on the quarter-deck as long as your arm. They tell me it was one of the biggest turns-to that ever was seen, bar Tichborne; the Lord Chamberlain himself was floored, and so was the Lord Chancellor, and all that time the _Dream_ lay rotting up by Glebe Point. Well, it's done now; they've picked out a widow and a will--tossed up for it, as like as not--and the _Dream_'s for sale. She'll go cheap; she's had a long turn-to at rotting." "What size is she?" "Well, big enough. We don't want her bigger. A hundred and ninety, going two hundred," replied the captain. "She's fully big for us three; it would be all the better if we had another hand, though it's a pity too, when you can pick up natives for half nothing. Then we must have a cook. I can fix raw sailor-men, but there's no going to sea with a new-chum cook. I can lay hands on the man we want for that: a Highway boy, an old shipmate of mine, of the name of Amalu. Cooks first-rate, and it's always better to have a native; he ain't fly, you can turn him to as you please, and he don't know enough to stand out for his rights." From the moment that Captain Wicks joined in the conversation, Carthew recovered interest and confidence; the man (whatever he might have done) was plainly good-natured, and plainly capable; if he thought well of the enterprise, offered to contribute money, brought experience, and could thus solve at a word the problem of the trade, Carthew was content to go ahead. As for Hadden, his cup was full; he and Bostock forgave each other in champagne; toast followed toast; it was proposed and carried amid acclamation to change the name of the schooner (when she should be bought) to the _Currency Lass_; and the "Currency Lass Island Trading Company" was practically founded before dusk. Three days later, Carthew stood before the lawyer, still in his jean suit, received his hundred and fifty pounds, and proceeded rather timidly to ask for more indulgence. "I have a chance to get on in the world," he said. "By to-morrow evening I expect to be part owner of a ship." "Dangerous property, Mr. Carthew," said the lawyer. "Not if the partners work her themselves, and stand to go down along with her," was the reply. "I conceive it possible you might make something of it in that way," returned the other. "But are you a seaman? I thought you had been in the diplomatic service." "I am an old yachtsman," said Norris; "and I must do the best I can. A fellow can't live in New South Wales upon diplomacy. But the point I wish to prepare you for is this. It will be impossible I should present myself here next quarter-day; we expect to make a six months' cruise of it among the islands." "Sorry, Mr. Carthew: I can't hear of that," replied the lawyer. "I mean upon the same conditions as the last," said Carthew. "The conditions are exactly opposite," said the lawyer. "Last time I had reason to know you were in the colony, and even then I stretched a point. This time, by your own confession, you are contemplating a breach of the agreement; and I give you warning if you carry it out, and I receive proof of it (for I will agree to regard this conversation as confidential), I shall have no choice but to do my duty. Be here on quarter-day, or your allowance ceases." "This is very hard, and, I think, rather silly," returned Carthew. "It is not of my doing. I have my instructions," said the lawyer. "And you so read these instructions that I am to be prohibited from making an honest livelihood?" asked Carthew. "Let us be frank," said the lawyer; "I find nothing in these instructions about an honest livelihood. I have no reason to suppose my clients care anything about that. I have reason to suppose only one thing--that they mean you shall stay in this colony, and to guess another, Mr. Carthew. And to guess another." "What do you mean by that?" asked Norris. "I mean that I imagine, on very strong grounds, that your family desire to see no more of you," said the lawyer. "O, they may be very wrong; but that is the impression conveyed, that is what I suppose I am paid to bring about, and I have no choice but to try and earn my hire." "I would scorn to deceive you," said Norris, with a strong flush; "you have guessed rightly. My family refuse to see me; but I am not going to England, I am going to the islands. How does that affect the islands?" "Ah, but I don't know that you are going to the islands," said the lawyer, looking down, and spearing the blotting-paper with a pencil. "I beg your pardon. I have the pleasure of informing you," said Norris. "I am afraid, Mr. Carthew, that I cannot regard that communication as official," was the slow reply. "I am not accustomed to have my word doubted!" cried Norris. "Hush! I allow no one to raise his voice in my office," said the lawyer. "And for that matter--you seem to be a young gentleman of sense--consider what I know of you. You are a discarded son; your family pays money to be shut of you. What have you done? I don't know. But do you not see how foolish I should be, if I exposed my business reputation on the safeguard of the honour of a gentleman of whom I know just so much and no more? This interview is very disagreeable. Why prolong it? Write home, get my instructions changed, and I will change my behaviour. Not otherwise." "I am very fond of three hundred a year," said Norris, "but I cannot pay the price required. I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again." "You must please yourself," said the lawyer. "Fail to be here next quarter-day, and the thing stops. But I warn you, and I mean the warning in a friendly spirit. Three months later you will be here begging, and I shall have no choice but to show you in the street." "I wish you a good-evening," said Norris. "The same to you, Mr. Carthew," retorted the lawyer, and rang for his clerk. So it befell that Norris, during what remained to him of arduous days in Sydney, saw not again the face of his legal adviser; and he was already at sea, and land was out of sight, when Hadden brought him a Sydney paper, over which he had been dozing in the shadow of the galley, and showed him an advertisement: "Mr. Norris Carthew is earnestly entreated to call without delay at the office of Mr. ----, where important intelligence awaits him." "It must manage to wait for me for six months," said Norris lightly enough, but yet conscious of a pang of curiosity. CHAPTER XXIII THE BUDGET OF THE _CURRENCY LASS_ Before noon, on the 26th November, there cleared from the port of Sydney the schooner _Currency Lass_. The owner, Norris Carthew, was on board in the somewhat unusual position of mate; the master's name purported to be William Kirkup; the cook was a Hawaiian boy, Joseph Amalu; and there were two hands before the mast, Thomas Hadden and Richard Hemstead, the latter chosen partly because of his humble character, partly because he had an odd-job-man's handiness with tools. The _Currency Lass_ was bound for the South Sea Islands, and first of all for Butaritari in the Gilberts, on a register; but it was understood about the harbour that her cruise was more than half a pleasure trip. A friend of the late Grant Sanderson (of Auchentroon and Kilclarty) might have recognised in that tall-masted ship the transformed and rechristened _Dream_; and the Lloyd's surveyor, had the services of such a one been called in requisition, must have found abundant subject of remark. For time, during her three years' inaction, had eaten deep into the _Dream_ and her fittings; she had sold in consequence a shade above her value as old junk; and the three adventurers had scarce been able to afford even the most vital repairs. The rigging, indeed, had been partly renewed, and the rest set up; all Grant Sanderson's old canvas had been patched together into one decently serviceable suit of sails; Grant Sanderson's masts still stood, and might have wondered at themselves. "I haven't the heart to tap them," Captain Wicks used to observe, as he squinted up their height or patted their rotundity; and "as rotten as our foremast" was an accepted metaphor in the ship's company. The sequel rather suggests it may have been sounder than was thought; but no one knew for certain, just as no one except the captain appreciated the dangers of the cruise. The captain, indeed, saw with clear eyes and spoke his mind aloud; and though a man of an astonishing hot-blooded courage, following life and taking its dangers in the spirit of a hound upon the slot, he had made a point of a big whaleboat. "Take your choice," he had said; "either new masts and rigging or that boat. I simply ain't going to sea without the one or the other. Chickencoops are good enough, no doubt, and so is a dinghy; but they ain't for Joe." And his partners had been forced to consent, and saw six-and-thirty pounds of their small capital vanish in the turn of a hand. All four had toiled the best part of six weeks getting ready; and though Captain Wicks was of course not seen or heard of, a fifth was there to help them, a fellow in a bushy red beard, which he would sometimes lay aside when he was below, and who strikingly resembled Captain Wicks in voice and character. As for Captain Kirkup, he did not appear till the last moment, when he proved to be a burly mariner, bearded like Abou Ben Adhem. All the way down the harbour and through the Heads, his milk-white whiskers blew in the wind and were conspicuous from shore; but the _Currency Lass_ had no sooner turned her back upon the lighthouse than he went below for the inside of five seconds and reappeared clean shaven. So many doublings and devices were required to get to sea with an unseaworthy ship and a captain that was "wanted." Nor might even these have sufficed, but for the fact that Hadden was a public character, and the whole cruise regarded with an eye of indulgence as one of Tom's engaging eccentricities. The ship, besides, had been a yacht before: and it came the more natural to allow her still some of the dangerous liberties of her old employment. A strange ship they had made of it, her lofty spars disfigured with patched canvas, her panelled cabin fitted for a traderoom with rude shelves. And the life they led in that anomalous schooner was no less curious than herself. Amalu alone berthed forward; the rest occupied staterooms, camped upon the satin divans, and sat down in Grant Sanderson's parquetry smoking-room to meals of junk and potatoes, bad of their kind, and often scant in quantity. Hemstead grumbled; Tommy had occasional moments of revolt, and increased the ordinary by a few haphazard tins or a bottle of his own brown sherry. But Hemstead grumbled from habit, Tommy revolted only for the moment, and there was underneath a real and general acquiescence in these hardships. For besides onions and potatoes, the _Currency Lass_ may be said to have gone to sea without stores. She carried two thousand pounds' worth of assorted trade, advanced on credit, their whole hope and fortune. It was upon this that they subsisted--mice in their own granary. They dined upon their future profits; and every scanty meal was so much in the savings bank. Republican as were their manners, there was no practical, at least no dangerous, lack of discipline. Wicks was the only sailor on board, there was none to criticise; and besides, he was so easy-going, and so merry-minded, that none could bear to disappoint him. Carthew did his best, partly for the love of doing it, partly for love of the captain; Amalu was a willing drudge, and even Hemstead and Hadden turned to upon occasion with a will. Tommy's department was the trade and traderoom; he would work down in the hold or over the shelves of the cabin, till the Sydney dandy was unrecognisable; come up at last, draw a bucket of sea-water, bathe, change, and lie down on deck over a big sheaf of Sydney _Heralds_ and _Dead Birds_, or perhaps with a volume of Buckle's "History of Civilisation," the standard work selected for that cruise. In the latter case a smile went round the ship, for Buckle almost invariably laid his student out, and when Tom woke again he was almost always in the humour for brown sherry. The connection was so well established that "a glass of Buckle" or "a bottle of civilisation" became current pleasantries on board the _Currency Lass_. Hemstead's province was that of the repairs, and he had his hands full. Nothing on board but was decayed in a proportion: the lamps leaked, so did the decks; door-knobs came off in the hand, mouldings parted company with the panels, the pump declined to suck, and the defective bathroom came near to swamp the ship. Wicks insisted that all the nails were long ago consumed, and that she was only glued together by the rust. "You shouldn't make me laugh so much, Tommy," he would say. "I am afraid I'll shake the sternpost out of her." And, as Hemstead went to and fro with his tool-basket on an endless round of tinkering, Wicks lost no opportunity of chaffing him upon his duties. "If you'd turn to at sailoring or washing paint or something useful, now," he would say, "I could see the fun of it. But to be mending things that haven't no insides to them appears to me the height of foolishness." And doubtless these continual pleasantries helped to reassure the landsmen, who went to and fro unmoved, under circumstances that might have daunted Nelson. The weather was from the outset splendid, and the wind fair and steady. The ship sailed like a witch. "This _Currency Lass_ is a powerful old girl, and has more complaints than I would care to put a name on," the captain would say, as he pricked the chart; "but she could show her blooming heels to anything of her size in the Western Pacific." To wash decks, relieve the wheel, do the day's work after dinner on the smoking-room table, and take in kites at night--such was the easy routine of their life. In the evening--above all, if Tommy had produced some of his civilisation--yarns and music were the rule. Amalu had a sweet Hawaiian voice; and Hemstead, a great hand upon the banjo, accompanied his own quavering tenor with effect. There was a sense in which the little man could sing. It was great to hear him deliver "My Boy Tammie" in Austrylian; and the words (some of the worst of the ruffian Macneill's) were hailed in his version with inextinguishable mirth. "Where hye ye been a' dye?" he would ask, and answer himself:-- "I've been by burn and flowery brye, Meadow green and mountain grye, Courtin' o' this young thing, Just come frye her mammie." It was the accepted jest for all hands to greet the conclusion of this song with the simultaneous cry, "My word!" thus winging the arrow of ridicule with a feather from the singer's wing. But he had his revenge with "Home, Sweet Home," and "Where is my Wandering Boy To-night?"--ditties into which he threw the most intolerable pathos. It appeared he had no home, nor had ever had one, nor yet any vestige of a family, except a truculent uncle, a baker in Newcastle, N.S.W. His domestic sentiment was therefore wholly in the air, and expressed an unrealised ideal. Or perhaps, of all his experiences, this of the _Currency Lass_, with its kindly, playful, and tolerant society, approached it the most nearly. It is perhaps because I know the sequel, but I can never think upon this voyage without a profound sense of pity and mystery; of the ship (once the whim of a rich blackguard) faring with her battered fineries and upon her homely errand, across the plains of ocean, and past the gorgeous scenery of dawn and sunset; and the ship's company, so strangely assembled, so Britishly chuckle-headed, filling their days with chaff in place of conversation; no human book on board with them except Hadden's Buckle, and not a creature fit either to read or to understand it; and the one mark of any civilised interest being when Carthew filled in his spare hours with the pencil and the brush: the whole unconscious crew of them posting in the meanwhile towards so tragic a disaster. Twenty-eight days out of Sydney, on Christmas Eve, they fetched up to the entrance of the lagoon, and plied all that night outside, keeping their position by the lights of fishers on the reef, and the outlines of the palms against the cloudy sky. With the break of day the schooner was hove-to, and the signal for a pilot shown. But it was plain her lights must have been observed in the darkness by the native fishermen, and word carried to the settlement, for a boat was already under weigh. She came towards them across the lagoon under a great press of sail, lying dangerously down, so that at times, in the heavier puffs, they thought she would turn turtle; covered the distance in fine style, luffed up smartly alongside, and emitted a haggard-looking white man in pyjamas. "Good-mornin', cap'n," said he, when he had made good his entrance. "I was taking you for a Fiji man-of-war, what with your flush decks and them spars. Well, gen'lemen all, here's wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year," he added, and lurched against a stay. "Why, you're never the pilot?" exclaimed Wicks, studying him with a profound disfavour. "You've never taken a ship in--don't tell me!" "Well, I should guess I have," returned the pilot. "I'm Captain Dobbs, I am; and when I take charge, the captain of that ship can go below and shave." "But, man alive! you're drunk, man!" cried the captain. "Drunk!" repeated Dobbs. "You can't have seen much life if you call me drunk. I'm only just beginning. Come night, I won't say; I guess I'll be properly full by then. But now I'm the soberest man in all Big Muggin." "It won't do," retorted Wicks. "Not for Joseph, sir. I can't have you piling up my schooner." "All right," said Dobbs, "lay and rot where you are, or take and go in and pile her up for yourself like the captain of the _Leslie_. That's business, I guess; grudged me twenty dollars' pilotage, and lost twenty thousand in trade and a brand-new schooner; ripped the keel right off of her, and she went down in the inside of four minutes, and lies in twenty fathom, trade and all." "What's all this?" cried Wicks. "Trade? What vessel was this _Leslie_, anyhow?" "Consigned to Cohen and Co., from 'Frisco," returned the pilot, "and badly wanted. There's a barque inside filling up for Hamburg--you see her spars over there; and there's two more ships due, all the way from Germany, one in two months, they say, and one in three; Cohen and Co.'s agent (that's Mr. Topelius) has taken and lain down with the jaundice on the strength of it. I guess most people would, in his shoes; no trade, no copra, and twenty hundred ton of shipping due. If you've any copra on board, cap'n, here's your chance. Topelius will buy, gold down, and give three cents. It's all found money to him, the way it is, whatever he pays for it. And that's what come of going back on the pilot." "Excuse me one moment, Captain Dobbs. I wish to speak with my mate," said the captain, whose face had begun to shine and his eyes to sparkle. "Please yourself," replied the pilot.--"You couldn't think of offering a man a nip, could you? just to brace him up. This kind of thing looks damned inhospitable, and gives a schooner a bad name." "I'll talk about that after the anchor's down," returned Wicks, and he drew Carthew forward.--"I say," he whispered, "here's a fortune." "How much do you call that?" asked Carthew. "I can't put a figure on it yet--I daren't!" said the captain. "We might cruise twenty years and not find the match of it. And suppose another ship came in to-night? Everything's possible! And the difficulty is this Dobbs. He's as drunk as a marine. How can we trust him? We ain't insured--worse luck!" "Suppose you took him aloft and got him to point out the channel?" suggested Carthew. "If he tallied at all with the chart, and didn't fall out of the rigging, perhaps we might risk it." "Well, all's risk here," returned the captain. "Take the wheel yourself, and stand by. Mind, if there's two orders, follow mine, not his. Set the cook for'ard with the heads'ls, and the two others at the main sheet, and see they don't sit on it." With that he called the pilot; they swarmed aloft in the fore rigging, and presently after there was bawled down the welcome order to ease sheets and fill away. At a quarter before nine o'clock on Christmas morning the anchor was let go. The first cruise of the _Currency Lass_ had thus ended in a stroke of fortune almost beyond hope. She had brought two thousand pounds' worth of trade, straight as a homing pigeon, to the place where it was most required. And Captain Wicks (or, rather Captain Kirkup) showed himself the man to make the best of his advantage. For hard upon two days he walked a verandah with Topelius; for hard upon two days his partners watched from the neighbouring public-house the field of battle; and the lamps were not yet lighted on the evening of the second before the enemy surrendered. Wicks came across to the "Sans Souci," as the saloon was called, his face nigh black, his eyes almost closed and all bloodshot, and yet bright as lighted matches. "Come out here, boys," he said; and when they were some way off among the palms, "I hold twenty-four," he added in a voice scarcely recognisable, and doubtless referring to the venerable game of cribbage. "What do you mean?" asked Tommy. "I've sold the trade," answered Wicks; "or, rather, I've sold only some of it, for I've kept back all the mess beef, and half the flour and biscuit, and, by God, we're still provisioned for four months! By God, it's as good as stolen!" "My word!" cried Hemstead. "But what have you sold it for?" gasped Carthew, the captain's almost insane excitement shaking his nerve. "Let me tell it my own way," cried Wicks, loosening his neck. "Let me get at it gradual or I'll explode. I've not only sold it, boys, I've wrung out a charter on my own terms to 'Frisco and back,--on my own terms. I made a point of it. I fooled him first by making believe I wanted copra, which, of course, I knew he wouldn't hear of--couldn't, in fact; and whenever he showed fight I trotted out the copra, and that man dived! I would take nothing but copra, you see; and so I've got the blooming lot in specie--all but two short bills on 'Frisco. And the sum? Well, this whole adventure, including two thousand pounds of credit, cost us two thousand seven hundred and some odd. That's all paid back; in thirty days' cruise we've paid for the schooner and the trade. Heard ever any man the match of that? And it's not all! For besides that," said the captain, hammering his words, "we've got thirteen blooming hundred pounds of profit to divide. I bled him in four thou.!" he cried, in a voice that broke like a schoolboy's. For a moment the partners looked upon their chief with stupefaction, incredulous surprise their only feeling. Tommy was the first to grasp the consequences. "Here," he said in a hard business tone, "come back to that saloon: I've got to get drunk." "You must please excuse me, boys," said the captain earnestly. "I daren't taste nothing. If I was to drink one glass of beer it's my belief I'd have the apoplexy. The last scrimmage and the blooming triumph pretty nigh-hand done me." "Well, then, three cheers for the captain," proposed Tommy. But Wicks held up a shaking hand. "Not that either, boys," he pleaded. "Think of the other buffer, and let him down easy. If I'm like this, just fancy what Topelius is. If he heard us singing out, he'd have the staggers." As a matter of fact, Topelius accepted his defeat with a good grace; but the crew of the wrecked _Leslie_, who were in the same employment, and loyal to their firm, took the thing more bitterly. Rough words and ugly looks were common. Once even they hooted Captain Wicks from the saloon verandah; the Currency Lasses drew out on the other side; for some minutes there had like to have been a battle in Butaritari; and though the occasion passed off without blows, it left on either side an increase of ill-feeling. No such small matter could affect the happiness of the successful traders. Five days more the ship lay in the lagoon, with little employment for any one but Tommy and the captain, for Topelius's natives discharged cargo and brought ballast. The time passed like a pleasant dream; the adventurers sat up half the night debating and praising their good fortune, or stayed by day in the narrow isle gaping like Cockney tourists, and on the first of the new year the _Currency Lass_ weighed anchor for the second time and set sail for 'Frisco, attended by the same fine weather and good luck. She crossed the doldrums with but small delay; on a wind and in ballast of broken coral she outdid expectations; and, what added to the happiness of the ship's company, the small amount of work that fell on them to do was now lessened by the presence of another hand. This was the boatswain of the _Leslie_. He had been on bad terms with his own captain, had already spent his wages in the saloons of Butaritari, had wearied of the place, and while all his shipmates coldly refused to set foot on board the _Currency Lass_, he had offered to work his passage to the coast. He was a north of Ireland man, between Scotch and Irish, rough, loud, humorous, and emotional, not without sterling qualities, and an expert and careful sailor. His frame of mind was different indeed from that of his new shipmates. Instead of making an unexpected fortune he had lost a berth, and he was besides disgusted with the rations, and really appalled at the condition of the schooner. A stateroom door had stuck the first day at sea, and Mac (as they called him) laid his strength to it and plucked it from the hinges. "Glory!" said he, "this ship's rotten!" "I believe you, my boy," said Captain Wicks. The next day the sailor was observed with his nose aloft. "Don't you get looking at these sticks," the captain said, "or you'll have a fit and fall overboard." Mac turned to the speaker with rather a wild eye. "Why, I see what looks like a patch of dry rot up yonder, that I bet I could stick my fist into," said he. "Looks as if a fellow could stick his head into it, don't it?" returned Wicks. "But there's no good prying into things that can't be mended." "I think I was a Currency Ass to come on board of her!" reflected Mac. "Well, I never said she was seaworthy," replied the captain; "I only said she could show her blooming heels to anything afloat. And besides, I don't know that it's dry rot; I kind of sometimes hope it isn't.--Here; turn to and heave the log; that'll cheer you up." "Well, there's no denying it, you're a holy captain," said Mac. And from that day on he made but the one reference to the ship's condition; and that was whenever Tommy drew upon his cellar. "Here's to the junk trade!" he would say, as he held out his can of sherry. "Why do you always say that?" asked Tommy. "I had an uncle in the business," replied Mac, and launched at once into a yarn, in which an incredible number of the characters were "laid out as nice as you would want to see," and the oaths made up about two-fifths of every conversation. Only once he gave them a taste of his violence; he talked of it, indeed, often; "I'm rather a voilent man," he would say, not without pride; but this was the only specimen. Of a sudden he turned on Hemstead in the ship's waist, knocked him against the foresail boom, then knocked him under it, and had set him up and knocked him down once more, before any one had drawn a breath. "Here! Belay that!" roared Wicks, leaping to his feet. "I won't have none of this." Mac turned to the captain with ready civility. "I only want to learn him manners," said he. "He took and called me Irishman." "Did he?" said Wicks. "O, that's a different story!--What made you do it, you tomfool? You ain't big enough to call any man that." "I didn't call him it," spluttered Hemstead, through his blood and tears. "I only mentioned-like he was." "Well, let's have no more of it," said Wicks. "But you _are_ Irish, ain't you?" Carthew asked of his new shipmate shortly after. "I may be," replied Mac, "but I'll allow no Sydney duck to call me so. No," he added, with a sudden heated countenance, "nor any Britisher that walks! Why, look here," he went on, "you're a young swell, aren't you? Suppose I called you that! 'I'll show you,' you would say, and turn to and take it out of me straight." On the 28th of January, when in lat. 27° 20' N., long. 177° W., the wind chopped suddenly into the west, not very strong, but puffy and with flaws of rain. The captain, eager for easting, made a fair wind of it, and guyed the booms out wing and wing. It was Tommy's trick at the wheel, and as it was within half an hour of the relief (7.30 in the morning), the captain judged it not worth while to change him. The puffs were heavy, but short; there was nothing to be called a squall, no danger to the ship, and scarce more than usual to the doubtful spars. All hands were on deck in their oilskins, expecting breakfast; the galley smoked, the ship smelt of coffee, all were in good humour to be speeding eastward a full nine; when the rotten foresail tore suddenly between two cloths, and then split to either hand. It was for all the world as though some archangel with a huge sword had slashed it with the figure of a cross; all hands ran to secure the slatting canvas; and in the sudden uproar and alert, Tommy Hadden lost his head. Many of his days have been passed since then in explaining how the thing happened; of these explanations it will be sufficient to say that they were all different, and none satisfactory; and the gross fact remains that the main boom gybed, carried away the tackle, broke the mainmast some three feet above the deck and whipped it overboard. For near a minute the suspected foremast gallantly resisted; then followed its companion; and by the time the wreck was cleared, of the whole beautiful fabric that enabled them to skim the seas, two ragged stumps remained. In these vast and solitary waters, to be dismasted is perhaps the worst calamity. Let the ship turn turtle and go down, and at least the pang is over. But men chained on a hulk may pass months scanning the empty sea-line and counting the steps of death's invisible approach. There is no help but in the boats, and what a help is that! There heaved the _Currency Lass_, for instance, a wingless lump, and the nearest human coast (that of Kauai in the Sandwiches) lay about a thousand miles to south and east of her. Over the way there, to men contemplating that passage in an open boat, all kinds of misery, and the fear of death and of madness, brooded. A serious company sat down to breakfast; but the captain helped his neighbours with a smile. "Now, boys," he said, after a pull at the hot coffee, "we're done with this _Currency Lass_ and no mistake. One good job: we made her pay while she lasted, and she paid first-rate; and if we were to try our hand again, we can try in style. Another good job: we have a fine, stiff, roomy boat, and you know who you have to thank for that. We've got six lives to save, and a pot of money; and the point is, where are we to take 'em?" "It's all two thousand miles to the nearest of the Sandwiches, I fancy," observed Mac. "No, not so bad as that," returned the captain. "But it's bad enough; rather better'n a thousand." "I know a man who once did twelve hundred in a boat," said Mac, "and he had all he wanted. He fetched ashore in the Marquesas, and never set a foot on anything floating from that day to this. He said he would rather put a pistol to his head and knock his brains out." "Ay, ay!" said Wicks. "Well, I remember a boat's crew that made this very island of Kauai, and from just about where we lie, or a bit further. When they got up with the land they were clean crazy. There was an iron-bound coast and an Old Bob Ridley of a surf on. The natives hailed 'em from fishing-boats, and sang out it couldn't be done at the money. Much they cared! there was the land, that was all they knew; and they turned to and drove the boat slap ashore in the thick of it, and was all drowned but one. No; boat trips are my eye," concluded the captain gloomily. The tone was surprising in a man of his indomitable temper. "Come, captain," said Carthew, "you have something else up your sleeve; out with it." "It's a fact," admitted Wicks. "You see there's a raft of little bally reefs about here, kind of chicken-pox on the chart. Well, I looked 'em all up, and there's one--Midway or Brooks they call it, not forty mile from our assigned position--that I got news of. It turns out it's a coaling station of the Pacific Mail," he said simply. "Well, and I know it ain't no such a thing," said Mac. "I been quartermaster in that line myself." "All right," returned Wicks. "There's the book. Read what Hoyt says--read it aloud and let the others hear." Hoyt's falsehood (as readers know) was explicit; incredulity was impossible, and the news itself delightful beyond hope. Each saw in his mind's eye the boat draw in to a trim island with a wharf, coal-sheds, gardens, the Stars and Stripes, and the white cottage of the keeper; saw themselves idle a few weeks in tolerable quarters, and then step on board the China mail, romantic waifs, and yet with pocketsful of money, calling for champagne, and waited on by troops of stewards. Breakfast, that had begun so dully, ended amid sober jubilation, and all hands turned immediately to prepare the boat. Now that all spars were gone, it was no easy job to get her launched. Some of the necessary cargo was first stowed on board: the specie, in particular, being packed in a strong chest and secured with lashings to the after-thwart in case of a capsize. Then a piece of the bulwarks was razed to the level of the deck, and the boat swung thwart-ship, made fast with a slack line to either stump, and successfully run out. For a voyage of forty miles to hospitable quarters, not much food or water was required but they took both in superfluity. Amalu and Mac, both ingrained sailor-men, had chests which were the headquarters of their lives; two more chests with handbags, oilskins, and blankets supplied the others; Hadden, amid general applause, added the last case of the brown sherry; the captain brought the log, instruments, and chronometer; nor did Hemstead forget the banjo or a pinned handkerchief of Butaritari shells. It was about three P.M. when they pushed off, and (the wind being still westerly) fell to the oars. "Well, we've got the guts out of _you_!" was the captain's nodded farewell to the hulk of the _Currency Lass_, which presently shrank and faded in the sea. A little after a calm succeeded, with much rain; and the first meal was eaten, and the watch below lay down to their uneasy slumber on the bilge under a roaring shower-bath. The twenty-ninth dawned overhead from out of ragged clouds; there is no moment when a boat at sea appears so trenchantly black and so conspicuously little; and the crew looked about them at the sky and water with a thrill of loneliness and fear. With sunrise the Trade set in, lusty and true to the point; sail was made; the boat flew; and by about four in the afternoon, they were well up with the closed part of the reef, and the captain standing on the thwart, and holding by the mast, was studying the island through the binoculars. "Well, and where's your station?" cried Mac. "I don't someway pick it up," replied the captain. "No, nor never will!" retorted Mac, with a clang of despair and triumph in his tones. The truth was soon plain to all. No buoys, no beacons, no lights, no coal, no station; the castaways pulled through a lagoon and landed on an isle, where was no mark of man but wreckwood, and no sound but of the sea. For the sea-fowl that harboured and lived there at the epoch of my visit were then scattered into the uttermost parts of the ocean, and had left no traces of their sojourn besides dropped feathers and addled eggs. It was to this they had been sent, for this they had stooped all night over the dripping oars, hourly moving further from relief. The boat, for as small as it was, was yet eloquent of the hands of men, a thing alone indeed upon the sea, but yet in itself all human; and the isle, for which they had exchanged it, was ingloriously savage, a place of distress, solitude, and hunger unrelieved. There was a strong glare and shadow of the evening over all; in which they sat or lay, not speaking, careless even to eat, men swindled out of life and riches by a lying book. In the great good-nature of the whole party, no word of reproach had been addressed to Hadden, the author of these disasters. But the new blow was less magnanimously borne, and many angry glances rested on the captain. Yet it was himself who roused them from their lethargy. Grudgingly they obeyed, drew the boat beyond tidemark, and followed him to the top of the miserable islet, whence a view was commanded of the whole wheel of the horizon, then part darkened under the coming night, part dyed with the hues of the sunset, and populous with the sunset clouds. Here the camp was pitched, and a tent run up with the oars, sails, and mast. And here Amalu, at no man's bidding, from the mere instinct of habitual service, built a fire and cooked a meal. Night was come, and the stars and the silver sickle of new moon beamed overhead, before the meal was ready. The cold sea shone about them, and the fire glowed in their faces as they ate. Tommy had opened his case, and the brown sherry went the round; but it was long before they came to conversation. "Well, is it to be Kauai, after all?" asked Mac suddenly. "This is bad enough for me," said Tommy. "Let's stick it out where we are." "Well, I can tell ye one thing," said Mac, "if ye care to hear it: when I was in the China mail we once made this island. It's in the course from Honolulu." "Deuce it is!" cried Carthew. "That settles it, then. Let's stay. We must keep good fires going; and there's plenty wreck." "Lashings of wreck!" said the Irishman. "There's nothing here but wreck and coffin-boards." "But we'll have to make a proper blyze," objected Hemstead. "You can't see a fire like this, not any wye awye, I mean." "Can't you?" said Carthew. "Look round." They did, and saw the hollow of the night, the bare, bright face of the sea, and the stars regarding them; and the voices died in their bosoms at the spectacle. In that huge isolation, it seemed they must be visible from China on the one hand and California on the other. "My God, it's dreary!" whispered Hemstead. "Dreary?" cried Mac, and fell suddenly silent. "It's better than a boat, anyway," said Hadden. "I've had my bellyful of boat." "What kills me is that specie!" the captain broke out. "Think of all that riches--four thousand in gold, bad silver, and short bills--all found money too!--and no more use than that much dung!" "I'll tell you one thing," said Tommy. "I don't like it being in the boat--I don't care to have it so far away." "Why, who's to take it?" cried Mac, with a guffaw of evil laughter. But this was not at all the feeling of the partners, who rose, clambered down the isle, brought back the inestimable treasure-chest slung upon two oars, and set it conspicuous in the shining of the fire. "There's my beauty!" cried Wicks, viewing it with a cocked head; "that's better than a bonfire. What! we have a chest here, and bills for close upon two thousand pounds; there's no show to that--it would go in your vest-pocket--but the rest! upwards of forty pounds avoirdupois of coined gold, and close on two hundredweight of Chile silver! What! ain't that good enough to fetch a fleet? Do you mean to say that won't affect a ship's compass? Do you mean to tell me that the look-out won't turn to and _smell_ it?" he cried. Mac, who had no part nor lot in the bills, the forty pounds of gold, or the two hundredweight of silver, heard this with impatience, and fell into a bitter, choking laughter. "You'll see!" he said harshly. "You'll be glad to feed them bills into the fire before you're through with ut!" And he turned, passed by himself out of the ring of the firelight, and stood gazing seaward. His speech and his departure extinguished instantly those sparks of better humour kindled by the dinner and the chest. The group fell again to an ill-favoured silence, and Hemstead began to touch the banjo, as was his habit of an evening. His repertory was small: the chords of "Home, Sweet Home" fell under his fingers; and when he had played the symphony, he instinctively raised up his voice, "Be it never so 'umble, there's no plyce like 'ome," he sang. The last word was still upon his lips, when the instrument was snatched from him and dashed into the fire; and he turned with a cry to look into the furious countenance of Mac. "I'll be damned if I stand this!" cried the captain, leaping up belligerent. "I told ye I was a voilent man," said Mac, with a movement of deprecation very surprising in one of his character. "Why don't he give me a chance then? Haven't we enough to bear the way we are?" And to the wonder and dismay of all, the man choked upon a sob. "It's ashamed of meself I am," he said presently, his Irish accent twenty-fold increased. "I ask all your pardons for me voilence; and especially the little man's, who is a harmless craytur, and here's me hand to'm, if he'll condescend to take me by't." So this scene of barbarity and sentimentalism passed off, leaving behind strange and incongruous impressions. True, every one was perhaps glad when silence succeeded that all too appropriate music; true, Mac's apology and subsequent behaviour rather raised him in the opinion of his fellow-castaways. But the discordant note had been struck, and its harmonics tingled in the brain. In that savage, houseless isle, the passions of man had sounded, if only for the moment, and all men trembled at the possibilities of horror. It was determined to stand watch and watch in case of passing vessels; and Tommy, on fire with an idea, volunteered to stand the first. The rest crawled under the tent, and were soon enjoying that comfortable gift of sleep, which comes everywhere and to all men, quenching anxieties and speeding time. And no sooner were all settled, no sooner had the drone of many snorers begun to mingle with and overcome the surf, than Tommy stole from his post with the case of sherry, and dropped it in a quiet cove in a fathom of water. But the stormy inconstancy of Mac's behaviour had no connection with a gill or two of wine; his passions, angry and otherwise, were on a different sail-plan from his neighbours'; and there were possibilities of good and evil in that hybrid Celt beyond their prophecy. About two in the morning, the starry sky--or so it seemed, for the drowsy watchman had not observed the approach of any cloud--brimmed over in a deluge; and for three days it rained without remission. The islet was a sponge, the castaways sops; the view all gone, even the reef concealed behind the curtain of the falling water. The fire was soon drowned out; after a couple of boxes of matches had been scratched in vain, it was decided to wait for better weather; and the party lived in wretchedness on raw tins and a ration of hard bread. By the 2nd February, in the dark hours of the morning watch, the clouds were all blown by; the sun rose glorious; and once more the castaways sat by a quick fire, and drank hot coffee with the greed of brutes and sufferers. Thenceforward their affairs moved in a routine. A fire was constantly maintained; and this occupied one hand continuously, and the others for an hour or so in the day. Twice a day all hands bathed in the lagoon, their chief, almost their only, pleasure. Often they fished in the lagoon with good success. And the rest was passed in lolling, strolling, yarns, and disputation. The time of the China steamers was calculated to a nicety; which done, the thought was rejected and ignored. It was one that would not bear consideration. The boat voyage having been tacitly set aside, the desperate part chosen to wait there for the coming of help or of starvation, no man had courage left to look his bargain in the face, far less to discuss it with his neighbours. But the unuttered terror haunted them; in every hour of idleness, at every moment of silence, it returned, and breathed a chill about the circle, and carried men's eyes to the horizon. Then, in a panic of self-defence, they would rally to some other subject. And, in that lone spot, what else was to be found to speak of but the treasure? That was indeed the chief singularity, the one thing conspicuous in their island life; the presence of that chest of bills and specie dominated the mind like a cathedral; and there were besides connected with it certain irking problems well fitted to occupy the idle. Two thousand pounds were due to the Sydney firm; two thousand pounds were clear profit, and fell to be divided in varying proportions among six. It had been agreed how the partners were to range; every pound of capital subscribed, every pound that fell due in wages, was to count for one "lay." Of these Tommy could claim five hundred and ten, Carthew one hundred and seventy, Wicks one hundred and forty, and Hemstead and Amalu ten apiece: eight hundred and forty "lays" in all. What was the value of a lay? This was at first debated in the air, and chiefly by the strength of Tommy's lungs. Then followed a series of incorrect calculations; from which they issued, arithmetically foiled, but agreed from weariness upon an approximate value of £2 7s. 7-1/4d. The figures were admittedly incorrect; the sum of the shares came not to £2,000, but to £1,996 6s.--£3 14s. being thus left unclaimed. But it was the nearest they had yet found, and the highest as well, so that the partners were made the less critical by the contemplation of their splendid dividends. Wicks put in £100, and stood to draw captain's wages for two months; his taking was £333 3s. 6-3/4d. Carthew put in £150; he was to take out £401 18s. 6-1/2d. Tommy's £500 had grown to be £1,213 12s. 9-3/4d.; and Amalu and Hemstead, ranking for wages only, had £22 16s. 0-1/2d. each. From talking and brooding on these figures it was but a step to opening the chest, and once the chest open the glamour of the cash was irresistible. Each felt that he must see his treasure separate with the eye of flesh, handle it in the hard coin, mark it for his own, and stand forth to himself the approved owner. And here an insurmountable difficulty barred the way. There were some seventeen shillings in English silver, the rest was Chile; and the Chile dollar, which had been taken at the rate of six to the pound sterling, was practically their smallest coin. It was decided, therefore, to divide the pounds only, and to throw the shillings, pence, and fractions in a common fund. This, with the three pound fourteen already in the heel, made a total of seven pounds one shilling. "I'll tell you," said Wicks. "Let Carthew and Tommy and me take one pound apiece, and Hemstead and Amalu split the other four, and toss up for the odd bob." "O, rot!" said Carthew. "Tommy and I are bursting already. We can take half a sov. each, and let the other three have forty shillings." "I'll tell you now, it's not worth splitting," broke in Mac. "I've cards in my chest. Why don't you play for the lump sum?" In that idle place the proposal was accepted with delight. Mac, as the owner of the cards, was given a stake; the sum was played for in five games of cribbage; and when Amalu, the last survivor in the tournament, was beaten by Mac it was found the dinner-hour was past. After a hasty meal they fell again immediately to cards, this time (on Carthew's proposal) to Van John. It was then probably two P.M. of the 9th of February, and they played with varying chances for twelve hours, slept heavily, and rose late on the morrow to resume the game. All day on the 10th, with grudging intervals for food, and with one long absence on the part of Tommy, from which he returned dripping with the case of sherry, they continued to deal and stake. Night fell; they drew the closer to the fire. It was maybe two in the morning, and Tommy was selling his deal by auction, as usual with that timid player, when Carthew, who didn't intend to bid, had a moment of leisure and looked round him. He beheld the moonlight on the sea, the money piled and scattered in that incongruous place, the perturbed faces of the players. He felt in his own breast the familiar tumult; and it seemed as if there rose in his ears a sound of music, and the moon seemed still to shine upon a sea, but the sea was changed, and the Casino towered from among lamp-lit gardens, and the money clinked on the green board. "Good God!" he thought, "am I gambling again?" He looked the more curiously about the sandy table. He and Mac had played and won like gamblers; the mingled gold and silver lay by their places in the heap. Amalu and Hemstead had each more than held their own, but Tommy was cruel far to leeward, and the captain was reduced to perhaps fifty pounds. "I say, let's knock off," said Carthew. "Give that man a glass of Buckle," said some one, and a fresh bottle was opened, and the game went inexorably on. Carthew was himself too heavy a winner to withdraw or to say more, and all the rest of the night he must look on at the progress of this folly, and make gallant attempts to lose, with the not uncommon consequence of winning more. The first dawn of the 11th February found him well-nigh desperate. It chanced he was then dealer, and still winning. He had just dealt a round of many tens; every one had staked heavily. The captain had put up all that remained to him--twelve pounds in gold and a few dollars,--and Carthew, looking privately at his cards before he showed them, found he held a natural. "See here, you fellows," he broke out, "this is a sickening business, and I'm done with it for one." So saying, he showed his cards, tore them across, and rose from the ground. The company stared and murmured in mere amazement; but Mac stepped gallantly to his support. "We've had enough of it, I do believe," said he. "But of course it was all fun, and here's my counters back. All counters in, boys!" and he began to pour his winnings into the chest, which stood fortunately near him. Carthew stepped across and wrung him by the hand. "I'll never forget this," he said. "And what are ye going to do with the Highway boy and the plumber?" inquired Mac, in a low tone of voice. "They've both wan, ye see." "That's true!" said Carthew aloud.--"Amalu and Hemstead, count your winnings; Tommy and I pay that." It was carried without speech; the pair glad enough to receive their winnings, it mattered not from whence; and Tommy, who had lost about five hundred pounds, delighted with the compromise. "And how about Mac?" asked Hemstead. "Is he to lose all?" "I beg your pardon, plumber. I'm sure ye mean well," returned the Irishman, "but you'd better shut your face, for I'm not that kind of a man. If I t'ought I had wan that money fair, there's never a soul here could get it from me. But I t'ought it was in fun; that was my mistake, ye see; and there's no man big enough upon this island to give a present to my mother's son. So there's my opinion to ye, plumber, and you can put it in your pockut till required." "Well, I will say, Mac, you're a gentleman," said Carthew, as he helped him to shovel back his winnings into the treasure-chest. "Divil a fear of it, sir, a drunken sailor-man," said Mac. The captain had sat somewhile with his face in his hands; now he rose mechanically, shaking and stumbling like a drunkard after a debauch. But as he rose, his face was altered, and his voice rang out over the isle, "Sail ho!" All turned at the cry, and there, in the wild light of the morning, heading straight for Midway Reef, was the brig _Flying Scud_ of Hull. CHAPTER XXIV A HARD BARGAIN The ship which thus appeared before the castaways had long "tramped" the ocean, wandering from one port to another as freights offered. She was two years out from London, by the Cape of Good Hope, India, and the Archipelago; and was now bound for San Francisco in the hope of working homeward round the Horn. Her captain was one Jacob Trent. He had retired some five years before to a suburban cottage, a patch of cabbages, a gig, and the conduct of what he called a Bank. The name appears to have been misleading. Borrowers were accustomed to choose works of art and utility in the front shop; loaves of sugar and bolts of broadcloth were deposited in pledge; and it was a part of the manager's duty to dash in his gig on Saturday evenings from one small retailer's to another, and to annex in each the bulk of the week's takings. His was thus an active life, and, to a man of the type of a rat, filled with recondite joys. An unexpected loss, a lawsuit, and the unintelligent commentary of the judge upon the bench, combined to disgust him of the business. I was so extraordinarily fortunate as to find, in an old newspaper, a report of the proceedings in Lyall _v._ The Cardiff Mutual Accommodation Banking Co. "I confess I fail entirely to understand the nature of the business," the judge had remarked, while Trent was being examined in chief; a little after, on fuller information--"They call it a bank," he had opined, "but it seems to me to be an unlicensed pawn-shop"; and he wound up with this appalling allocution: "Mr. Trent, I must put you on your guard; you must be very careful, or we shall see you here again." In the inside of a week the captain disposed of the bank, the cottage, and the gig and horse; and to sea again in the _Flying Scud_, where he did well, and gave high satisfaction to his owners. But the glory clung to him; he was a plain sailor-man, he said, but he could never long allow you to forget that he had been a banker. His mate, Elias Goddedaal, was a huge Viking of a man, six feet three, and of proportionate mass, strong, sober, industrious, musical, and sentimental. He ran continually over into Swedish melodies, chiefly in the minor. He had paid nine dollars to hear Patti; to hear Nilsson, he had deserted a ship and two months' wages; and he was ready at any time to walk ten miles for a good concert or seven to a reasonable play. On board he had three treasures: a canary bird, a concertina, and a blinding copy of the works of Shakespeare. He had a gift, peculiarly Scandinavian, of making friends at sight; and elemental innocence commended him; he was without fear, without reproach, and without money or the hope of making it. Holdorsen was second mate, and berthed aft, but messed usually with the hands. Of one more of the crew some image lives. This was a foremast hand out of the Clyde, of the name of Brown. A small, dark, thick-set creature, with dog's eyes, of a disposition incomparably mild and harmless, he knocked about seas and cities, the uncomplaining whiptop of one vice. "The drink is my trouble, ye see," he said to Carthew shyly; "and it's the more shame to me because I'm come of very good people at Bowling, down the wa'er." The letter that so much affected Nares, in case the reader should remember it, was addressed to this man Brown. Such was the ship that now carried joy into the bosoms of the castaways. After the fatigue and the bestial emotions of their night of play, the approach of salvation shook them from all self-control. Their hands trembled, their eyes shone, they laughed and shouted like children as they cleared their camp: and some one beginning to whistle "Marching Through Georgia," the remainder of the packing was conducted, amidst a thousand interruptions, to these martial strains. But the strong head of Wicks was only partly turned. "Boys," he said, "easy all! We're going aboard of a ship of which we don't know nothing; we've got a chest of specie, and seeing the weight, we can't turn to and deny it. Now, suppose she was fishy; suppose it was some kind of a Bully Hayes business! It's my opinion we'd better be on hand with the pistols." Every man of the party but Hemstead had some kind of a revolver; these were accordingly loaded and disposed about the persons of the castaways, and the packing was resumed and finished in the same rapturous spirit as it was begun. The sun was not yet ten degrees above the eastern sea, but the brig was already close in and hove-to, before they had launched the boat and sped, shouting at the oars, towards the passage. It was blowing fresh outside with a strong send of sea. The spray flew in the oarsmen's faces. They saw the Union Jack blow abroad from the _Flying Scud_, the men clustered at the rail, the cook in the galley-door, the captain on the quarter-deck with a pith helmet and binoculars. And the whole familiar business, the comfort, company, and safety of a ship, heaving nearer at each stroke, maddened them with joy. Wicks was the first to catch the line, and swarm on board, helping hands grabbing him as he came and hauling him across the rail. "Captain, sir, I suppose?" he said, turning to the hard old man in the pith helmet. "Captain Trent, sir," returned the old gentleman. "Well, I'm Captain Kirkup, and this is the crew of the Sydney schooner _Currency Lass_, dismasted at sea January 28th." "Ay, ay," said Trent. "Well, you're all right now. Lucky for you I saw your signal. I didn't know I was so near this beastly island, there must be a drift to the south'ard here; and when I came on deck this morning at eight bells, I thought it was a ship afire." It had been agreed that, while Wicks was to board the ship and do the civil, the rest were to remain in the whaleboat and see the treasure safe. A tackle was passed down to them; to this they made fast the invaluable chest, and gave the word to heave. But the unexpected weight brought the hand at the tackle to a stand; two others ran to tail on and help him, and the thing caught the eye of Trent. "'Vast heaving!" he cried sharply; and then to Wicks: "What's that? I don't ever remember to have seen a chest weigh like that." "It's money," said Wicks. "It's what?" cried Trent. "Specie," said Wicks; "saved from the wreck." Trent looked at him sharply. "Here, let go that chest again, Mr. Goddedaal," he commanded, "shove the boat off, and stream her with a line astern." "Ay, ay, sir!" from Goddedaal. "What the devil's wrong?" asked Wicks. "Nothing, I daresay," returned Trent. "But you'll allow it's a queer thing when a boat turns up in mid-ocean with half a ton of specie and everybody armed," he added, pointing to Wicks's pocket. "Your boat will lay comfortably astern, while you come below and make yourself satisfactory." "O, if that's all!" said Wicks. "My log and papers are as right as the mail; nothing fishy about us." And he hailed his friends in the boat, bidding them have patience, and turned to follow Captain Trent. "This way, Captain Kirkup," said the latter. "And don't blame a man for too much caution; no offence intended; and these China rivers shake a fellow's nerve. All I want is just to see you're what you say you are; it's only my duty, sir, and what you would do yourself in the circumstances. I've not always been a ship-captain: I was a banker once, and I tell you that's the trade to learn caution in. You have to keep your weather-eye lifting Saturday nights." And with a dry, business-like cordiality, he produced a bottle of gin. The captains pledged each other; the papers were overhauled; the tale of Topelius and the trade was told in appreciative ears and cemented their acquaintance. Trent's suspicions, thus finally disposed of, were succeeded by a fit of profound thought, during which he sat lethargic and stern, looking at and drumming on the table. "Anything more?" asked Wicks. "What sort of a place is it inside?" inquired Trent, sudden as though Wicks had touched a spring. "It's a good enough lagoon--a few horses' heads, but nothing to mention," answered Wicks. "I've a good mind to go in," said Trent. "I was new rigged in China; it's given very bad, and I'm getting frightened for my sticks. We could set it up as good as new in a day. For I daresay your lot would turn to and give us a hand?" "You see if we don't!" said Wicks. "So be it, then," concluded Trent. "A stitch in time saves nine." They returned on deck; Wicks cried the news to the Currency Lasses; the foretopsail was filled again, and the brig ran into the lagoon lively, the whaleboat dancing in her wake, and came to single anchor off Middle Brooks Island before eight. She was boarded by the castaways, breakfast was served, the baggage slung on board and piled in the waist, and all hands turned to upon the rigging. All day the work continued, the two crews rivalling each other in expense of strength. Dinner was served on deck, the officers messing aft under the slack of the spanker, the men fraternising forward. Trent appeared in excellent spirits, served out grog to all hands, opened a bottle of Cape wine for the after-table, and obliged his guests with many details of the life of a financier in Cardiff. He had been forty years at sea, had five times suffered shipwreck, was once nine months the prisoner of a pepper rajah, and had seen service under fire in Chinese rivers; but the only thing he cared to talk of, the only thing of which he was vain, or with which he thought it possible to interest a stranger, was his career as a money-lender in the slums of a seaport town. The afternoon spell told cruelly on the Currency Lasses. Already exhausted as they were with sleeplessness and excitement, they did the last hours of this violent employment on bare nerves; and, when Trent was at last satisfied with the condition of his rigging, expected eagerly the word to put to sea. But the captain seemed in no hurry. He went and walked by himself softly, like a man in thought. Presently he hailed Wicks. "You're a kind of company, ain't you, Captain Kirkup?" he inquired. "Yes, we're all on board on lays," was the reply. "Well, then, you won't mind if I ask the lot of you down to tea in the cabin?" asked Trent. Wicks was amazed, but he naturally ventured no remark; and a little after, the six Currency Lasses sat down with Trent and Goddedaal to a spread of marmalade, butter, toast, sardines, tinned tongue, and steaming tea. The food was not very good, and I have no doubt Nares would have reviled it, but it was manna to the castaways. Goddedaal waited on them with a kindness far before courtesy, a kindness like that of some old, honest countrywoman in her farm. It was remembered afterwards that Trent took little share in these attentions, but sat much absorbed in thought, and seemed to remember and forget the presence of his guests alternately. Presently he addressed the Chinaman. "Clear out," said he, and watched him till he had disappeared in the stair.--"Now, gentlemen," he went on, "I understand you're a joint-stock sort of crew, and that's why I've had you all down; for there's a point I want made clear. You see what sort of a ship this is--a good ship, though I say it, and you see what the rations are--good enough for sailor-men." There was a hurried murmur of approval, but curiosity for what was coming next prevented an articulate reply. "Well," continued Trent, making bread pills and looking hard at the middle of the table, "I'm glad of course to be able to give you a passage to 'Frisco; one sailor-man should help another, that's my motto. But when you want a thing in this world, you generally always have to pay for it." He laughed a brief, joyless laugh. "I have no idea of losing by my kindness." "We have no idea you should, captain," said Wicks. "We are ready to pay anything in reason," added Carthew. At the words, Goddedaal, who sat next to him, touched him with his elbow, and the two mates exchanged a significant look. The character of Captain Trent was given and taken in that silent second. "In reason?" repeated the captain of the brig. "I was waiting for that. Reason's between two people, and there's only one here. I'm the judge; I'm reason. If you want an advance you have to pay for it"--he hastily corrected himself--"If you want a passage in my ship, you have to pay my price," he substituted. "That's business, I believe. I don't want you; you want me." "Well, sir," said Carthew, "and what _is_ your price?" The captain made bread pills. "If I were like you," he said, "when you got hold of that merchant in the Gilberts, I might surprise you. You had your chance then; seems to me it's mine now. Turn about's fair play. What kind of mercy did you have on that Gilbert merchant?" he cried, with a sudden stridency. "Not that I blame you. All's fair in love and business," and he laughed again, a little frosty giggle. "Well, sir?" said Carthew gravely. "Well, this ship's mine, I think?" he asked sharply. "Well, I'm of that way of thinking myself," observed Mac. "I say it's mine, sir!" reiterated Trent, like a man trying to be angry. "And I tell you all if I was a driver like what you are, I would take the lot. But there's two thousand pounds there that don't belong to you, and I'm an honest man. Give me the two thousand that's yours, and I'll give you a passage to the coast, and land every man-jack of you in 'Frisco with fifteen pounds in his pocket, and the captain here with twenty-five." Goddedaal laid down his head on the table like a man ashamed. "You're joking," cried Wicks, purple in the face. "Am I?" said Trent. "Please yourselves. You're under no compulsion. This ship's mine, but there's that Brooks Island don't belong to me, and you can lay there till you die for what I care." "It's more than your blooming brig's worth!" cried Wicks. "It's my price anyway," returned Trent. "And do you mean to say you would land us there to starve?" cried Tommy. Captain Trent laughed the third time. "Starve? I defy you to," said he. "I'll sell you all the provisions you want at a fair profit." "I beg your pardon, sir," said Mac, "but my case is by itself. I'm working me passage; I got no share in that two thousand pounds, nor nothing in my pockut; and I'll be glad to know what you have to say to me?" "I ain't a hard man," said Trent; "that shall make no difference. I'll take you with the rest, only of course you get no fifteen pound." The impudence was so extreme and startling that all breathed deep, and Goddedaal raised up his face and looked his superior sternly in the eye. But Mac was more articulate. "And you're what ye call a British sayman, I suppose? the sorrow in your guts!" he cried. "One more such word, and I clap you in irons!" said Trent, rising gleefully at the face of opposition. "And where would I be the while you were doin' ut?" asked Mac. "After you and your rigging, too! Ye ould puggy, ye haven't the civility of a bug, and I'll learn ye some." His voice did not even rise as he uttered the threat; no man present, Trent least of all, expected that which followed. The Irishman's hand rose suddenly from below the table, an open clasp-knife balanced on the palm; there was a movement swift as conjuring; Trent started half to his feet, turning a little as he rose so as to escape the table, and the movement was his bane. The missile struck him in the jugular; he fell forward, and his blood flowed among the dishes on the cloth. The suddenness of the attack and the catastrophe, the instant change from peace to war, and from life to death, held all men spellbound. Yet a moment they sat about the table staring open-mouthed upon the prostrate captain and the flowing blood. The next, Goddedaal had leaped to his feet, caught up the stool on which he had been sitting, and swung it high in air, a man transfigured, roaring (as he stood) so that men's ears were stunned with it. There was no thought of battle in the Currency Lasses; none drew his weapon; all huddled helplessly from before the face of the baresark Scandinavian. His first blow sent Mac to ground with a broken arm. His second dashed out the brains of Hemstead. He turned from one to another, menacing and trumpeting like a wounded elephant, exulting in his rage. But there was no counsel, no light of reason, in that ecstasy of battle; and he shied from the pursuit of victory to hail fresh blows upon the supine Hemstead, so that the stool was shattered and the cabin rang with their violence. The sight of that post-mortem cruelty recalled Carthew to the life of instinct, and his revolver was in hand and he had aimed and fired before he knew. The ear-bursting sound of the report was accompanied by a yell of pain; the colossus paused, swayed, tottered, and fell headlong on the body of his victim. In the instant silence that succeeded, the sound of feet pounding on deck and in the companion leaped into hearing; and a face, that of the sailor Holdorsen, appeared below the bulkheads in the cabin doorway. Carthew shattered it with a second shot, for he was a marksman. "Pistols!" he cried, and charged at the companion, Wicks at his heels, Tommy and Amalu following. They trod the body of Holdorsen under foot, and flew upstairs and forth into the dusky blaze of a sunset red as blood. The numbers were still equal, but the Flying Scuds dreamed not of defence, and fled with one accord for the forecastle scuttle. Brown was first in flight; he disappeared below unscathed; the Chinaman followed head-foremost with a ball in his side; and the others shinned into the rigging. A fierce composure settled upon Wicks and Carthew, their fighting second wind. They posted Tommy at the fore and Amalu at the main to guard the masts and shrouds, and going themselves into the waist, poured out a box of cartridges on deck and filled the chambers. The poor devils aloft bleated aloud for mercy. But the hour of any mercy was gone by; the cup was brewed and must be drunken to the dregs; since so many had fallen all must fall. The light was bad, the cheap revolvers fouled and carried wild, the screaming wretches were swift to flatten themselves against the masts and yards, or find a momentary refuge in the hanging sails. The fell business took long, but it was done at last. Hardy the Londoner was shot on the fore-royal yard, and hung horribly suspended in the brails. Wallen, the other, had his jaw broken on the maintop-gallant crosstrees, and exposed himself, shrieking, till a second shot dropped him on the deck. This had been bad enough, but worse remained behind. There was still Brown in the forepeak. Tommy, with a sudden clamour of weeping, begged for his life. "One man can't hurt us," he sobbed. "We can't go on with this. I spoke to him at dinner. He's an awful decent little cad. It can't be done. Nobody can go into that place and murder him. It's too damned wicked." The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate below. "One left and we all hang," said Wicks. "Brown must go the same road." The big man was deadly white and trembled like an aspen; and he had no sooner finished speaking than he went to the ship's side and vomited. "We can never do it if we wait," said Carthew. "Now or never," and he marched towards the scuttle. "No, no, no!" wailed Tommy, clutching at his jacket. But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart rising with disgust and shame. The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groaning; the place was pitch dark. "Brown!" cried Carthew; "Brown, where are you?" His heart smote him for the treacherous apostrophe, but no answer came. He groped in the bunks: they were all empty. Then he moved towards the forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in general. "Brown!" he said again. "Here, sir," answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible caitiff called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an endless, garrulous appeal for mercy. A sense of danger, of daring, had alone nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy crying and pleading like a frightened child. His obsequious "Here, sir," his horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold more revolting. Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed; and with that the lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before his victim. Wicks sat on the fore hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure as a man displays marching towards the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to the scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Carthew returning, and discovered himself, half-crawling from his shelter, with another incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice, which broke into mouse-like whimperings and groans. Silence succeeded, and the murderer ran on deck like one possessed. The other three were now all gathered on the fore hatch, and Wicks took his place beside them without question asked or answered. They sat close like children in the dark, and shook each other with their shaking. The dusk continued to fall; and there was no sound but the beating of the surf and the occasional hiccup of a sob from Tommy Hadden. "God, if there was another ship!" cried Carthew of a sudden. Wicks started and looked aloft with the trick of all seamen, and shuddered as he saw the hanging figure on the royal-yard. "If I went aloft, I'd fall," he said simply. "I'm done up." It was Amalu who volunteered, climbed to the very truck, swept the fading horizon, and announced nothing within sight. "No odds," said Wicks. "We can't sleep...." "Sleep!" echoed Carthew; and it seemed as if the whole of Shakespeare's _Macbeth_ thundered at the gallop through his mind. "Well, then, we can't sit and chitter here," said Wicks, "till we've cleaned the ship; and I can't turn to till I've had gin, and the gin's in the cabin, and who's to fetch it?" "I will," said Carthew, "if any one has matches." Amalu passed him a box, and he went aft and down the companion and into the cabin, stumbling upon bodies. Then he struck a match, and his looks fell upon two living eyes. "Well?" asked Mac, for it was he who still survived in that shambles of a cabin. "It's done; they're all dead," answered Carthew. "Christ!" said the Irishman, and fainted. The gin was found in the dead captain's cabin; it was brought on deck, and all hands had a dram, and attacked their further task. The night was come, the moon would not be up for hours; a lamp was set on the main hatch to light Amalu as he washed down decks; and the galley lantern was taken to guide the others in their graveyard business. Holdorsen, Hemstead, Trent, and Goddedaal were first disposed of, the last still breathing as he went over the side; Wallen followed; and then Wicks, steadied by the gin, went aloft with the boathook and succeeded in dislodging Hardy. The Chinaman was their last task; he seemed to be light-headed, talked aloud in his unknown language as they brought him up, and it was only with the splash of his sinking body that the gibberish ceased. Brown, by common consent, was left alone. Flesh and blood could go no further. All this time they had been drinking undiluted gin like water; three bottles stood broached in different quarters; and none passed without a gulp. Tommy collapsed against the mainmast; Wicks fell on his face on the poop ladder and moved no more; Amalu had vanished unobserved. Carthew was the last afoot: he stood swaying at the break of the poop, and the lantern, which he still carried, swung with his movement. His head hummed; it swarmed with broken thoughts; memory of that day's abominations flared up and died down within him like the light of a lamp in a strong draught. And then he had a drunkard's inspiration. "There must be no more of this," he thought, and stumbled once more below. The absence of Holdorsen's body brought him to a stand. He stood and stared at the empty floor, and then remembered and smiled. From the captain's room he took the open case with one dozen and three bottles of gin, put the lantern inside, and walked precariously forth. Mac was once more conscious, his eyes haggard, his face drawn with pain and flushed with fever; and Carthew remembered he had never been seen to, had lain there helpless, and was so to lie all night, injured, perhaps dying. But it was now too late; reason had now fled from that silent ship. If Carthew could get on deck again, it was as much as he could hope; and casting on the unfortunate a glance of pity, the tragic drunkard shouldered his way up the companion, dropped the case overboard, and fell in the scuppers helpless. CHAPTER XXV A BAD BARGAIN With the first colour in the east, Carthew awoke and sat up. A while he gazed at the scroll of the morning bank and the spars and hanging canvas of the brig, like a man who wakes in a strange bed, with a child's simplicity of wonder. He wondered above all what ailed him, what he had lost, what disfavour had been done him, which he knew he should resent, yet had forgotten. And then, like a river bursting through a dam, the truth rolled on him its instantaneous volume: his memory teemed with speech and pictures that he should never again forget; and he sprang to his feet, stood a moment hand to brow, and began to walk violently to and fro by the companion. As he walked he wrung his hands. "God--God--God," he kept saying, with no thought of prayer, uttering a mere voice of agony. The time may have been long or short, it was perhaps minutes, perhaps only seconds, ere he awoke to find himself observed, and saw the captain sitting up and watching him over the break of the poop, a strange blindness as of fever in his eyes, a haggard knot of corrugations on his brow. Cain saw himself in a mirror. For a flash they looked upon each other, and then glanced guiltily aside; and Carthew fled from the eye of his accomplice, and stood leaning on the taffrail. An hour went by, while the day came brighter, and the sun rose and drank up the clouds: an hour of silence in the ship, an hour of agony beyond narration for the sufferers. Brown's gabbling prayers, the cries of the sailors in the rigging, strains of the dead Hemstead's minstrelsy, ran together in Carthew's mind with sickening iteration. He neither acquitted nor condemned himself: he did not think he suffered. In the bright water into which he stared, the pictures changed and were repeated: the baresark rage of Goddedaal; the blood-red light of the sunset into which they had run forth; the face of the babbling Chinaman as they cast him over; the face of the captain, seen a moment since, as he awoke from drunkenness into remorse. And time passed, and the sun swam higher, and his torment was not abated. Then were fulfilled many sayings, and the weakest of these condemned brought relief and healing to the others. Amalu the drudge awoke (like the rest) to sickness of body and distress of mind; but the habit of obedience ruled in that simple spirit, and, appalled to be so late, he went direct into the galley, kindled the fire, and began to get breakfast. At the rattle of dishes, the snapping of the fire, and the thin smoke that went up straight into the air, the spell was lifted. The condemned felt once more the good dry land of habit under foot; they touched again the familiar guide-ropes of sanity; they were restored to a sense of the blessed revolution and return of all things earthly. The captain drew a bucket of water and began to bathe. Tommy sat up, watched him a while, and slowly followed his example; and Carthew, remembering his last thoughts of the night before, hastened to the cabin. Mac was awake; perhaps had not slept. Over his head Goddedaal's canary twittered shrilly from its cage. "How are you?" asked Carthew. "Me arrum's broke," returned Mac; "but I can stand that. It's this place I can't aboide. I was coming on deck anyway." "Stay where you are, though," said Carthew. "It's deadly hot above, and there's no wind. I'll wash out this----" and he paused, seeking a word and not finding one for the grisly foulness of the cabin. "Faith, I'll be obloiged to ye, then," replied the Irishman. He spoke mild and meek, like a sick child with its mother. There was no violence in the violent man; and as Carthew fetched a bucket and swab and the steward's sponge, and began to cleanse the field of battle, he alternately watched him or shut his eyes and sighed like a man near fainting. "I have to ask all your pardons," he began again presently, "and the more shame to me as I got ye into trouble and couldn't do nothing when it came. Ye saved me life, sir; ye're a clane shot." "For God's sake, don't talk of it!" cried Carthew. "It can't be talked of; you don't know what it was. It was nothing down here; they fought. On deck--O, my God!" And Carthew, with the bloody sponge pressed to his face, struggled a moment with hysteria. "Kape cool, Mr. Cart'ew. It's done now," said Mac; "and ye may bless God ye're not in pain, and helpless in the bargain." There was no more said by one or other, and the cabin was pretty well cleansed when a stroke on the ship's bell summoned Carthew to breakfast. Tommy had been busy in the meanwhile; he had hauled the whaleboat close aboard, and already lowered into it a small keg of beef that he found ready broached beside the galley door; it was plain he had but the one idea--to escape. "We have a shipful of stores to draw upon," he said. "Well, what are we staying for? Let's get off at once for Hawaii. I've begun preparing already." "Mac has his arm broken," observed Carthew; "how would he stand the voyage?" "A broken arm?" repeated the captain. "That all? I'll set it after breakfast. I thought he was dead like the rest. That madman hit out like----" and there, at the evocation of the battle, his voice ceased and the talk died with it. After breakfast the three white men went down into the cabin. "I've come to set your arm," said the captain. "I beg your pardon, captain," replied Mac; "but the firrst thing ye got to do is to get this ship to sea. We'll talk of me arrum after that." "O, there's no such blooming hurry," returned Wicks. "When the next ship sails in ye'll tell me stories!" retorted Mac. "But there's nothing so unlikely in the world," objected Carthew. "Don't be deceivin' yourself," said Mac. "If ye want a ship, divil a one'll look near ye in six year; but if ye don't, ye may take my word for ut, we'll have a squadron layin' here." "That's what I say," cried Tommy; "that's what I call sense! Let's stock that whaleboat and be off." "And what will Captain Wicks be thinking of the whaleboat?" asked the Irishman. "I don't think of it at all," said Wicks. "We've a smart-looking brig under foot; that's all the whaleboat I want." "Excuse me!" cried Tommy. "That's childish talk. You've got a brig, to be sure, and what use is she? You daren't go anywhere in her. What port are you to sail for?" "For the port of Davy Jones's Locker, my son," replied the captain. "This brig's going to be lost at sea. I'll tell you where, too, and that's about forty miles to windward of Kauai. We're going to stay by her till she's down; and once the masts are under, she's the _Flying Scud_ no more, and we never heard of such a brig; and it's the crew of the schooner _Currency Lass_ that comes ashore in the boat, and takes the first chance to Sydney." "Captain, dear, that's the first Christian word I've heard of ut!" cried Mac. "And now, just let me arrum be, jewel, and get the brig outside." "I'm as anxious as yourself, Mac," returned Wicks; "but there's not wind enough to swear by. So let's see your arm, and no more talk." The arm was set and splinted; the body of Brown fetched from the forepeak, where it lay stiff and cold, and committed to the waters of the lagoon; and the washing of the cabin rudely finished. All these were done ere mid-day; and it was past three when the first cat's-paw ruffled the lagoon, and the wind came in a dry squall, which presently sobered to a steady breeze. The interval was passed by all in feverish impatience, and by one of the party in secret and extreme concern of mind. Captain Wicks was a fore-and-aft sailor; he could take a schooner through a Scotch reel, felt her mouth and divined her temper like a rider with a horse; she, on her side, recognising her master and following his wishes like a dog. But by a not very unusual train of circumstance, the man's dexterity was partial and circumscribed. On a schooner's deck he was Rembrandt, or (at the least) Mr. Whistler; on board a brig he was Pierre Grassou. Again and again in the course of the morning he had reasoned out his policy and rehearsed his orders; and ever with the same depression and weariness. It was guess-work; it was chance; the ship might behave as he expected, and might not; suppose she failed him, he stood there helpless, beggared of all the proved resources of experience. Had not all hands been so weary, had he not feared to communicate his own misgivings, he could have towed her out. But these reasons sufficed, and the most he could do was to take all possible precautions. Accordingly he had Carthew aft, explained what was to be done with anxious patience, and visited along with him the various sheets and braces. "I hope I'll remember," said Carthew. "It seems awfully muddled." "It's the rottenest kind of rig," the captain admitted: "all blooming pocket-handkerchiefs! and not one sailor-man on deck! Ah, if she'd only been a brigantine now! But it's lucky the passage is so plain; there's no manoeuvring to mention. We get under weigh before the wind, and run right so till we begin to get foul of the island; then we haul our wind and lie as near south-east as may be till we're on that line; 'bout ship there and stand straight out on the port tack. Catch the idea?" "Yes, I see the idea," replied Carthew, rather dismally, and the two incompetents studied for a long time in silence the complicated gear above their heads. But the time came when these rehearsals must be put in practice. The sails were lowered, and all hands heaved the anchor short. The whaleboat was then cut adrift, the upper topsails and the spanker set, the yards braced up, and the spanker sheet hauled out to starboard. "Heave away on your anchor, Mr. Carthew." "Anchor's gone, sir." "Set jibs." It was done, and the brig still hung enchanted. Wicks, his head full of a schooner's mainsail, turned his mind to the spanker. First he hauled in the sheet, and then he hauled it out, with no result. "Brail the damned thing up!" he bawled at last, with a red face. "There ain't no sense in it." It was the last stroke of bewilderment for the poor captain, that he had no sooner brailed up the spanker than the vessel came before the wind. The laws of nature seemed to him to be suspended; he was like a man in a world of pantomime tricks; the cause of any result, and the probable result of any action, equally concealed from him. He was the more careful not to shake the nerve of his amateur assistants. He stood there with a face like a torch; but he gave his orders with _aplomb_, and indeed, now the ship was under weigh, supposed his difficulties over. The lower topsails and courses, were then set, and the brig began to walk the water like a thing of life, her forefoot discoursing music, the birds flying and crying over her spars. Bit by bit the passage began to open and the blue sea to show between the flanking breakers on the reef; bit by bit, on the starboard bow, the low land of the islet began to heave closer aboard. The yards were braced up, the spanker sheet hauled aft again; the brig was close hauled, lay down to her work like a thing in earnest, and had soon drawn near to the point of advantage, where she might stay and lie out of the lagoon in a single tack. Wicks took the wheel himself, swelling with success. He kept the brig full to give her heels, and began to bark his orders: "Ready about. Helm's a-lee. Tacks and sheets. Mainsail haul." And then the fatal words: "That'll do your mainsail; jump for'ard and haul round your foreyards." To stay a square-rigged ship is an affair of knowledge and swift sight: and a man used to the succinct evolutions of a schooner will always tend to be too hasty with a brig. It was so now. The order came too soon; the topsails set flat aback; the ship was in irons. Even yet, had the helm been reversed, they might have saved her. But to think of a sternboard at all, far more to think of profiting by one, were foreign to the schooner-sailor's mind. Wicks made haste instead to wear ship, a manoeuvre for which room was wanting, and the _Flying Scud_ took ground on a bank of sand and coral about twenty minutes before five. Wicks was no hand with a square-rigger, and he had shown it. But he was a sailor and a born captain of men for all homely purposes, where intellect is not required and an eye in a man's head and a heart under his jacket will suffice. Before the others had time to understand the misfortune, he was bawling fresh orders, and had the sails clewed up, and took soundings round the ship. "She lies lovely," he remarked, and ordered out a boat with the starboard anchor. "Here! steady!" cried Tommy. "You ain't going to turn us to, to warp her off?" "I am though," replied Wicks. "I won't set a hand to such tomfoolery for one," replied Tommy. "I'm dead beat." He went and sat down doggedly on the main hatch. "You got us on; get us off again," he added. Garthew and Wicks turned to each other. "Perhaps you don't know how tired we are," said Carthew. "The tide's flowing!" cried the captain. "You wouldn't have me miss a rising tide?" "O, gammon! there's tides to-morrow!" retorted Tommy. "And I'll tell you what," added Carthew, "the breeze is failing fast, and the sun will soon be down. We may get into all kinds of fresh mess in the dark and with nothing but light airs." "I don't deny it," answered Wicks, and stood a while as if in thought. "But what I can't make out," he began again, with agitation, "what I can't make out is what you're made of! To stay in this place is beyond me. There's the bloody sun going down--and to stay here is beyond me." The others looked upon him with horrified surprise. This fall of their chief pillar--this irrational passion in the practical man, suddenly barred out of his true sphere--the sphere of action--shocked and daunted them. But it gave to another and unseen hearer the chance for which he had been waiting. Mac, on the striking of the brig, had crawled up the companion, and he now showed himself and spoke up. "Captain Wicks," said he, "it's me that brought this trouble on the lot of ye. I'm sorry for ut, I ask all your pardons, and if there's any one can say 'I forgive ye,' it'll make my soul the lighter." Wicks stared upon the man in amaze; then his self-control returned to him. "We're all in glass houses here," he said; "we ain't going to turn to and throw stones. I forgive you, sure enough; and much good may it do you!" The others spoke to the same purpose. "I thank ye for ut, and 'tis done like gentlemen," said Mac. "But there's another thing I have upon my mind. I hope we're all Prodestans here?" It appeared they were; it seemed a small thing for the Protestant religion to rejoice in! "Well, that's as it should be," continued Mac. "And why shouldn't we say the Lord's Prayer? There can't be no hurt in ut." He had the same quiet, pleading, childlike way with him as in the morning; and the others accepted his proposal, and knelt down without a word. "Knale if ye like!" said he. "I'll stand." And he covered his eyes. So the prayer was said to the accompaniment of the surf and sea-birds, and all rose refreshed and felt lightened of a load. Up to then, they had cherished their guilty memories in private, or only referred to them in the heat of a moment, and fallen immediately silent. Now they had faced their remorse in company, and the worst seemed over. Nor was it only that. But the petition "Forgive us our trespasses," falling in so apposite after they had themselves forgiven the immediate author of their miseries, sounded like an absolution. Tea was taken on deck in the time of the sunset, and not long after the five castaways--castaways once more--lay down to sleep. Day dawned windless and hot. Their slumbers had been too profound to be refreshing, and they woke listless, and sat up, and stared about them with dull eyes. Only Wicks, smelling a hard day's work ahead, was more alert. He went first to the well, sounded it once and then a second time, and stood a while with a grim look, so that all could see he was dissatisfied. Then he shook himself, stripped to the buff, clambered on the rail, drew himself up, and raised his arms to plunge. The dive was never taken. He stood, instead, transfixed, his eyes on the horizon. "Hand up that glass," he said. In a trice they were all swarming aloft, the nude captain leading with the glass. On the northern horizon was a finger of grey smoke, straight in the windless air like a point of admiration. "What do you make it?" they asked of Wicks. "She's truck down," he replied; "no telling yet. By the way the smoke builds, she must be heading right here." "What can she be?" "She might be a China mail," returned Wicks, "and she might be a blooming man-of-war, come to look for castaways. Here! This ain't the time to stand staring. On deck, boys!" He was the first on deck, as he had been the first aloft, handed down the ensign, bent it again to the signal halliards, and ran it up union down. "Now hear me," he said, jumping into his trousers, "and everything I say you grip on to. If that's a man-of-war, she'll be in a tearing hurry; all these ships are what don't do nothing and have their expenses paid. That's our chance; for we'll go with them, and they won't take the time to look twice or to ask a question. I'm Captain Trent; Carthew, you're Goddedaal; Tommy, you're Hardy; Mac's Brown; Amalu--hold hard! we can't make a Chinaman of him! Ah Wing must have deserted; Amalu stowed away; and I turned him to as cook, and was never at the bother to sign him. Catch the idea? Say your names." And that pale company recited their lesson earnestly. "What were the names of the other two?" he asked. "Him Carthew shot in the companion, and the one I caught in the jaw on the main top-gallant?" "Holdorsen and Wallen," said some one. "Well, they're drowned," continued Wicks; "drowned alongside trying to lower a boat. We had a bit of a squall last night; that's how we got ashore." He ran and squinted at the compass. "Squall out of nor'-nor'west-half-west; blew hard; every one in a mess, falls jammed, and Holdorsen and Wallen spilt overboard. See? Clear your blooming heads!" He was in his jacket now, and spoke with a feverish impatience and contention that rang like anger. "But is it safe?" asked Tommy. "Safe?" bellowed the captain. "We're standing on the drop, you moon-calf! If that ship's bound for China (which she don't look to be), we're lost as soon as we arrive; if she's bound the other way, she comes from China, don't she? Well, if there's a man on board of her that ever clapped eyes on Trent or any blooming hand out of this brig, we'll all be in irons in two hours. Safe! no, it ain't safe; it's a beggarly last chance to shave the gallows, and that's what it is." At this convincing picture fear took hold on all. "Hadn't we a hundred times better stay by the brig?" cried Carthew. "They would give us a hand to float her off." "You'll make me waste this holy day in chattering!" cried Wicks. "Look here, when I sounded the well this morning there was two feet of water there against eight inches last night. What's wrong? I don't know; might be nothing; might be the worst kind of smash. And then, there we are in for a thousand miles in an open boat, if that's your taste!" "But it may be nothing, and anyway, their carpenters are bound to help us repair her," argued Carthew. "Moses Murphy!" cried the captain. "How did she strike? Bows on, I believe. And she's down by the head now. If any carpenter comes tinkering here where'll he go first? Down in the forepeak, I suppose! And then, how about all that blood among the chandlery? You would think you were a lot of members of Parliament discussing Plimsoll; and you're just a pack of murderers with the halter round your neck. Any other ass got any time to waste? No? Thank God for that! Now, all hands! I'm going below, and I leave you here on deck. You get the boat-cover off that boat; then you turn to and open the specie chest. There are five of us; get five chests, and divide the specie equal among the five--put it at the bottom--and go at it like tigers. Get blankets, or canvas, or clothes, so it won't rattle. It'll make five pretty heavy chests, but we can't help that. You, Carthew--dash me!--You, Mr. Goddedaal, come below. We've our share before us." And he cast another glance at the smoke, and hurried below with Carthew at his heels. The logs were found in the main cabin behind the canary cage; two of them, one kept by Trent, one by Goddedaal. Wicks looked first at one, then at the other, and his lip stuck out. "Can you forge hand of write?" he asked. "No," said Carthew. "There's luck for you--no more can I!" cried the captain. "Hullo! here's worse yet--here's this Goddedaal up to date; he must have filled it in before supper. See for yourself: 'Smoke observed.--Captain Kirkup and five hands of the schooner _Currency Lass_.' Ah! this is better," he added, turning to the other log, "The old man ain't written anything for a clear fortnight. We'll dispose of your log altogether, Mr. Goddedaal, and stick to the old man's--to mine, I mean; only I ain't going to write it up for reasons of my own. You are. You're going to sit down right here and fill it in the way I tell you." "How to explain the loss of mine?" asked Carthew. "You never kept one," replied the captain. "Gross neglect of duty. You'll catch it." "And the change of writing?" resumed Carthew. "You began; why do you stop and why do I come in? And you'll have to sign anyway." "O! I've met with an accident and can't write," replied Wicks. "An accident," repeated Carthew. "It don't sound natural. What kind of an accident?" Wicks spread his hand face up on the table, and drove a knife through his palm. "That kind of an accident," said he. "There's a way to draw to windward of most difficulties if you've a head on your shoulders." He began to bind up his hand with a handkerchief, glancing the while over Goddedaal's log. "Hullo!" he said; "this'll never do for us--this is an impossible kind of yarn. Here, to begin with, is this Captain Trent, trying some fancy course, leastways he's a thousand miles to south'ard of the great circle. And here, it seems, he was close up with this island on the sixth, sails all these days, and is close up with it again by daylight on the eleventh." "Goddedaal said they had the deuce's luck," said Carthew. "Well, it don't look like real life--that's all I can say," returned Wicks. "It's the way it was, though," argued Carthew. "So it is; and what the better are we for that, if it don't look so?" cried the captain, sounding unwonted depths of art criticism. "Here! try and see if you can tie this bandage; I'm bleeding like a pig." As Carthew sought to adjust the handkerchief, his patient seemed sunk in a deep muse, his eye veiled, his mouth partly open. The job was yet scarce done when he sprang to his feet. "I have it," he broke out and ran on deck. "Here, boys!" he cried, "we didn't come here on the eleventh; we came in here on the evening of the sixth, and lay here ever since becalmed. As soon as you've done with these chests," he added, "you can turn to and roll out beef and water-breakers; it'll look more ship-shape--like as if we were getting ready for the boat voyage." And he was back again in a moment, cooking the new log. Goddedaal's was then carefully destroyed, and a hunt began for the ship's papers. Of all the agonies of that breathless morning this was perhaps the most poignant. Here and there the two men searched, cursing, cannoning together, streaming with heat, freezing with terror. News was bawled down to them that the ship was indeed a man-of-war, that she was close up, that she was lowering a boat; and still they sought in vain. By what accident they missed the iron box with the money and accounts is hard to fancy, but they did. And the vital documents were found at last in the pocket of Trent's shore-going coat, where he had left them when last he came on board. Wicks smiled for the first time that morning. "None too soon," said he. "And now for it! Take these others for me; I'm afraid I'll get them mixed if I keep both." "What are they?" Carthew asked. "They're the Kirkup and _Currency Lass_ papers," he replied. "Pray God we need 'em again!" "Boat's inside the lagoon, sir," hailed down Mac, who sat by the skylight doing sentry while the others worked. "Time we were on deck, then, Mr. Goddedaal," said Wicks. As they turned to leave the cabin, the canary burst into piercing song. "My God!" cried Carthew, with a gulp, "we can't leave that wretched bird to starve. It was poor Goddedaal's." "Bring the bally thing along!" cried the captain. And they went on deck. An ugly brute of a modern man-of-war lay just without the reef, now quite inert, now giving a flap or two with her propeller. Nearer hand, and just within, a big white boat came skimming to the stroke of many oars, her ensign blowing at the stern. "One word more," said Wicks, after he had taken in the scene. "Mac, you've been in China ports? All right; then you can speak for yourself. The rest of you I kept on board all the time we were in Hong Kong, hoping you would desert; but you fooled me and stuck to the brig. That'll make your lying come easier." The boat was now close at hand; a boy in the stern sheets was the only officer, and a poor one plainly, for the men were talking as they pulled. "Thank God, they've only sent a kind of a middy!" ejaculated Wicks.--"Here you, Hardy, stand for'ard! I'll have no deck hands on my quarter-deck," he cried, and the reproof braced the whole crew like a cold douche. The boat came alongside with perfect neatness, and the boy officer stepped on board, where he was respectfully greeted by Wicks. "You the master of this ship?" he asked. "Yes, sir," said Wicks. "Trent is my name, and this is the _Flying Scud_ of Hull." "You seem to have got into a mess," said the officer. "If you'll step aft with me here, I'll tell you all there is of it," said Wicks. "Why, man, you're shaking!" cried the officer. "So would you, perhaps, if you had been in the same berth," returned Wicks; and he told the whole story of the rotten water, the long calm, the squall, the seamen drowned, glibly and hotly, talking, with his head in the lion's mouth, like one pleading in the dock. I heard the same tale from the same narrator in the saloon in San Francisco; and even then his bearing filled me with suspicion. But the officer was no observer. "Well, the captain is in no end of a hurry," said he; "but I was instructed to give you all the assistance in my power, and signal back for another boat if more hands were necessary. What can I do for you?" "O, we won't keep you no time," replied Wicks cheerily. "We're all ready, bless you--men's chests, chronometer, papers, and all." "Do you mean to leave her?" cried the officer. "She seems to me to lie nicely; can't we get your ship off?" "So we could, and no mistake; but how we're to keep her afloat's another question. Her bows is stove in," replied Wicks. The officer coloured to the eyes. He was incompetent, and knew he was; thought he was already detected, and feared to expose himself again. There was nothing further from his mind than that the captain should deceive him; if the captain was pleased, why, so was he. "All right," he said. "Tell your men to get their chests aboard." "Mr. Goddedaal, turn the hands to to get the chests aboard," said Wicks. The four Currency Lasses had waited the while on tenter-hooks. This welcome news broke upon them like the sun at midnight; and Hadden burst into a storm of tears, sobbing aloud as he heaved upon the tackle. But the work went none the less briskly forward; chests, men, and bundles were got over the side with alacrity; the boat was shoved off; it moved out of the long shadow of the _Flying Scud_, and its bows were pointed at the passage. So much, then, was accomplished. The sham wreck had passed muster; they were clear of her, they were safe away; and the water widened between them and her damning evidences. On the other hand, they were drawing nearer to the ship of war, which might very well prove to be their prison and a hangman's cart to bear them to the gallows of which they had not yet learned either whence she came or whither she was bound; and the doubt weighed upon their heart like mountains. It was Wicks who did the talking. The sound was small in Carthew's ears, like the voices of men miles away, but the meaning of each word struck home to him like a bullet. "What did you say your ship was?" inquired Wicks. "_Tempest_, don't you know?" returned the officer. "Don't you know?" What could that mean? Perhaps nothing: perhaps that the ships had met already. Wicks took his courage in both hands. "Where is she bound?" he asked. "O, we're just looking in at all these miserable islands here," said the officer. "Then we bear up for San Francisco." "O yes, you're from China ways, like us?" pursued Wicks. "Hong Kong," said the officer, and spat over the side. Hong Kong. Then the game was up; as soon as they set foot on board, they would be seized: the wreck would be examined, the blood found, the lagoon perhaps dredged, and the bodies of the dead would reappear to testify. An impulse almost incontrollable bade Carthew rise from the thwart, shriek out aloud, and leap overboard: it seemed so vain a thing to dissemble longer, to dally with the inevitable, to spin out some hundred seconds more of agonised suspense, with shame and death thus visibly approaching. But the indomitable Wicks persevered. His face was like a skull, his voice scarce recognisable; the dullest of men and officers (it seemed) must have remarked that tell-tale countenance and broken utterance. And still he persevered, bent upon certitude. "Nice place, Hong Kong?" he said. "I'm sure I don't know," said the officer. "Only a day and a half there; called for orders and came straight on here. Never heard of such a beastly cruise." And he went on describing and lamenting the untoward fortunes of the _Tempest_. But Wicks and Carthew heeded him no longer. They lay back on the gunwale, breathing deep, sunk in a stupor of the body; the mind within still nimbly and agreeably at work, measuring the past danger, exulting in the present relief, numbering with ecstasy their ultimate chances of escape. For the voyage in the man-of-war they were now safe; yet a few more days of peril, activity and presence of mind in San Francisco, and the whole horrid tale was blotted out; and Wicks again became Kirkup, and Goddedaal became Carthew--men beyond all shot of possible suspicion, men who had never heard of the _Flying Scud_, who had never been in sight of Midway Reef. So they came alongside, under many craning heads of seamen and projecting mouths of guns; so they climbed on board somnambulous, and looked blindly about them at the tall spars, the white decks, and the crowding ship's company, and heard men as from far away, and answered them at random. And then a hand fell softly on Carthew's shoulder. "Why, Norrie, old chappie, where have you dropped from? All the world's been looking for you. Don't you know you've come into your kingdom?" He turned, beheld the face of his old schoolmate Sebright, and fell unconscious at his feet. The doctor was attending him, a while later, in Lieutenant Sebright's cabin, when he came to himself. He opened his eyes, looked hard in the strange face, and spoke with a kind of solemn vigour. "Brown must go the same road," he said, "now or never." And then paused, and his reason coming to him with more clearness, spoke again: "What was I saying Where am I? Who are you?" "I am the doctor of the _Tempest_," was the reply. "You are in Lieutenant Sebright's berth, and you may dismiss all concern from your mind. Your troubles are over, Mr. Carthew." "Why do you call me that?" he asked. "Ah, I remember--Sebright knew me! O!" and he groaned and shook. "Send down Wicks to me; I must see Wicks at once!" he cried, and seized the doctor's wrist with unconscious violence. "All right," said the doctor. "Let's make a bargain. You swallow down this draught, and I'll go and fetch Wicks." And he gave the wretched man an opiate that laid him out within ten minutes, and in all likelihood preserved his reason. It was the doctor's next business to attend to Mac; and he found occasion, while engaged upon his arm, to make the man repeat the names of the rescued crew. It was now the turn of the captain, and there is no doubt he was no longer the man that we have seen; sudden relief, the sense of perfect safety, a square meal, and a good glass of grog, had all combined to relax his vigilance and depress his energy. "When was this done?" asked the doctor, looking at the wound. "More than a week ago," replied Wicks, thinking singly of his log. "Hey?" cried the doctor, and he raised his head and looked the captain in the eyes. "I don't remember exactly," faltered Wicks. And at this remarkable falsehood the suspicions of the doctor were at once quadrupled. "By the way, which of you is called Wicks?" he asked easily. "What's that?" snapped the captain, falling white as paper. "Wicks," repeated the doctor; "which of you is he? That's surely a plain question." Wicks stared upon his questioner in silence. "Which is Brown, then?" pursued the doctor. "What are you talking of? what do you mean by this?" cried Wicks, snatching his half-bandaged hand away, so that the blood sprinkled in the surgeon's face. He did not trouble to remove it; looking straight at his victim, he pursued his questions. "Why must Brown go the same way?" he asked. Wicks fell trembling on a locker. "Carthew told you," he cried. "No," replied the doctor, "he has not. But he and you between you have set me thinking, and I think there's something wrong." "Give me some grog," said Wicks. "I'd rather tell than have you find out. I'm damned if it's half as bad as what anyone would think." And with the help of a couple of strong grogs, the tragedy of the _Flying Scud_ was told for the first time. It was a fortunate series of accidents that brought the story to the doctor. He understood and pitied the position of these wretched men, and came whole-heartedly to their assistance. He and Wicks and Carthew (so soon as he was recovered) held a hundred councils and prepared a policy for San Francisco. It was he who certified "Goddedaal" unfit to be moved, and smuggled Carthew ashore under cloud of night; it was he who kept Wicks's wound open that he might sign with his left hand; he who took all their Chile silver and (in the course of the first day) got it converted for them into portable gold. He used his influence in the ward-room to keep the tongues of the young officers in order, so that Carthew's identification was kept out of the papers. And he rendered another service yet more important. He had a friend in San Francisco, a millionaire: to this man he privately presented Carthew as a young gentleman come newly into a huge estate, but troubled with Jew debts which he was trying to settle on the quiet. The millionaire came readily to help; and it was with his money that the wrecker gang was to be fought. What was his name, out of a thousand guesses? It was Douglas Longhurst. As long as the Currency Lasses could all disappear under fresh names, it did not greatly matter if the brig were bought, or any small discrepancies should be discovered in the wrecking. The identification of one of their number had changed all that. The smallest scandal must now direct attention to the movements of Norris. It would be asked how he who had sailed in a schooner from Sydney had turned up so shortly after in a brig out of Hong Kong; and from one question to another all his original shipmates were pretty sure to be involved. Hence arose naturally the idea of preventing danger, profiting by Carthew's new-found wealth, and buying the brig under an _alias_; and it was put in hand with equal energy and caution. Carthew took lodgings alone under a false name, picked up Bellairs at random, and commissioned him to buy the wreck. "What figure, if you please?" the lawyer asked. "I want it bought," replied Carthew. "I don't mind about the price." "Any price is no price," said Bellairs. "Put a name upon it." "Call it ten thousand pounds then, if you like!" said Carthew. In the meanwhile, the captain had to walk the streets, appear in the consulate, be cross-examined by Lloyd's agent, be badgered about his lost accounts, sign papers with his left hand, and repeat his lies to every skipper in San Francisco; not knowing at what moment he might run into the arms of some old friend who should hail him by the name of Wicks, or some new enemy who should be in a position to deny him that of Trent. And the latter incident did actually befall him, but was transformed by his stout countenance into an element of strength. It was in the consulate (of all untoward places) that he suddenly heard a big voice inquiring for Captain Trent. He turned with the customary sinking at his heart. "_You_ ain't Captain Trent!" said the stranger, falling back. "Why, what's all this? They tell me you're passing off as Captain Trent--Captain Jacob Trent--a man I knew since I was that high." "O, you're thinking of my uncle as had the bank in Cardiff," replied Wicks, with desperate _aplomb_. "I declare I never knew he had a nevvy!" said the stranger. "Well, you see he has!" says Wicks. "And how is the old man?" asked the other. "Fit as a fiddle," answered Wicks, and was opportunely summoned by the clerk. This alert was the only one until the morning of the sale, when he was once more alarmed by his interview with Jim; and it was with some anxiety that he attended the sale, knowing only that Carthew was to be represented, but neither who was to represent him nor what were the instructions given. I suppose Captain Wicks is a good life. In spite of his personal appearance and his own known uneasiness, I suppose he is secure from apoplexy, or it must have struck him there and then, as he looked on at the stages of that insane sale and saw the old brig and her not very valuable cargo knocked down at last to a total stranger for ten thousand pounds. It had been agreed that he was to avoid Carthew, and above all Carthew's lodging, so that no connection might be traced between the crew and the pseudonymous purchaser. But the hour for caution was gone by, and he caught a tram and made all speed to Mission Street. Carthew met him in the door. "Come away, come away from here," said Carthew; and when they were clear of the house, "All's up!" he added. "O, you've heard of the sale, then?" said Wicks. "The sale!" cried Carthew. "I declare I had forgotten it." And he told of the voice in the telephone, and the maddening question: "Why did you want to buy the _Flying Scud_?" This circumstance, coming on the back of the monstrous improbabilities of the sale, was enough to have shaken the reason of Immanuel Kant. The earth seemed banded together to defeat them; the stones and the boys on the street appeared to be in possession of their guilty secret. Flight was their one thought. The treasure of the _Currency Lass_ they packed in waistbelts, expressed their chests to an imaginary address in British Columbia, and left San Francisco the same afternoon, booked for Los Angeles. The next day they pursued their retreat by the Southern Pacific route, which Carthew followed on his way to England; but the other three branched off for Mexico. EPILOGUE EPILOGUE TO WILL H. LOW Dear Low,--The other day (at Manihiki of all places) I had the pleasure to meet Dodd. We sat some two hours in the neat little toy-like church, set with pews after the manner of Europe, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the style (I suppose) of the New Jerusalem. The natives, who are decidedly the most attractive inhabitants of this planet, crowded round us in the pew, and fawned upon and patted us; and here it was I put my questions, and Dodd answered me. I first carried him back to the night in Barbizon when Carthew told his story, and asked him what was done about Bellairs. It seemed he had put the matter to his friend at once, and that Carthew had taken to it with an inimitable lightness. "He's poor and I'm rich," he had said. "I can afford to smile at him. I go somewhere else, that's all--somewhere that's far away and dear to get to. Persia would be found to answer, I fancy. No end of a place, Persia. Why not come with me?" And they had left the next afternoon for Constantinople, on their way to Teheran. Of the shyster, it is only known (by a newspaper paragraph) that he returned somehow to San Francisco and died in the hospital. "Now there's another point," said I. "There you are off to Persia with a millionaire, and rich yourself. How come you here in the South Seas, running a trader?" He said, with a smile, that I had not yet heard of Jim's last bankruptcy. "I was about cleaned out once more," he said; "and then it was that Carthew had this schooner built and put me in as supercargo. It's his yacht and it's my trader; and as nearly all the expenses go to the yacht, I do pretty well. As for Jim, he's right again; one of the best businesses, they say, in the West--fruit, cereals, and real estate; and he has a Tartar of a partner now--Nares, no less. Nares will keep him straight, Nares has a big head. They have their country places next door at Saucelito, and I stayed with them time about, the last time I was on the coast. Jim had a paper of his own--I think he has a notion of being senator one of these days--and he wanted me to throw up the schooner and come and write his editorials. He holds strong views on the State Constitution, and so does Mamie." "And what became of the other three Currency Lasses after they left Carthew?" I inquired. "Well, it seems they had a huge spree in the city of Mexico," said Dodd; "and then Hadden and the Irishman took a turn at the gold-fields in Venezuela, and Wicks went on alone to Valparaiso. There's a Kirkup in the Chilean navy to this day; I saw the name in the papers about the Balmaceda war. Hadden soon wearied of the mines, and I met him the other day in Sydney. The last news he had from Venezuela, Mac had been knocked over in an attack on the gold train. So there's only the three of them left, for Amalu scarcely counts. He lives on his own land in Maui, at the side of Hale-a-ka-la, where he keeps Goddedaal's canary; and they say he sticks to his dollars, which is a wonder in a Kanaka. He had a considerable pile to start with, for not only Hemstead's share but Carthew's was divided equally among the other four--Mac being counted." "What did that make for him altogether?" I could not help asking, for I had been diverted by the number of calculations in his narrative. "One hundred and twenty-eight pounds nineteen shillings and elevenpence-halfpenny," he replied with composure; "that's leaving out what little he won at Van John. It's something for a Kanaka, you know." And about that time we were at last obliged to yield to the solicitations of our native admirers, and go to the pastor's house to drink green cocoanuts. The ship I was in was sailing the same night, for Dodd had been beforehand and got all the shell in the island; and though he pressed me to desert and return with him to Auckland (whither he was now bound to pick up Carthew) I was firm in my refusal. The truth is, since I have been mixed up with Havens and Dodd in the design to publish the latter's narrative, I seem to feel no want for Carthew's society. Of course, I am wholly modern in sentiment, and think nothing more noble than to publish people's private affairs at so much a line. They like it, and if they don't they ought to. But a still small voice keeps telling me they will not like it always, and perhaps not always stand it. Memory besides supplies me with the face of a pressman (in the sacred phrase) who proved altogether too modern for one of his neighbours, and _Qui nunc it per iter tenebricosum_ --_nos præcedens_-- as it were, marshalling us our way. I am in no haste to be that man's successor. Carthew has a record as "a clane shot," and for some years Samoa will be good enough for me. We agreed to separate, accordingly; but he took me on board in his own boat with the hardwood fittings and entertained me on the way with an account of his late visit to Butaritari, whither he had gone on an errand for Carthew, to see how Topelius was getting along, and, if necessary, to give him a helping hand. But Topelius was in great force, and had patronised and--well--out-manoeuvred him. "Carthew will be pleased," said Dodd; "for there's no doubt they oppressed the man abominably when they were in the _Currency Lass_. It's diamond cut diamond now." * * * * * This, I think, was the most of the news I got from my friend Loudon; and I hope I was well inspired, and have put all the questions to which you would be curious to hear an answer. But there is one more that I daresay you are burning to put to myself; and that is, what your own name is doing in this place, cropping up (as it were uncalled-for) on the stern of our poor ship? If you were not born in Arcadia, you linger in fancy on its margin; your thoughts are busied with the flutes of antiquity, with daffodils, and the classic poplar, and the footsteps of the nymphs, and the elegant and moving aridity of ancient art. Why dedicate to you a tale of a cast so modern:--full of details of our barbaric manners and unstable morals; full of the need and the lust of money, so that there is scarce a page in which the dollars do not jingle; full of the unrest and movement of our century, so that the reader is hurried from place to place and sea to sea, and the book is less a romance than a panorama--in the end, as blood-bespattered as an epic? Well, you are a man interested in all problems of art, even the most vulgar; and it may amuse you to hear the genesis and growth of "The Wrecker." On board the schooner _Equator_, almost within sight of the Johnstone Islands (if anybody knows where these are), and on a moonlit night when it was a joy to be alive, the authors were amused with several stories of the sales of wrecks. The subject tempted them; and they sat apart in the alleyway to discuss its possibilities. "What a tangle it would make," suggested one, "if the wrong crew were aboard. But how to get the wrong crew there?"--"I have it!" cried the other; "the so-and-so affair!" For not so many months before, and not so many hundred miles from where we were then sailing, a proposition almost tantamount to that of Captain Trent had been made by a British skipper to some British castaways. Before we turned in, the scaffolding of the tale had been put together. But the question of treatment was as usual more obscure. We had long been at once attracted and repelled by that very modern form of the police novel or mystery story, which consists in beginning your yarn anywhere but at the beginning, and finishing it anywhere but at the end; attracted by its peculiar interest when done, and the peculiar difficulties that attend its execution; repelled by that appearance of insincerity and shallowness of tone, which seems its inevitable drawback. For the mind of the reader, always bent to pick up clues, receives no impression of reality or life, rather of an airless, elaborate mechanism; and the book remains enthralling but insignificant, like a game of chess, not a work of human art. It seemed the cause might lie partly in the abrupt attack; and that if the tale were gradually approached, some of the characters introduced (as it were) beforehand, and the book started in the tone of a novel of manners and experience briefly treated, this defect might be lessened and our mystery seem to inhere in life. The tone of the age, its movement, the mingling of races and classes in the dollar hunt, the fiery and not quite unromantic struggle for existence, with its changing trades and scenery, and two types in particular, that of the American handy-man of business and that of the Yankee merchant sailor--we agreed to dwell upon at some length, and make the woof to our not very precious warp. Hence Dodd's father, and Pinkerton, and Nares, and the Dromedary picnics, and the railway work in New South Wales--the last and unsolicited testimonial from the powers that be, for the tale was half written before I saw Carthew's squad toil in the rainy cutting at South Clifton, or heard from the engineer of his "young swell." After we had invented at some expense of time this method of approaching and fortifying our police novel, it occurred to us it had been invented previously by some one else, and was in fact--however painfully different the results may seem--the method of Charles Dickens in his later work. I see you staring. Here, you will say, is a prodigious quantity of theory to our halfpenny-worth of police novel; and withal not a shadow of an answer to your question. Well, some of us like theory. After so long a piece of practice, these may be indulged for a few pages. And the answer is at hand. It was plainly desirable, from every point of view of convenience and contrast, that our hero and narrator should partly stand aside from those with whom he mingles, and be but a pressed-man in the dollar hunt. Thus it was that Loudon Dodd became a student of the plastic arts, and that our globe-trotting story came to visit Paris and look in at Barbizon. And thus it is, dear Low, that your name appears in the address of this epilogue. For sure, if any person can here appreciate and read between the lines, it must be you--and one other, our friend. All the dominos will be transparent to your better knowledge; the statuary contract will be to you a piece of ancient history; and you will not have now heard for the first time of the dangers of Roussillon. Dead leaves from the Bas Breau, echoes from Lavenue's and the Rue Racine, memories of a common past, let these be your bookmarkers as you read. And if you care for naught else in the story, be a little pleased to breathe once more for a moment the airs of our youth. END OF VOL. XIII PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.